A/N: Hey loyal readers! I'd like to start by saying this chapter was extremely hard for me to write. It was really emotional. So, if you could please review this chapter even if you don't usually review that'd be nice. Other than that, nothing much to say here. There is a little Leyton interaction in this chapter at the end, so I hope you enjoy it. Oh and thank you for all the reviews!

Disclaimer: I don't own One Tree Hill.

Chapter Twelve: A Seashell Frame for Anna

February 1st 2006

So what would you think of me now, so lucky, so strong, so proud? I never said thank you for that, now I'll never have a chance. - Jimmy Eat World

So guess what waking me up right now at eight o'clock this morning? The phone! I ignored it the first time. And the second time. And the third time. Then, I tried hanging up the fourth and fifth time. I'm thinking I should answer it though because it might be an emergency.

"Hello," I mutter.

"What's wrong with you!" Nathan yells.

"Good morning, Nate," I say sarcastically.

"I can handle you brooding. I can handle you drinking. Hell, I can even tolerate you smoking! But I cannot handle you dating Chris Keller!"

"Whoa! Calm down there, chief! I'm not dating Chris Keller." I roll over on my side to check the clock again. Still eight.

"I'm not naïve, Peyton. I saw it with my own eyes."

"Right. You saw me dancing with Chris Keller."

"And kissing him-"

"On the cheek, Nathan," I say rolling my eyes, "I kiss you on the cheek too."

"You're point?" Nathan whispers. What the hell does he think I mean?

"I'm just friends with Chris, ok? Nothing more than that. I owed him a dance as payment for performing at TRIC."

"What are you? Some type of prostitute?" Nathan asks. I burst out laughing, especially when I hear Haley in the background scolding him for saying that.

"I didn't make the arrangements. Rachel did."

"So Rachel's your pimp," Nathan says. I hear a sharp smack from his side, "Jesus, Hales! You should hear what she's saying."

"Listen, Nathan. If I wanted to date Chris Keller, I'd date Chris Keller," I say causing Nathan to scoff, "But, I'd also tell you."

"Promise?" he sounds so much like a little kid when he says it.

"Yes, I promise," I say rolling my eyes, "Should I be expecting one of these calls from Lucas too?" I hear Nathan sigh on the other line.

"I'm calling for him too."

"Oh good," I sigh in relief. I can handle Nathan, but Lucas is a different story. It's just weird to talk about that stuff with him.

"Not really."

"Why? What happened?" I ask.

"Brooke broke up with him and now he's all depressed. Haley's going over there now to cheer him up." My mouth literally drops at the news.

"What the hell!"

"I know."

"Why'd she do it?"

"I don't know. When we went to the club, they seemed really happy. By the end of the night, Lucas wasn't talking to any of us and Brooke was almost in tears. Brooke called Haley three hours after we got home to tell us the news. Haley says it was trust issues."

"Shocker," I mutter sarcastically, "I wonder how long before they're back together."

"I don't know. According to Haley, Brooke seems pretty adamant that the relationship is over."

"Huh," I breathe.

"Maybe you should go see Lucas," Nathan suggests quietly.

"Probably not the best time for him to get a visit from his ex-girlfriend."

"You're still his friend first though, right?"

"We'll see Nate," I say, knowing I won't go over there.

"Ok, I'll let you get back to bed," he says.

"Thanks for being so considerate," I say sarcastically.

"Next time answer your phone the first time."

"Next time call three hours later." We hang up a little later and I roll on my back trying to fall asleep, but it proves difficult. The fact that Lucas and Brooke broke up is swirling in my mind. A smile graces my face as I drift off. Lucas Scott is single again.

I wake up three hours later. And surprisingly when I awake, there are no thoughts of Brooke or Lucas in my head. I'm thinking about a little project I need to finish. See, it's Sunday, so naturally I'm thinking about my mother. Only this Sunday it's a little bit more than usual. A lot of times, my mind is somewhere else on Sunday. I'm usually worrying about the upcoming week and I have little time to think about my mom and that bucket in my closet. What bucket, you ask? Let me explain.

I remember when I was about six years old, every Sunday my mom would take me to the beach. She did it because my dad was away at sea and it made her feel closer to him. I remember her saying that, but she never frowned at the thought. She always smiled. In fact, I hardly ever remember my mother frowning. We'd walk along the shore searching for interesting and odd seashells. I'd scoop up at least fifty per trip in my little bright pink plastic bucket. (Yes, oddly enough it was bright pink.) When we got home, she'd take the big shells, wash them off and put them in this huge glass bowl on our coffee table. The small ones she'd glue on to frames for the family room.

When I got older, we didn't have time to go to the beach. Mom was busy with booster clubs and fundraisers. She was always organizing something. I asked her to take me two weeks before she died, and she was able to fit it into her schedule. We picked out the shells together and she promised that she'd make me a special frame with a picture of just the two of us in it. She said she'd put it right in the middle of our fireplace mantel.

She never made that frame. When she got home, some lady from school called and she was wrapped up in that. I didn't say anything because she promised she'd do it tomorrow. But each day she pushed it back. I understood though. I had a busy life too, even at my age. Then, she finally found a clear day on her schedule. She would pick me up after school and we'd finish that frame together. I was so excited. She never picked me up. We never made that frame.

I keep the bucket of seashells in my closet, buried behind all of my boxes of old clothes. Every Sunday I debate internally whether I should make that frame. Today, I'm getting my closure. I'm making that frame.

I leisurely get dressed and eat some breakfast. It's late enough to consider my meal lunch, but seeing as I'm eating cereal again, I think breakfast is a more suitable name. When I finish, I trudge back upstairs into my closet and dig out the bucket. The shells are still dirty, so I let them soak in the sink while I go through the photo albums looking for the perfect picture.

I have trouble looking through these albums. I miss her so much and each photo is another stab in my heart. She's gone and even making this frame won't bring her back, but I have to believe it will make it a little better. I wish she was here to make it with me. I finally find the perfect photo. It's of me and her on the beach ironically enough. It's from my birthday. My mom and dad took me to the beach and we built sandcastles. Dad must have taken this picture. My mom is sitting Indian style next to me as I build a sandcastle (more like a sand mound). She's trying to square the bottom of the castle, but I remember clearly it would be to no avail. I was intent of having a round castle.

I take the photo out of the plastic sheet and bring it to the kitchen table. The shells are clean now and I let them dry while I search for the frame we were going to use. I think my dad kept it in the spare closet upstairs. There are a lot of things in there. Towels, junk jewelry, and I think I saw a beach umbrella in there. Sure enough there's the frame on the top shelf next to my box of Troll dolls.

The process is not a long one. The hardest part is arranging the shells, just perfectly so you can fit as many as possible on there. My mom always stressed that. She packed the frames so tight that you couldn't see any of the frame. I do a go job placing the shells, of course it's not as good as hers, but I think she'd be proud. Now, I just need to glue them on. The process is messy. Hot glue guns always annoy the hell out of me, but they're necessary for this project. When some of the glue drips on my index finger, I can suddenly picture my mother's finger tips, callous from crafts, covered in dry glue. I can see the look on her face when she notices the glue. She'd scrunch her nose and I'd know to run to the sink and get her a wet paper towel. It seems like such a long time ago.

I watch as the frame dries while I clean up my little mess. The remaining shells I dump into that bowl in the living room. When I finish, I slide the picture into the frame. It looks perfect. Now, there's only one more thing to do. Go see mom.

The cemetery is pretty empty for a Sunday. Usually, this is when most people come. I guess it's my lucky day. I sit down by my mom's gravestone and dust some off the dirt off the base. I have my frame in my shaking hands. This isn't something unusual for me so I don't know why I'm so nervous. I visit her a lot of times. It never gets easier, but it's also never this nerve racking.

"Hi mom," I whisper, "Look what I brought. Our last seashell frame. I made it this morning. I'm going to put it on the fireplace mantel just like you said. Right in the center." I pause to gather myself. I feel like I'm the verge of breaking down.

"It's been awhile since I came to see you. I think the last time I came was right after Ellie died. Life's not been good since then. I thought things would look up, but so far that's not been proving true." The first tear falls down onto our frame and I wipe it off.

"Umm, there was a school shooting. I'm sure you knew that. I got shot in the knee. Mom, you don't know how scary it was seeing that gun pointed at me. Hearing the glass shatter. I was so scared. I didn't know what to do. I climbed all the way up to the library. I thought I was going to die there. I was too tired to move, too weak to scream for help. I just laid back against the shelves and waited for my chance to see you again." Tears roll down my cheek and I thank God that no one's here to see me. Because I need to let this all out, but I don't want anyone to witness it. I'm really crying now.

"But you had other plans, didn't you?" I let out a small laugh through my tears, "You sent Lucas back in there to save me. I know you did. It just wasn't my time." I choke a little on my sobs. Because it's so hard to continue. So hard to speak these words out loud.

"But I wanted to die, mom," I cry, "I didn't want to go on! I wanted to come see you! I didn't want to feel the pain anymore!" I'm trying to yell the words but they're being stifled by my tears. My voice can't reach louder than normal. "I hate it! I hate this life! And even after the shooting, it got worse! There's no relief! It only gets worse! More pain! More losses!"

"I miss you! I miss you so much! You were the only one I could count on. You were the only one I trusted and now you're gone. And it sucks." I curl up into a little ball, tucking my knees under my chin, "I know I have to be strong," I say softly, "I know I have to keep going, but I just don't want to. Maybe you can pull some strings and get me something good to look forward to. Or just send me a sign. Where should I be?" I collapse into a pitiful pile of tears. My eyes are closed. I'm just trying to soak it all in. The sound of the wind. The feel of the grass under my feet. (My shoes are resting next to me.) This is what it felt like to break down. And I don't want to ever forget this moment. As much as it hurts, I can feel myself getting stronger from it. Growing as a person. Accepting finally that Anna Sawyer is dead and no amount of tears and seashell frames will bring her back.

"Where should I be?" I whisper, opening my eyes. My eyes are blurry but I spot another figure a couple of rows to my right. I wipe furiously at my eyes trying to build back up the tough walls. The figure is approaching me, probably to see if I'm all right. I still can't tell who it is. New tears are replacing my old ones.

"It's ok," the figure tells me. His voice is familiar and it makes me feel even worse for breaking down like this. "I just noticed it was you."

"Luke," I say, trying to get up and leave. He places his hand on my shoulder keeping me from rising.

"Don't leave," he says sitting down next to me, "I just finished crying." I look at him and notice his eyes are red and puffy. Those eyes are pleading me to stay, but I don't think I would have left even if they weren't. I'm too weak, too tired to move.

"Ok," I nod. He takes a deep breath and smiles weakly at me.

"I didn't plan on coming here," he says softly, "I've had a really shitty week and usually when that happened, I'd talk to Keith. So I just wound up here. And then before I knew it, I was crying."

"This place does that," I say, still sniffling.

"Does it ever get easier?" he asks. I'd love to say yes. To lie for the sake of making him feel better, but for me, it's all the same.

"No," I say softly, wringing my hands to stop them from shaking "But that may just be me." He abruptly pulls me into his arms and I wrap my arms around his waist. This is where I want to be. But is it where he wants to be? I highly doubt it.

We sit there for a good half hour, just embracing each other. We don't talk about Brooke or Chris or Haley or Nathan. We don't talk at all, but when we go our separate ways, we both feel a little better. It's always that way when I leave him. Lucas Scott. My guardian angel.