Disclaimer: See previous chapter.

A/N: Watched the episode "Sunset Division" on A&E last night. Boy, was that a funny episode. Can't believe that blonde lady didn't know who Barbar the elephant was! Anyways, I've decided the wedding will be in either the 14th or 15th chapter. So you'll have to wait for it! But I'm sure you all can wait for it...can't you? Thanks to Mrs. Rhett Butler for reviewing.

(Side note to Mrs. Rhett Butler: Hootie hoo indeed! Glad you enjoyed it. This chapter is a bit darker than the other ones, but don't worry, we'll be back to the cuteness soon.)

Chapter Twelve: Dual Confessions

"Wow," Amanda said. "You've got a great view of the city from here."

She was standing on the balcony of Peter's apartment, looking at the Boston skyline. She had always been afraid of heights, but for the first time, she wasn't scared. Maybe it was because she had finally outgrown her fears, or maybe it was because Peter was standing right behind her, with his arms around her waist, holding her close to him. She figured it was the second one.

They had come to his apartment to watch movies, and had ended up standing together on the balcony after the movies were done, just to watch the stars. It made Amanda think of how, that day, Jordan had shown her, Lily, and Devon the bridesmaids' dresses; only 3 weeks after the proposal, she already had them picked out. They were beautiful: short, slightly puffed sleeves, with swaths of material hanging down like curtains. "Beauty and the Beast dresses," Amanda had said, remembering Belle's ball gown from the movie. "Short Sleeves," she thought sadly.Amanda looked up at the sky, waiting for a sign, a sign that it was all right to tell Peter her deepest secret, a sign that he would understand. Unbeknownst to her, Peter was thinking the same thing. Suddenly, a shooting star flashed in the sky. The pair closed their eyes and made the same wish: "Please, give me the strength to tell what I need to tell."

Amanda opened her eyes and sighed sadly. She knew the truth would come out sooner or later, and she figured she needed to tell Peter before he heard it from one of her friends. She removed his hands from her waist, walked over to the couch, and sat down. She needed to figure out her words, how she was going to tell him, figuring that when the wedding came and she was wearing that dress, they would be able to see, and then there would be questions.

Peter walked over to the couch and sat down next to her. "Amanda," he said quietly, "Are you all right?" She didn't speak, but shook her head. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I figured you would find out the day of the wedding," Amanda said. "Seeing as how the dress has short sleeves, you all would see, and then there'd be questions."

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, now rather confused. "See what?"

"These," Amanda said quietly. She took off the jacket that covered her tank top, revealing her shoulders. Peter stared in shock, realizing what Amanda had been talking about. There were razor scars on her shoulders. Amanda hung her head, ashamed of the scars that were now out in the open, where anyone could see them.

"Why?" he asked her, after a few moments of silence.

"I was 16 years old. I-there were things going on at home, and I-I couldn't deal with them."

"What was happening?" Peter asked. He noticed that Amanda looked unsure, doubting whether she should continue speaking. "Please, tell me," he said softly.

"It was the end of February, the 28th. My mom got a call from her parents. They said that my great-grandmother-who I was very, very close to and loved dearly-had been sick, and slipped into a coma. I should've expected something like that to happen. I mean, she was 95 years old; she was bound to get sick like that sometime. But I still wasn't prepared for it to actually happen.

Well, a week later; March 7th, 2002, I remember it so clearly; I had just finished dinner, and I was walking to my room, when I happened to look into my mom's room. She was sitting on her bed, rocking my little sister Jessica back and forth in her arms. Jessie was crying, and I walked in and asked what was wrong. My mom looked up at me, and told me that my great-grandmother had passed away.

Everything started to go in slow motion then, it seemed. My mom reached out to me, trying to get me to sit down, so she could comfort me. I backed out of the room, went into my room, closed the door, then slid to the floor in front of it and began to cry. I was hysterical, pounding the back of my head against the door; which, at the time, I hadn't realized I had been doing-my mom told me later that I was; and screaming, 'Why?' at the top of my lungs. I hadn't expected her to get any better, but I hadn't expected her to die either.

What happened next, it happened so fast. I opened my door, stormed into the kitchen, grabbed my keychain-which not only had my car keys on it, but my house keys as well-and ran out the front door, without a coat or sweater; just the T-shirt and jeans I had been wearing that day. I went to my car, opened the door, climbed in, and drove. And I drove. And I drove. I don't know how long I drove for, but I must have been driving in a circle, because I was back at my house in no time. I went in, and went straight to my room.

The funeral was that Monday, the 11th, and my friends had shown up, of course. But it didn't help. I didn't go to the funeral. I had gone to the viewing the day before, and barely made it through, even with my friends and my oldest cousins there. My cousins-only 1 ½ years and 2 ½ weeks older than me, respectively-had left Sunday night, and I decided that I couldn't go through it alone. I stayed at my uncle's house and watched my youngest cousins instead, as did Jessie.

After that, I seemed to be fine. Then, exactly 4 months later, tragedy struck again. I had woken up early that morning to talk to my friends online for a bit, because I was leaving for a week at church camp that day. I was pretty excited, because my oldest cousin Jake was going to be there too, and he's like a brother to me. It was about 7:00 AM when I decided to go upstairs and see if my mom and step-father were awake. When I got to their room, my step-father was answering the phone. He listened for a moment, and then passed the phone to my mother. Mom talked for a second, then said 'Oh no, when?'

I knew something bad had happened, so I stood there. Charlie-my step-father-was looking at me funny, and I said 'I'm not leaving till I find out what happened.' That's when he told me: 'Your Uncle Andrew passed away,' he said. I ran back downstairs and cried. But mostly, I waited; waited to find out whether I would still be going to camp. I came upstairs again about an hour later. Jessie was awake and sitting on the couch, drying her eyes. The verdict was in: I was going, because Aunt Mina-Uncle Andrew's wife-said that he would've wanted me to go.

We drove up to the camp, and met my cousin, my grandfather, and his other brother-my Uncle Frank-in the parking lot. Jake and I talked about what had happened, and Jake said he felt guilty, because he slept through the entire commotion.

The week passed, and it was going pretty well, except for one time when I broke down crying at night. The girls in my cabin were really caring, and two of them-Josie and Shelly-stayed with me while the others hunted for our counselor. That taken care of, the rest of the week was fine. Then, one day; Thursday, the 11th, on our way to morning prayers, I saw Jake walking away from the church and to a waiting car. I wondered where he was going, and I later found out he had gone to the funeral. I was upset. No, I was pissed off. The excuse given by Jake-when I asked him about it the night before I left; I was only staying a week, he for two-was that I was only going to be there a week and the family didn't want me to miss it.

When I got home, I was beyond furious with my mother's side of the family, especially Jake; in fact, I didn't speak to him again until Thanksgiving; even though I knew it wasn't his fault. One night, I got so mad about all that had happened that I punched my mirror. It smashed immediately, and my hand began to bleed. It hurt at first, but then I realized something: it felt good. I picked up the pieces of the mirror, and put them in a drawer for later. That night, while everyone was sleeping, I took a piece of the mirror out of the drawer, and I cut my shoulder. I felt relief. I cleaned it up, and then went to bed.

"This went on for about a week, until one day, my mom caught me. She made me go to therapy, and I haven't done it in two years." As Amanda finished, she watched Peter's face to see his reaction. It went from one of shock, to one of pity, finally stopping at one of sadness. He put his arms around Amanda, pulling her to him, saying, "It took a lot to tell me, you know."

Amanda was surprised at his reaction. "Why aren't you telling me to leave? Even my best friends didn't want to be around me the first time I told them, partially because I told them months after it happened, I guess," she said.

"Because I know what it's like to self-destruct," Peter said.

"When I started medical school, I was as optimistic as possible. But slowly, the constant pressure got to me. I started doing drugs, painkillers mostly, until I was hooked. Then I met Allison Daniels, someone just as messed up as I was at the time, maybe even more so. We did everything together, including the drugs. We were crazy; I mean, we even got married by a 97-year-old Rastafarian priest as a dare. I had hit rock bottom. And then I decided something: I was getting out of it.

So one day, I walked out on Allison, after trying my damndest to get her to come with me. I went to an NA meeting, and I started the process of getting off of the drugs. There were days that were harder than others, but the hardest thing was knowing that Allison wouldn't come with me. I got the job at the morgue by pure graciousness on the part of Dr. Macy; he hired me when no one else would. Then one day, shortly after I started work at the morgue, I got a call from Lily to come and ID a body. I walked into the autopsy room, and there was Allison, lying on the slab.

After that, I went back to the doctor that had been giving Allison and I the drugs, and I told him that she was dead. He told me he knew it was going to be hard, and he gave me a syringe and a bottle of liquid painkillers. That night, I went back to the morgue and into the crypt. I went there to see Allison, and that night was the night I slipped. I took the syringe and the bottle out of my pocket, rolled up my sleeve, and stuck myself, injecting the drugs.

Later, Dr. Macy found me working on Allison's case, and he accused me of being high. I was pissed at him for being right, so I told him-in no uncertain terms-that it was none of his damned business if I was or not, and I quit. I went to a bar, and Dr. Macy found me there. I was on my 3rd beer, and I was trying to forget everything. He called me on it again, and I walked out of the bar, even more pissed off than before.

A few days later, I went back again to that doctor, telling him that I was 'going out of the country for a few months to clear my head,' and he willingly gave me the drugs. Then he asked me if I wanted 'one for the road'. I held out my arm, and when he rolled up my sleeve, he found a police wiretap taped to my arm. He got arrested that night, and I also got my job back, only because Dr. Macy 'never accepted my resignation,' as he put it. That's the only time in the 2 ½ years I've been clean that I've slipped."

Amanda shifted to her side, so she could lean in closer to Peter. She rested her head on his shoulder, and said, "What happened after that?"

"Well, everything went well after that, except for my love life. Then one day, I was working in the morgue, and Detective Woody Hoyt came in, saying he had the next of kin for the autopsy I had been working on. He pointed her out to me in the hallway. I explained the procedures to her, and Bug took her in with her friends-only there for moral support-to make the ID. After she had made the ID, she was incredibly upset, so they sent me in to talk to her. She left that day with my phone number in her pocket, and for 3 months, we talked constantly; until one day, a month later, I told her that I loved her."

Amanda smiled. She knew who Peter was talking about. "And where is she now?" she asked with a grin.

"She's sitting on my couch, leaning her head against my shoulder, and telling me her deepest, darkest secret; and listening to me tell her mine," he replied. The two of them then sat in silence for what seemed like ages to the both of them.

"So," Amanda said, "what happens now? I mean, there's no secrets now, so what do we do?"

"I guess we make a promise to each other," Peter said. "I guess we promise each other that we won't keep secrets, or try not to, at least."

"Sounds like a plan to me," said Amanda. "I promise you, Peter, that I won't keep any secrets from you."

"I promise that I'll never keep any secrets from you, Amanda," he replied.

With the secrets in the open, and the promises made, the two of them got up off of the couch, and returned to their places on the balcony; silently thanking God for giving them strength, and each other.