Flashback.

Read it. This is a flashback.

This happened before the last chapter. The next chapter will pick up where the last one left off. There is one chapter left.

I was in my room, alone; I was listening to some mix tape that Lucas'd given me before it all went down. The track listing was a weird montage of all his creepy underground bands - Morrissey, the Smiths, the Cure, and something called Northstar who was actually decent and could possibly be nominated for a spot in the four's acceptable music list.

I didn't know why I still had the stupid tape, with it's hand colored cover, Brooke written across a piece of masking tape on the B side in pink Sharpie. It'd be a week. One week and Lucas hadn't come back to school. I hadn't seen him, on that day when Peyton told the kid next to her what she suspected Lucas Scott had been doing to me. I never said anything. That's important, that people know that. I never, never helped spread it around. I never confirmed the rumors. I never made a scene.

They came to me.

It was the weekend, so Haley had her tutoring at the library thing. Bevin was with her, watching her, waiting in some isle picking out books with titles like the lovely bones and of love and death. Peyton was working at the record store, selling inexpensive and old records to the masses of indie kids that scamper in. She was the only one who did the 'work' thing during the year - the rest of us were handed money by our parents, hitting the mall as employees only during the summer, to occupy our long hours of nothingness.

I was on my bed, messing with the ancient tape deck that I'd only learned to use for the purpose of playing that stupid mix tape.

On the weekends, I don't get dressed, not unless four is doing something in public, and even then it's a struggle, so I was sitting around, cursing the bastard who invented cassette tapes, and wearing baby pink fleece pajama pants with a white and black long-sleeved T-shirt. This was when he appeared in my doorway.

God bless mothers who'll let any random kid into their child's bedroom without clearing it with the child first. I know I could never get along without mine.

Lucas leaned against the doorframe, hair messed up like he'd be running his hand through it repeatedly, clothes wrinkled and dirty, with bags under his eyes big enough to hold grapefruits. He's so pale, so tired, and it looks like sweat is dripping off his chin. His eyes looked sort of wild, like a caged animal trying to tear through its enclosure, and I tried really hard not to shiver when he crossed the room and stood in front of me.

"Hey, Lucas." He grabbed me by the shoulders, scratching my neck with his watchstrap, and for a second I thought he was going to choke me to death. Instead, he sinks to his knees on the floor, hands trailing down to grip my thighs, staring up at me and blinking rapidly.

"Brooke, Brooke . . . I'm sorry. I'm so sorry . . . it's important that you know that, it's really important." Lucas's voice was shaky, and hoarse, and I was really, really terrified that he was doing the gentlemanly murderer thing, apologizing for my death before tearing my heart out of my chest or breaking my spine. His palms rubbed my legs, slowly, and the friction went through my pants and made me jump. Lucas sighed, hard, breath rattling. "You heard, right, what they're saying? What . . . I wouldn't do that to you okay? You know, you know I wouldn't, I never planned on hurting you, o-or forcing anything. Never."

Oh, God.

OhGodohGodohGod.

He thought I thought - he didn't know. He.

Ah, crap.

I put my hands on his, threading my fingers through his and squeezing gently, pushing him away from me slowly. I did my best soothing voice, kept my face neutral, and he started to calm did a little bit. "Shhh . . . Lucas, it's okay. I know you didn't. And you know you didn't. And that's all that matters." Please, please let that be enough.

Lucas rose up on his knees, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressing his face against my stomach. Awkwardly, I put my hands on his head, smoothing back his hair, while he breathed deeply against the thin cotton of my shirt and made goosebumps rise up all over me. His skin was hot, his breath was hot, and I could feel my cheeks starting to burn. The back of his neck was damp, like his face was, like his face was leaking wetness all over me.

"I'm so sorry . . . I'm so, so sorry . . . please, Brooke, I love you so much. I know, I know you didn't want to keep hanging out with me, and I know that I talked you into it, and I know that it was wrong to want to have you with me, but God . . . you're so perfect." My heart dropped down into oblivion, and it surprised me that he didn't feel the change, he didn't feel me stiffen.

"It's okay . . . this isn't your fault. It'll be fine."

Lucas let me go, then, and the imprint of what his face looks like sad was left on my shirt. He ran his hands over his face, drying it off, spreading the tears across his cheeks until he shined. Several deep, ragged breaths later, he looked at me, then down at the floor, before finding a point halfway to talk to. "It was them, wasn't it." Baby, that isn't even the question. "It was those . . . people you hang out with, they did this. They couldn't stand that I was taking your attention away from them. Was it Peyton? Christ, that girl . . . I hate her."

"Hate's a strong word." And my voice was so dull, so placid. Maybe that's when he started to figure things out.

"Why do you let them do that shit to you, Brooke? You just . . . they have all this control over you, and now they're screwing around with your life. How can you handle it?" Then his face went animated, his eyes flashed, and he grabbed at my legs, again, leaving marks. "That's it, then, isn't it? You aren't going to just stay with them, after they did this to you. You can leave them, now, you can come with me." He was running out of breath, and it was almost sad. I ran my fingers along his cheekbone, down his jaw, and smiled.

"They didn't do it to me, babe. They did it to you. This isn't even about me." His brow furrowed, thin lines up his forehead and down to the bridge of his nose.
"They - yes, it's about you. God, Brooke, these . . . psychos are spreading all this shit around, saying all these things that didn't even fucking happen, I'd say that's about –"

"My friends aren't psychos."

He stopped, right in the middle of his sentence, and just. Stared. He kneels on my bedroom floor, the pink shag carpeting cushioning his knees, and he stared at me, transfixed. A light clicked on behind his eyes, and right in that moment, I knew I'd lost him.

"You . . . knew."

"Yeah. I knew. I was actually there when they – when we decided what to do. So, it's really not about you at all. Think of it as . . . a bonding experience."

Lucas started to stand up, never taking those big, blue Bambi eyes off of me. He stood up, and he sat on my bed, next to me, and I thanked God that the mix tape he'd made was safely hidden inside the tape thingie, so he couldn't see the Brooke label and he couldn't see inside my mind. He shook his head, lips parting slightly, and in the next thirty seconds he had my hands clasped in his, resting on his knee. "No, you didn't do this. You're not like those people, Brooke, I know you. You're . . . so nice . . . and so smart . . . you wouldn't do it. I don't believe you."

"Well, that's your problem, then, isn't it?"

"Brooke! Stop taking the fall for those girls! Stop, okay? I know you aren't like them. You're different, you're – "

"Four. I'm four, Luke. I'm not like you."

His Adam's apple bobbed, over and over, up and down, and the grip on my hands became painful. I moved back as much as I could, my back hitting the headboard, and focused my gaze on the Beoncye poster on the door. "You aren't like this. I don't know why you're trying to pretend like you are. It's not going to work, I'm never going to believe that you didn't stop them for doing this."

"Luke, lemme paint you a picture, okay? I'm in Haley James's bedroom. I'm on the bed, and Bevin Accardi is next to me on one side, Peyton Sawyer is on the other. We're talking, and we're talking, and it comes up that a certain loser has attached himself to me and refuses to let go. We think, 'hmm, what's the best way to get out of this situation?' And this is it. You are living the product of our brainstorming, Lucas Baby. Get used to it."

Lucas shook his head, leaning closer to me so that I could feel his breath on my face, peanuts and Coke and that underlying sense of rejection. "Stop . . . they did something to you. They . . . they threatened you, you didn't have a choice."

"Lucas, come on. Listen. I'm telling you the truth, and I realize, I'm okay. Trust me." I blew the hair out of my eyes, and put on my best sympathetic face. "I know it's hard now, but eventually, it'll all die down. People forget things; you'll be plain old Loser Lucas again before senior year rolls around. Right as rain!" I stood up; walking over to the door and adjusting the waistband of my pants before it slipped too far down my hips. "Now, you run on home and revel in your angst. I'll see you around."

Lucas stood up too, slowly, walking over to stand in front of me, arms crossed over his chest as he started to shake. He sighed, quietly, and started to back out of the room. "I'm not going to forget this, you know. I can forgive, I know I will, because hating you isn't something I can do well. But I'll never forget. Can you live with that?"

I looked up at him, blinking slowly and walking closer, making him back out into the hall and smiling as my hair fell over my eyes, blocking my face. "I'll put it on my to-do list."

Shutting a door has never been more satisfying.