When he woke next day, Matt's mind was gone. It was gone when he watched the security monitors at work, gone when Joe sent an elbow into his back and said, "What are you doing? That's a car jacking!"

Gone when they ran out to confront the men, who'd bashed in the driver-side window of an old pickup with a socket wrench and the strength of too much tequila.

Gone when the wrench hit him. Gone when the police came, gone when he arrived at Quentin's house without a recollection of the drive.

Gone even, when Jaylin put a bag of ice in his hands and coaxed him to hold it to the ugly gash on his brow.

Gone when he looked him in the eye and said, "Matt, what's wrong? What's really wrong?"

And then suddenly, Matt was there. Terribly, terribly there.

His own heart tore at his chest, an imperiled beast mauling him between the ribs. Suddenly he missed his sad ways, the lonely gnawing feeling that used to grumble in his ribs at night. He missed not knowing what it felt like to care about someone so much, the thought of letting them go set his chest on fire.

He searched for Quentin through the kitchen window, finding him hunched over the stove, preparing a meal over a hot pan. Jay and Bronx were gonna be together forever. They'd be together forever and it wasn't fuckin' fair.

"If leavin' you was the only thing that'd make him happy, would you be okay with it?" Matt asked.

Jaylin hesitated, turned his eyes Quentin for a brief, considerate moment. "I wouldn't be okay with it...I think I'd just be."

"Be?"

"Without him and not okay," Jaylin said. "But I think that's what love is. Giving up the things you want to make someone else happy."

Something shattered in the kitchen. Jaylin rose from his chair. "Quentin?"

"I've got it," Quentin called back. Through the kitchen window, he was kneeling, picking up all the shattered pieces of a measuring glass.

There was a bothered look in his eyes as Jay slid back in his seat. He crossed his arms over the table and leaned forward to speak in a way that only Matt could hear. "He's been like this since the night you saved Bailey."

"You mean the night I killed three people."

"I mean the night you saved Bailey. And not just Bailey, you know—all the rogues that belonged to those den leaders."

"I didn't save him," Matt said, taking the ice off his face. Blood wet the plastic. "I didn't get there soon enough."

"Because he can't turn?" Jaylin asked. "I dunno, Matt. Maybe it won't be so bad. He's free from the authority of packs and the rogues aren't interested in humans, so he doesn't have to worry about dens anymore. Bailey hates being controlled, right? He doesn't have to be now."

Matt pressed the ice to his head and watched the candle in the center of the table lick high and low. It wasn't the inability to turn that was killing Bailey Walters, and Matt knew it. He hated that he knew it. "You sound like Tisper. A walking, breathing, shittin' greeting card."

"Hey."

"I'm sorry," Matt said, cradling his head. "It's just...you don't get it, Jay. I—"

Another clatter came from the kitchen, this one with the hiss of hot, sloshing liquid. The gnashed, pained sound, the stink of burned skin. This time Jay did leave the table, and Matt watched through the window as he shoved Quentin's oil-fried hand beneath cold water. Held his face while the water ran and said something too soft for Matt to hear.

I love him, Matt was gonna say. He wouldn't now. His concern shifted to Quentin—how undone he looked, all shadows beneath the eyes and weak in the shoulders. Matt wondered what it must've been like to scrape the corpse of your nightmares from a barroom floor. He should've at least tossed a tablecloth over the bastard. Bronx had probably looked that dead man right in the eye. Stared at his empty, bleeding shell and seen every memory he'd laid to rest, resurrected and roaming the rotting earth. And now it was killin' him like it was killin' Bailey.

Matt said his goodbyes not long after that. Stopped by the bank, bought a case of beer, and by the time he'd arrived at the guest house, Bailey was pushing a mower down a long, cow-less field. With a stretch of knee-high grass still to mow, Matt ventured into the barn and carried all of Bailey's things to the guest house. And by the time the hound stepped inside, covered in grass stains and scintillating with sweat, Matt sat on the arm of the sofa—a backpack propped beside him, bulging at every pocket with all of Bailey's things, and a week's worth of extra clothes Matt had thrown in at random.

Bailey looked confused when he saw the backpack—twice that when he spotted the gash on Matt's head.

He hesitated there at the doorway, looking calm though his jaw twinged. "Was it Ricco?"

"No," Matt said. He touched the aching spot. "No."

"What's going on?" Bailey asked. His eyes flicked briefly to the back backpack he'd arrived with. "Kicking me out already?"

Matt stood and withdrew the envelope from his back pocket. His hands shook a little as he thrust it out to Bailey. "Here."

The paper crinkled beneath Bailey's hasty hands.  He tore it open and thumbed through the green inside. "What's this?"

"Two grand," said Matt. 

Bailey's startled gaze caught on his face, then went eerily still at the set of keys Matt dangled. "These are for the Wrangler."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Matt could feel the tears breaching. He tilted his head back and took in a terrible, aching breath. "Because I'm not Danny," he said, stuffing the keys into Bailey's unwilling hand. "'Cause I don't wanna leave you in a place that does nothin' but tear out your soul. There's enough cash in there to get to Idaho. The rent's cheap there, so—"

"Come with me." Bailey stepped closer—too close. Matt would smell the fresh-cut grass on him. The gas from the lawn mower.

"I told you," Matt said, his throat tight. His heart wilting. "I can't. You were right when you said this wasn't about me. Go to Idaho, Bailey. Go to Idaho, get a job, eat some fucking Big Macs—live like a normal human being."

"What about you?"

"It's not about me." Matt snatched the backpack from the couch and shoved it to Bailey's chest. The gestured opened several desired inches of space between them. "Go, Bailey. You don't have to stay here anymore."

In that moment, Bailey was a wild thing, body tensed. Ready to run, begging to run. He lifted his gaze from the backpack to Matt, frightened, maybe. Maybe just unsure.

"Cowboy—"

"I'm not a cowboy." Matt's voice quivered. He blinked away the wet in his stinging eyes. "I'm not a hero. I'm just a guy—and I'm not worth stickin' around for, I promise."

Bailey's throat bobbed—his lips parted to say something, but Matt spoke first, "Go. My dad'll be home any second—go before he sees you leave with the Wrangler."

"But, Ricco—"

"I'm not scared of Ricco," Matt lied. His heart drummed in his throat and his ears and his wrists and he hated the way it spoke. Like all the blood in his veins was pullin' him toward Bailey. Beggin' him not to go. Just be, Matt told himself. And with his throat tight and tears growing, he whispered to Bailey, "It's okay. Go."

It was as if all his tethered lines snapped loose. Bailey stumbled back, backpack hanging by his side. Keys in his hand.

There was something beautifully alive in Bailey's eyes when he looked up. His fingers curled around the key fob and he turned, his footsteps fast and his gait light, so eager to escape, he bumped against the door frame on the way out. The door shut behind him and the sound of it clapped in Matt's eardrums.

There was only quiet after that. The kinda quiet needled into Matt's heavy bones. Then footsteps on gravel. The car door slamming shut. The engine roaring awake. Matt gripped at his hair and fought the tears in his eyes.

Just be. Just be. Just be.

And when he'd gathered himself enough, he watched from the kitchen window as the Jeep carried on down the gravel driveway—as it reversed with such speed that pebbles spittled from the tires and dust caught the air. It reared back onto the empty road, engine groaning as the suspension bucked and the Wrangler lurched forward. 

Tires burning against the pavement, the Jeep disappeared behind the old orchard of apple trees. And when it was gone, Matt carried all the numb parts of him down the hall toward his room. Sat on the foot of the bed, and fell back into the sheets that still smelled of Bailey.

He ran his hands up his face and laughed—laughed because he'd finally known what it was to love someone. Then he cried because so easily, he'd lost it all.

And when the sun tipped behind the trees and Bailey didn't come back, Matt realized what a cruel joke it was. There was no way he could ever just be.