The following day, the three of us woke up early. After a quick (but hearty and delicious) breakfast, we were out the door. Scott was kind enough to show us around. We spent the day site-seeing, going from the lovely countryside to London.

I had been before, on tour of course, but never really got the chance to enjoy it. Scott pulled out all the stops. We rode a double-decker bus. We went on the London Eye. From there we walked along Westminster Bridge (which I was totally dorking out about, because it made me think of the zombie movie 28 Days Later). We wandered around Old Palace Yard, as well as the Palace of Westminster. We admired Big Ben, and hit up other places of interest, like Piccadilly Circus. It was truly a perfect day.

Of course Scott and I were recognized. We made sure to try not to draw too much attention to ourselves. That's a little hard, though, when one of the world's most famous actors is hanging out with one of the world's most famous singers. Luckily it remained manageable, and I had the foresight to take my anxiety meds that morning just in case. Plus we, of course, had an unmarked security detail following us, both by car and several on foot.

Amy was having an absolute field day. In the morning she had still been shy, but by lunch she had completely reverted into just herself. Lots of selfies with Scott and I. Lots of pictures taken with Amy and myself, and even a few of just Amy and Scott. By the time we decided to make our way back to the countryside, I really felt like we were just three old friends hanging out.

"God," Amy muttered on the limo ride back, admiring all the pictures she had of the day. "I am so going to be the Queen of High School when I get back and show everyone these pictures."

I chuckle. "I thought you already were once word got out you're my sister?"

"Well, okay, more Queenly. Like, Empress of the Seniors." Scott chuckled. Amy glanced at him. "I mean, if that's okay with you guys, that I show people these pictures?"

Scott laughed then. "I'm game if you're alright with it, Bauwens," Scott told me.

I grin at Amy. "Whatever--it'll be good publicity for us."

Amy squealed softly and went back to gushing over her pictures.

It was time for a late dinner when we made it back to the mansion. Afterwards, Scott excused himself for an early bedtime. Though I myself were tired, Amy was still on an adrenaline rush from the day. I agreed to hang out with her in her room.

We were sitting on her massive bed. I was picking at my nails as Amy uploaded her pictures to God knows where on her laptop. After a point, she stopped her clicking and typing and glared at me.

"What?" I asked.

Amy rolled her eyes. Shutting her laptop, she grabbed a makeup bag from off her nightstand. Without a word, she scooted forward and held out her hand to me. "Gimme your hands."

I laugh. "What? Why?"

She gives me her death glare. "Orion."

I stick my hands out. After a moment, she opens up her bag, fishes around for a second, and then takes out an emory board. Without asking, she begins to file my nails. Once that's done, still holding my right hand, she takes out a bottle of nail polish.

"W-what're you doing?"

"Painting your nails."

I pull back my hand, holding it to my chest. "Like fucking hell you are!"

"Orion, come on," Amy says, reaching for my hands.

"No!"

"Orion!"

"No!"

We get into a wrestling match. Before I know it we're on our sides, thrashing and occasionally kicking each other. Finally I get the upper hand, grab a pillow, and beat her with it. She growls audibly and sits up, hair every which way direction. I laugh and chuck the pillow at her, hard.

"Come on," she whines at me with a huff, moving her hair away.

I laugh. "No! Fuck you!"

"You still bite your nails," she points out. "If you have nail polish on, it'll taste nasty and look weird. It's a good deterrent."

I give her my best withering look.

"Come on," Amy whines more. "I never had a sister!"

"I have a penis, Amy."

"There's no way John or Seth would let me." She glances off to the side. "Lord knows I've asked over the years..."

I cross my arms. "And why in the fuck do you think I'd be any different?"

"You're a rockstar."

I laugh. "I have never, ever painted my nails."

"So why not try something new?"

"Amy."

"Please?" she now begs. "I'll let you pick the color."

I glower. She pouts. "Please?"

I roll my eyes. "Only if you have black."

Amy squeals and claps her hands before digging around her bag once more. "Of course I have black, Ori...who the fuck do you think I am?"

I laugh at that. As she begins to paint my nails, she asks me something nonchalantly.

"So--have you talked to Tristan at all?"

I feel like I was just punched in the chest. I glare off to the side. "No."

She pauses. "Are you going to?"

I sigh. Was I going to? "I--I d'no."

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Amy--"

"He was good for you, Ori," she says, looking at me for a moment before focusing on my nails. "Really, really good."

"You think I don't know that?" I snap at her before I can stop myself.

She raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything.

"I broke up with him."

Amy looks at me again, looking a little surprised.

"I broke up with him, then I went into the hospital, and when I asked him if he thought we would ever be a thing again..."

I trailed off when my voice cracked.

"He stormed out of the hospital," Amy says softly once she's sure I'm not saying anything.

"Oh?"

"We were all in the waiting room," she continues just as softly. "He came barreling in and said 'whoever the fuck wants to see him, go ahead'. He was crying."

I swallow a lump in my throat away. "I--I know he was c-crying."

"Ben asked him if he was okay, and Tristan laughed at him. He asked, 'Are any of us okay?' When none of us said anything, Tristan apologized, told us he 'couldn't do this', and then left."

I don't say anything.

"We...haven't really heard from him, since."

Still I don't say anything.

"He reached out to Gloria to let her know he was safely back in Texas."

"O-oh," I finally say, and tears spring to my eyes.

For a moment there's deafening silence, where I'm trapped in my head that's being too loud as Amy paints my fingernails. I'm spiraling, and I know I am, and I don't give a fuck. My brain was doing what it does best--trying to convince me I was a fuck. Telling me I wasn't worthy of anyone's love. Telling me Tristan deserves someone better. Telling me the world would be better without me.

Angst over why I'm like this. Being torn between not caring about anything and caring about everything too damn much. Trying to convince those I love that I'm unworthy of their time and love because I'm just an out of control asshole. Knowing that I'd rather destroy relationships with people so it's inflicted by my own hands instead of feeling the pain of having it be done to me. Not having the confidence within myself that I'm stable enough where I won't do or say something ridiculous, hurting those around me. Knowing that my anger was just a cover for misery. Knowing that it wasn't me, that my grief was really cleverly disguised as rage.

Do you know how hard it is, to sit with yourself, and know these things about yourself? Knowing that if most people were inside of your head for even an hour it would make them cry? Knowing that, while it may seem like I'm not trying, I'm actually trying my hardest to be everything, for everyone. Trying to be funny and smart, things that will make me deserving of people's love. Yet knowing my track record is absolute shit, so being cognizant of everyone underestimating you? Then knowing you're just going to be a fuck and live up to those low expectations? It's difficult knowing your life is just a pile of self-perpetuating load of shit.

If I could just go somewhere, rip my heart out, stomp on it, and set it on fire, I would. I wish I didn't have to leave my house if I'm being honest--it's too depressing. Sometimes I just wonder if anyone is even happy that I'm a part of their life. This is why I'm so quiet sometimes; if I vocalized any of this, most people would run for the hills. Sometimes my mind is too loud so I'm too soft, because I know people don't want to hear this shit. Because, if I know all this, why don't I just fucking fix it already? I feel like most days, no matter how hard I try, and no matter how much I give, I'm just never going to be good enough for anyone.

I'm broken. And I know it. And it sucks.

"There, done," Amy says then, snapping me out of it.

I look at my hands. She painted them black, all right. But she also painted every other one pink (I think). Not neon pink or anything, but still--fucking pink.

I gasp loudly and dramatically. "Amy! You bitch!"

And even though I really am upset, I can't help but laugh. It looks ridiculous. Well, it actually looks kind of neat, but I hate pink!

I'm happy when Amy bats her eyelashes and grins at me sweetly like the Cheshire Cat. "What?"

I hold up my hands and glare. After a moment though, we both laugh. Amy is giving me a peculiar look, so I look at her inquisitively.

"What?"

"I'm happy it actually made you laugh," she said softly, "because I've been trying to figure out how to make you laugh when I got around to asking you the question that I knew was going to destroy you."

I close my eyes and sort of snort. Shaking my head, I look at her, and give a genuine smile. "Thanks, Amy."