Nate forced her aside and strode right into the house. Ada couldn't do anything about it—a small part of her didn't want to do anything about it. There was still something inside of her that really, really wanted him . . . that loved the lure of him. Being around him was like trying to tame some wild animal that, deep down, you really didn't want to domesticate. It was hard for her to ignore her attraction to him when he was standing right in front of her. His presence was just . . . well, she couldn't exactly word it; it was like watching a scary movie—you were afraid to look but also intrigued at the same time.

He walked about ten feet down the hall, then turned to look at her. She tried to avoid his eyes, just stood there, waiting for whatever he had to say. His hair had grown longer. It was shaggy, now, all messy-looking, not up in the typical faux-hawk she was used to seeing. And his face was scruffy. He was wearing tight green army pants with patches and zippers and a shirt with some band she didn't recognize splayed across the front. His wrists were wrapped in wrist bands and spiky things and Ada noticed he'd added a plug in his left ear; he'd used to only have one in the right. And he looked like he was mad, which scared her. She'd been around him enough when he was mad and hated him that way.

What did he want? He was just standing there, staring at her, like maybe he'd expected her to fight to keep him out of the house, and because she hadn't, he didn't really know what to say. But she had nothing to say to him, so she just waited.

He ran a hand through his hair, he stuffed his other hand into one of his pockets. He adjusted his studded belt. His expression relaxed. Then, finally, he said, "How've you been?"

Ada was still suspicious. He'd given her so much crap over the past few months—so much! And now he showed up at her house out of nowhere and asked her how she'd been? She'd expected some explosive question or comment from him. Something about how she was being ignorant or cruel or even a prude (which he'd tried with her before). But no—nothing like that. Just, "How've you been?"

"I'm fine," she said bluntly, crossing her arms uncomfortably, aware of how unimpressive she must look.

He surveyed her. She hated him studying her like that—as if he was looking for something wrong; he was good at finding and pointing out her weaknesses. She wanted him to leave . . . very badly. He was dangerous. Made her nervous. And they'd been through too many bad things—he was the cause of so much of her insecurity.

"We've been through so much, Ada."

She swallowed. It was like he was reading her mind. Please leave! she wanted to say, but her words wouldn't come.

"So much," he was saying. "You know me, and I know you . . . a lot better than you think."

Here it went. Now came the mind games.

Nate came a few steps closer to her. "I know you don't entirely hate me, like you pretend to. You can't. It's not possible for you. There's something you can't let go of, either."

He was right! How was he able to see into her mind?

Another couple of steps closer. Ada inched away, but her back was up against the door. She had nowhere to go.

"You still want me, don't you?"

She sucked in a breath as he came right up against her, chest to chest, and his heavy hands grabbed her upper arms. Now, Ada couldn't help but look at his face—that stupid part of her wanted to let him win. But just as she thought about how much she loved to kiss him, he ruined it for himself.

"You look terrible. No wonder you've been avoiding me."

The jerk in him was refreshed in her moments-ago-about-to-give-in mind. She tried to shake his hands off. "Get away. Get out of here!" She scowled.

Nate's face shifted from sly to angry in a split second. His grip on her arms tightened so fast and hard she gasped. "You little bitch—you think you can just stop talking to me?" His words were strung together so fast—he pulled her a few inches forward then shoved her hard against the door. "You think you can just ignore me—pretend I don't exist just because you feel like it?"

His hair hung in his eyes; his features were so beautiful, even when he was furious. She hated herself for thinking it.

"Nate—stop! Let go of me! Get out of my house!" Ada tried again to push him away—tried to knee him—but one of his hands wrapped around her neck instantly.

He smirked and tightened his hand. "Don't even bother. We've been through this before."

They had. Memories of several similar incidents flashed through Ada's mind.

"Just like always—I win." He looked into her wide eyes, searching, trying to find a way to hurt her more, most likely. His breath came out jagged; his grip around her neck tightened slightly, and her hands came up and gripped his arm instinctively, but she wasn't going to show her fear in her face. If there was one thing she'd learned about Nate, it was that he didn't ever hurt—he just pushed it to the edge—teased her like he would hurt her—but never actually did anything. If she waited and didn't give in, he'd leave her alone.

She was right. Several awkward, silent seconds passed, and he let go with a serious sigh. "I don't want to hurt you—you know I don't. I love you, Ada, even though you clearly think you don't love me. And you can't just . . . stop something like what we have."

Had, she wanted to correct, but she didn't want him to snap again, now that he was calm.

"I've been clean for two weeks."

It was a lie so strong she could just about smell it.

"And I plan on staying that way, for now, at least." Nate entirely backed off, turning away from her. Ada took the opportunity to rub her neck and arms, which were sore. "I've been working on some new songs—the guys and I have. They're good, actually. Real good. We've got a new set." He shrugged, turned to face her again. "I'd like you to come see us."

Ada knew he wasn't just casually inviting her; he was telling her to come. That was how Nate worked—he told people to do things in a way disguised as a casual suggestion. He definitely hadn't changed at all. He was the same sick person he'd always been—the same guy who'd fooled her for a few months but who she now knew better than to trust. She knew how to deal with him, then. If he was exactly the same, he might see through her, but there was no other way to get him to leave.

Even though her neck hurt, even though she was scared, she forced a calm expression to stay on her face and replied, "Sure, ok. I wouldn't mind hearing some new stuff. When are you playing?"

Nate narrowed his eyes. She knew he was calculating—trying to figure out whether she was lying; and he probably knew she was. He just knew things like that. How to read people. Ada was afraid for just a second that he wouldn't believe her and would get semi-violent again, but then he said casually, "Next weekend. Saturday night. We're playing the 9:00 slot."

"Ok. I should be able to come. I'll go." Lies. All lies.

The playful light left his eyes as his stare turned colder. "You'd better," was all he said, and with that, Nate pushed Ada aside and went out the front door, leaving her alone again.

The gloom inside closed in around Ada. The house seemed suddenly dark and cold. The air was thick. She wanted to be somewhere else . . . somewhere far . . . anywhere but here. She felt suddenly empty, as if all the effort she'd put into forgetting and moving on had been pointless. She wouldn't be able to get away from him. He was too consuming, had too strong of a hold on her. He was going to hurt her. Make her remember he was in control. He didn't even want her anymore; she knew he didn't. He was just angry that she'd forgotten him before he'd forgotten her, and he wanted to punish her for it. The irony of it was, though, that she knew she couldn't forget him if she tried; she'd remember him long, long after he'd forgotten her.

Zach had tried to tell her something like this would happen. If only she had listened to him. If only she hadn't forgotten him. What would he have to say to her now, if he was here? Would he forgive her for how selfish she'd been? Because she'd been terrible to him; she hadn't deserved his friendship. He'd been there during everything she'd been going through, always ready if she needed someone to talk or vent to . . . or use.

Ada slid to the floor. A sob welled up inside her, and there was nothing she could do to stop the tears falling down her face. She was a miserable excuse for a human being. She was a horrible person, selfish and cruel, and others were suffering for it, now. Zach mostly, but Owen too. No wonder everyone at school looked at her strange—maybe they were at last seeing the real her—the weak, wrecked, pathetic person that she really was. She'd faked being strong—faked being ok with her actions—pretended she was confident and sane and a decent, normal person.

There was no one to fool, anymore.

Dr. Alder couldn't really help her. No one could. She couldn't risk hurting anyone else with her selfishness. She wished she was with Zach, wherever he was—dead, buried, run off, hiding out in some cave—it didn't matter. She'd give anything to be with him.

Her mother would be home soon with Owen. She needed to pull herself together. Maybe the world was falling away, but it would be more awkward if she had to talk to her mother about it. Her eyeliner was probably running down her face by now. Wiping her eyes, she got to her feet and started down the hall toward the family room. The late afternoon sun shone through the hall windows, casting a red glow on everything it touched. The image of the sky bleeding came to her mind. She hadn't told Dr. Alder about that incident, mainly because it hadn't seemed all that important compared to the others, but now it burned strongly in her head.

The ice cream she'd wanted to eat earlier was practically soup by the time she remembered it. The chocolate chips were floating. It didn't even look appetizing anymore, but somehow, she figured the monotony of eating it would perhaps occupy her mind for a little while. She picked up the bowl, sat on the sofa, turned on the TV, and tried to lose herself in some reality program. At least, then, when her mother returned with Owen, she'd look as if she was fine.

Several minutes passed before Ada realized her cell phone was blinking on the table by her chair; she had a message. She hadn't even heard her phone ring but that was, she remembered, because she'd put her phone on silent in Dr. Alder's office that morning.

Did she want to listen to it? Did she even want to know who'd called? It was from Evan, she saw in her missed calls. Why would he have called her? Dialing her voicemail, she put the phone to her ear and waited for the sound of his deep voice. She'd always thought he made a great actor—his voice was so deep and smooth.

"One-new-message," droned the automated answering service. "First-message."

"Ada, it's Evan. I . . . I think we need to talk. I was . . . I was wondering . . . It's happening again, Ada. It's getting worse and . . . and if it's starting again for you, too . . . please call me. Please."

"To-delete-message-press-sevem-to-save-it-in-the-archives-press-nine."

Ada had frozen. Her mouth hung partially open. Evan's voice hadn't sounded deep or smooth at all; he'd sounded panicked. Freaked. She knew he was serious, but it couldn't be happening again! It couldn't! It wasn't fair! Not after all the work she'd put into forgetting—now Nate and Evan had both hurtled back into her life on the same day? It was so unfair. She didn't want more drama—more hurt—more nightmares or visits with Dr. Alder. No—she wouldn't call him; everything was fine. Everything.

The automated voicemail options repeated, and Ada pressed seven.

The sound of the television had become obnoxious. She turned the program off. Spooned some more of the melted ice cream into her mouth. Thought about Evan. About the misery he must be experiencing to have called her out of nowhere. She felt sorry for him, really, and for herself. If they had stuck together, they may have been able to make it through everything easier . . . or not. The way they'd actually done things—total avoidance of the situation—might have been the best decision. It didn't matter now, either way. They should not meet again.

The ice cream tasted funny in her mouth all of a sudden. Somewhat warm and—and a bit metallic. Then she knew, and she could've sworn her heart stopped beating for a moment when she looked down and realized that swirled in with the remaining chocolate chip ice cream was a dark red streak of liquid.

It's happening again, rang Evan's panicked voice in her horrified head.