The smell of bacon and pancakes wakes me up from out of my sleep. The house is filled with a sweet syrupy smell. That's weird; my mom hasn't really cooked since she's been getting closer to her due date, and my father can't cook as good as my mother, so I know it's her cooking; only she can bring out flavors so good that the whole house starts smelling like the back of Ihop's kitchen.

My phone rings under my pillow. "Hello," I say. My voice is so groggy and dry.

"Where are you?" Ryder asks.

"In bed,"

"It's Friday!"

"Okay," I know he isn't still trying to get me to come to work out with him.

"Your coming with me, meet me at my house,"

"Ryder,"

"10 minutes,"

"Ry-" the phone clicks off. I don't know why I am smiling, but I am. Only he can get me to do something I don't want to do. Especially something like working out. I guess I could always just sit and watch him, but I won't work out. I climb out of bed and take a quick shower before throwing on some basketball shorts and a t-shirt. I slip my feet into my Red and White Retro Air Jordan 13's and tie them up before heading downstairs.

As I'm walking down the stairs, I hear faint voices coming from the kitchen; the conversation seems to be a serious one, but they aren't yelling; instead, they are keeping their voice mild and low; when I walk in there, the talking stops and they turn to me smiling like everything is alright.

"How did you sleep?" Mom asks.

"Good," I grab some bacon from the middle of the table. The whole table is seat up, pancakes, french toast, fruit, orange juice, and some other weird stuff. "Is someone coming over?" I ask while munching on the greasy crunchy bacon. God, I love bacon!

I go to grab another one, but my mother moves the plate, "This isn't for you; there's cereal in the pantry,"

"Cereal?" Of course, I should've known she didn't cook this fantastic looking food for me,

"I'm getting ready to take this to Evelyns' for that brunch," she reminds me. She mentioned something about that earlier this week; it slipped my mind.

"Oh yeah," I go to the pantry and grab a Pop-tart instead of some cereal.

"Hunny, could you put these in the trays for me," she tells my father, and he does just what she asked. I warm up my brown sugar, pop tarts (the best ones, in my opinion.) And take a seat on the couch. Ryder should be here any minute now.

Dad asks, "What are you doing today?" walking into the living room and leaning on the end of the couch.

I break off the end of my pop tart and respond, "Nothing much, just hanging out with my Boyfriend. Ryder," just to piss him off.

It works because he frowns and says, "Be home by 9,"

I think my mother talked to him. Thank goodness. The constant battle between me being with Ryder and my father banning me from seeing him and dating him was like a freaking war, one that would last forever because I'm never-ending things with him. Ever. No matter who or what comes in my way.

He's accepted that Ryder and I are together, and that's just that, and there is nothing he can do about it. But make my curfew exceptionally early. Oh well, it's better than not seeing him at all.

A text comes from Ryder telling me he's outside, and I knock the crumbs off of myself when I get off the couch, then yell bye to my parents before leaving the house and getting into his car.

He kisses me as soon as I get in, and I laugh. "Why do you laugh when I kiss you?" he asks.

"I don't know; it's just weird,"

"Weird?" his eyebrow raises.

"Not the kiss, just us sometimes, like you and me. Together. As a couple. Sometimes it's just hard to believe," I admit.

He places his hand on my thigh, "It's hard for me to believe it too. I don't understand why you would want to be with someone like me," he says. And a heavy boulder crashes into my heart. I feel awful about myself all the time; I try every day to feel good and pleased with who I am, but it's hard. I know exactly how he is feeling, and I hate that he is feeling that way about himself because of the mistakes he has made.

"You aren't that person anymore," I remind. "You're different; you became better for not only me but yourself. I love you for that," He's better than me. He always has been. If I'm honest with myself, I try, and I fight for him because I love him, and I don't want to hurt him. If I didn't have him, I don't know what I would do, who I would become, or who I am without him. That's why I am going to New York because I need to find myself without him, and being with him and LA. I'll be living for him, I'll be happy because he's happy and I'm with him. There's nothing more in the world that I want than to learn how to live for myself and feel the amazing feeling you get when you conquer the world by yourself.

He starts up the car and pulls off. I wish I could just tell him that and explain this all to him, but I know he won't understand. He's changed, but this indeed will reverse everything we have. Everything that he has tried so hard not to become will flashback in an instant, and he'll become the thing that I fear.

He looks over to me, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," I smile.

He looks at the pop tart in my hand, "If I find a crumb, I'll kill you," he warns and smiles.

I giggle and say, "Shut up," Playful nudging him.

"I'm just joking. Instead, I'll just fuck you. Here. In the car," he playfully smirks.

My mouth drops open, and I die of laughter.

...

"197...198...199...200," He does his last 200th push-up and then gets up off the ground. "Are you sure you're okay? You shouldn't push yourself so hard," It's been about six and a half months since the shooting, but still, I'm concerned he's overworking himself. He just finished with the football camp; he should be taking a break from all this training. He just keeps working himself harder and harder.

"I'm fine," he walks away and over to his gym bag to get some water.

I follow behind him. "Are you sure cause around that 150th push up you looked like you were in pain?" He tried to hide it, but I saw it in his face; he was hurting.

"I said I'm fine, Jayda," he snaps at me. "Okay?" he adds in a softer tone.

"Okay," he leans down and kisses me before telling me he'll be right back. He takes his duffle bag and walks to the men's locker room in the back of the gym. My phone rings, and I pull it out of my pocket. It's Mr.Jones, the department head of the journalism school. "Hello,"

"Hey Jayda, I was just calling to check in with you. You have registered for all your classes correct,"

"Yes,"

"And you coming in the fall, August 25th,"

"Yeah, I'll be there," I'm so excited to get started with everything.

"Great. Also, I do hope you plan on joining the school's newspaper,"

"Uhm..." The Columbia daily spectator. When I went up there for those two weeks, one of our tour stop places was the newspaper room, and where they meet and plan. I wasn't able to sit in on one of the meetings but I heard from some of the other visitors that it's like really competitive and how they literally fire you from the paper for anything. Plus, I took it upon myself to read some of the articles they released, and they didn't seem all that good.

"Oh, please do. We need you. Can you believe the article you wrote about AJ and Jessica and your School is still being discussed here? The newspaper team is eager to meet you, and if you decide to join, they will be lucky to have you; your stories are what we need,"

"But what if I can't find anything to write about?" Oh, how I wish I didn't have to write about the tragedy that took place in my school. It's bittersweet having something to report on and talk about. Yeah, now I have a good story that brings in views and money, but I'm also writing a story about a tragedy that took place in someone's life or community. I'm not really interested in profiting off of someone else's trauma. I want to write different articles and stories about different things, not just bad things. But everyone knows more bad things are going on in the world than good.

"Jayda. It's New York. Trust me; there is always gossip in this city. And if it's one thing the people of New York do more than catching the train, it's reading about the latest scandal," his laugh chimes through the phone, and some does mine; I guess gossip girl was right.

Ryder turns the corner, "Okay, I'll think about it some more," I hurry up and say before he gets close.

"Please do,"

"Thanks so much again for everything,"

"Of course. I'll see you in August,"

I hang up the phone and slip it into my pocket. "Who was that?" he asked me.

"Uhm. Just my mom," I lie and put my phone back in my pocket. "Are you ready?"

"No, but we can go; I see you getting bored," he smiles. "You could have at least tried to do a push-up, sit-up, jumping jack, something," he adds, laughing.

"Again, do you want me to go into cardiac arrest? I have no physical stamina whatsoever," I would say it's because of all the weed I used to smoke, and it ruined my lungs but Ryder smokes all the time, and yet he can do a full workout without heavily breathing. We leave the gym and get back into the car. He starts the car and pulls out of the lot, "How come you didn't stay at home and work out? Don't you guys have a gym?" He never told me that they did; I just assumed that they have one, the house is huge, I've only been in two rooms, and there has to be a hundred more, figuratively, of course.

"We do," he answers and keeps his eyes on the road.

"So why did you want to come to the public one?"

"Well, one, some of my mom's friends are at the house and there weird,"

My laugh fills the car while I ask, "What do you mean?'

"I mean they're old and single, and I'm young and hot; they like holding long-ass conversations and placing their hands on my arms," he says. The thought of some older woman touching him and flirting with him makes me angry. I'm glad he decided to leave. "And two, I hate that house, any reason I have to get the hell out of there I take it,"

"What is it like being in there for you?" He always says he hates the house, and I know it's because it's mainly where his brother used to abuse and torture him, but it happened ages ago, and his brother is gone now.

"Sometimes I just feel suffocated in there," he tells me. "And sometimes I just get flashbacks of what he did to me," his grip around the wheel tightens. "It's weird, I know,"

"No. No, it's not; I understand," Sometimes, when I'm in my bathroom, I get flashbacks of me cutting myself. Sometimes when I am in my room alone, I remember all the countless times I cried myself to sleep. "Have you heard from him? Your brother?"

"No. And I'm glad," he snaps. "I don't give a shit about him or what he's doing,"

"Maybe you should forgive him. Do you ever think you'll forgive him?" It would be nice if Ryder had someone to depend on other than me; I know it's a longshot that he and his brother would ever become brothers or even friends, but they're related, their blood. I don't like Jacob, but maybe, after all that's happened, he will change, and perhaps wherever he's at, he's reflecting on himself and the things he has done. Who knows, he could be changing.

"Fuck no," he says, evaporating all my thoughts of them mending their relationship. "I hate him. I fucking hate him!"

"But, he's your brother," doesn't that mean something.

"Don't fucking call him that," he shouts. "He isn't my damn brother! Brothers don't beat the shit out of their little brother for no fucking reason. Brothers don't bully their little brothers because they can't read; they don't hit on them every time they misread shit," his voice bounces off the windows in the car, echoing through my ears. "Why would you even ask me some shit like that, Jayda? Why would you fucking suggest that I forgive him?" he stops the car at the red light and looks over at me. His eyes are red with rage, and there's a crease in his forehead as he waits for my answer.

"I just thought-"

"No. You didn't think because if you thought you wouldn't have asked me that or suggested something like that,"

He's right. I'm stupid for asking that question. It's Ryder; he's not a forgiving person; he's not going to forgive his brother, just like he won't forgive me. "I'm sorry," I say. He blows his breath and continues driving. I glance back over at him.

Sorry for asking and suggesting that, and sorry for keeping the biggest secret from you. I'm sorry that in a month, I won't be going to LA with you. I'm sorry. I'm going to leave you.