I twirl the white rose between my fingers, not caring that the pointy thorns prick my skin. Gently, I rest the flower in front of the marble obelisk, all the while fighting back a sob.

EMTs ruled it a heart attack. When I told them of her nicotine addiction, they weren't surprised.

"Heart attacks are common in anyone over sixty-five," one of the emergency responders informed me. "Smoking doubles your risk."

Uncle Saul came to town to help with the funeral arrangements. He's a tall man with sandy blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a perpetual scowl. He isn't mean, per se, but he's hard to talk to. Even before Margo and I became close, we never had issues holding a conversation.

Damian wraps his arm around my shoulder and leads me out of the cemetery. I turn around, stealing one last glance at what's left of my grandmother before heading back to his house.

He makes me hot chocolate and coaxes me to eat some saltines. Zane rests his hand over mine, noticeably uncomfortable. Things between us have been tense ever since I announced that I was leaving for the summer. He's been good to me since Margo passed, but I have a feeling that once my grief over my grandmother goes away, he will, too.

Jessica materializes with a bag of toiletries. She takes a lavender-scented makeup wipe from a plastic pouch and begins to wipe off my smudged mascara. Once my face is clean, she brushes my tangled hair and pulls it back into a loose ponytail.

"I brought some clothes over for you," she says. "They're in the bathroom. Do you want me to help you out of your dress?"

"I'm okay," I mumble, wishing I had the energy to express my gratitude. My friends haven't left my side throughout all of this, and I appreciate them more than they realize.

I just feel so god damn broken that I can't even put words together.

First Ada, then Jose, and now Margo. Why is it that everyone I love either leaves or dies?

I peel off my black dress and change into the t-shirt and leggings that Jessica brought me. I sit on the bathroom floor for a minute, hugging my knees to my chest. The urge to cry hits me, but I don't allow the tears to fall. I've cried enough for one lifetime.

There's a soft knock on the door. I muster a raspy "come in" and watch as Zane's silhouette fills the doorway.

"You were taking a while. I wanted to see if you were alright," he says.

"I'm fine," I reply, rising to a stand.

"Listen, there's something I need to talk to you about. I know the timing's awful, but—"

"Just spill it, Zane."

"I finally found an apartment," he announces.

A smile tugs at my lips. "That's great. You've been looking for a long time."

"Yeah, it's just that... well, it's not in Starkton," he mutters, scratching his head. "Or even in Michigan."

"Oh." The unspoken message behind his words hits me. "So how far away will you be?"

"Chicago. It's a four-hour drive," he tells me. "I know I'm an asshole, but I have a great job lined up. After everything that's happened, I think I need a fresh start."

"It was the fresh start I needed. The world's a big place, and people are fucking stupid if they choose to stay in the same good-for-nothing town their whole lives."

"I'm happy for you, Zane," I whisper.

He raises his eyebrows. "You are? I thought you'd be angry."

"I was about to disappear with Margo for three months. I can't really be mad at you."

"Layla, this isn't a vengeance thing. I'm not trying to get back at you for taking a road trip with your family."

"Almost taking a road trip," I correct him. "That can't happen now that Margo is dead."

"I suppose not," he whispers. "Again, I know my timing is awful, but I have to drop off the deposit by tomorrow, otherwise the guy's gonna give the apartment to someone else. I wish I could stay, but—"

"But you can't," I finish. "It's okay, Zane. I understand."

He presses his lips to my hairline, lingering there for a while. I feel a warm droplet hit my forehead. Zane pulls away, sniffling softly.

I kiss him for the last time. "Goodbye, Zane."

"If you're ever in Chicago, track me down." He gives my hand a squeeze and then exits the bathroom—and possibly my life for good.

I sink to the floor again. I won't cry over Margo, and I sure as hell won't cry over Zane. I'm sick of crying. I'm sick of opening my heart to people just so they can disappear a few months later.

I'm sick of feeling. I wish I could just turn it all off.

"Hey, come here." Damian appears in front of me. He lifts me in his arms and carries me back to the kitchen, where my hot chocolate has gone cold. "Here, I'll heat this up for you."

"Don't bother. I don't want it."

"Layla—"

"Thank you both for everything." I glance back and forth between him and Jessica. "I just need to be alone for a while. I'm going home."

Without waiting for a response, I walk out the front door and all the way to the trailer park. I find Hank on the sofa, his eyes glazed over as he sits in front of the TV.

For once, he isn't holding a beer.

I open the fridge and take out a chilled bottle. "Is it okay if I have one?" I ask.

He looks at me. "What'd you say?"

"Is it okay if I have a beer, Hank?" I repeat.

"Yeah, that's fine," he mumbles, brushing me off.

When he turns around, I bring the beer, as well as his half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, to my room.

My father has been drinking away his feelings for almost two decades. What's stopping me?

<><><><><><>

"Layla! Open the god damn door!"

I open my eyes, my head spinning. I attempt to stand, but my body refuses. I fall back down to the bed and burst into a fit of giggles.

"Layla!"

On the floor, I notice the empty beer bottle and handle of whiskey.

That explains a lot.

"Coming," I mumble. I manage to make it to the door without tripping and unlock it. A red-faced Hank greets me. "What's up, Dad?"

"You took my fucking Jack," he says, pointing to the bottle on the floor. "I said one beer. One god damn beer!"

"Oops." I shrug my shoulders. "Hey, speaking of mistakes, why weren't you at your mother's funeral today?" I ask boldly. The question has been nagging at me for hours. "I know you weren't close, but come on, dude. That's just low."

"Ain't none of your business. Now you better go out and get me another bottle of—"

"I'm underage! Do you even know how old I am?"

"Don't interrupt me when I'm fucking talking." If looks could kill, I'd be dead. "Steal my shit again, and you're gonna regret it."

"What are you going to do, Hank?" I taunt him. The alcohol makes me brave and silences the little voice that usually tells me to get out while I still can.

"I wouldn't test me if I were you." A wicked smile tugs at his lips. There's a part of him that enjoys this. I don't typically fight back—flight is my go-to response when it comes to my deranged father—but he seems to like the verbal sparring match. "I expect another bottle of Jack to be waitin' for me when I wake up tomorrow. Got it?"

"No, I don't 'got it'. How about you kiss my ass?"

His eyes narrow into two venomous slits. "The hell you just say?"

Laughing, I repeat, "Kiss. My. Ass."

He grabs me by the wrist and drags me down the hall, shoving me to the ground once we reach the kitchen. My shoulder slams into the hard tile. I know I'll have a potato-sized bruise tomorrow, but right now, I don't feel anything.

He crouches over me and slaps my face. He does this three times before bringing his clenched fist to my eye.

This one I do feel.

I touch my swollen skin. "You asshole," I hiss, squirming away from him.

"I need a fucking cigarette." Hank rises to his feet and plops back down on the couch, taking the orange and white stick out of the box.

He doesn't say another word. He doesn't even look at me.

I retreat to my bedroom and slam the door behind me.

A/N:
It's the end of junior year! Next up is the fourth and final year of high school.
Thanks so much for reading, and please don't forget to give that star a tap ⭐️