Sara's eyes skimmed over the line, one more time, a headache creeping in from how the light from the chandelier bounced back against the white page.

Anatomy is interesting.

She repeated the words to herself, like a mantra, as she pushed back against the flood of–Michael–thoughts gnawing at her concentration.

You need to read this, Sara, she told herself, using her mother's voice to self-reprimand as always. Med school is only a semester away now. Remember the plan, no getting distracted–Michael's lips, his neck, his beautiful face–keep your eyes on the finish line.

She read aloud, "Knowledge of human structure at both the macroscopic and microscopic levels serves—"

Her wrist brushed against the hard rind of the book and suddenly she felt the roughness of Michael's jacket against her upper body, the strength of his fingers as he lifted her from the ground and his lips crushed against hers and—

And she was reading that same line again, and still it was not connecting as more than ink on paper, utterly meaningless.

Sara snapped the book shut.

How was she supposed to last a whole weekend?

…

"Jesus, Milkman, you listening?"

Michael willed his gaze to settle on his manager, Gary, with something that resembled attention. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'm listening."

"Then why the heck are you still doing shakes? Stu needs you behind the counter. You got ice for brains son?"

"Yes—no."

Gary rolled his eyes. Michael was so slow today he didn't even see the pat arrive until Gary's large palm was slamming onto his shoulder. And even then, he barely felt it, like water sweating off an ice cube.

I've got coals for brains, Michael thought. Hot, very hot coals.

"I'll be right there," he said.

Overnight, Sara's kiss became shrouded in his mind in crimson red. Everything that had anchored him away from that image of his parents' death—the warmth of her skin on his, the minty taste of her mouth—crumbled as hour upon hour stole the magic of last night, leaving place to a vacant hole. No matter how hard he tried to avoid that hole, its wet red mouth kept drawing him back, like a whirlpool. It ate at the memories of the kiss, which he had been so sure would keep him floating in a blissful haze all weekend long. It ate everything Michael tried to put between himself and the hole—rational thoughts, deep inhales, reason itself.

It was like by kissing Sara, he had opened up a chasm inside himself that threatened to swallow them both. An eye of terror that never blinked, never closed, and that would stare him into submission if it was the last thing it did.

"Milkman?"

Michael shuddered.

Gary stood in the doorframe of the kitchen, expectant. "You coming, or am I gonna have to fire you?"

Michael followed his manager outside to the dining area. At four o'clock, the Hive was buzzing with noise, life, teens gobbling the pie-weekly and slurping vanilla shakes.

Orders poured in as if raining from the skies and Michael managed to go through the motions. Only there was this voice, a woman's—Sara's?—that rose from the red abyss gaping inside him. Close your eyes, she said. Instead of a kiss, when he obeyed, his body got sucked in by the hole and his body shattered, something sharp stabbed him mid-section, and a scream like raw meat came bursting out of his throat.

"You're sure this is decaf?"

"Yeah."

The girl squinted at him. It was one of Sara's alleged girlfriends. Ex-girlfriends? Nika. She said, "As in, sure-sure? One drop of coffee and I'm not getting any sleep tonight."

Michael repeated, "Yeah."

Scoff.

Gretchen's black hair glinted under the neon as she looked him up and down. "I don't think he's listening, Nik. I mean, maybe if you started quoting Shakespeare and turned into a major bore. Hey, retard," she snapped her fingers in front of his face, "paying customers here. You think you can handle making a cup of decaf?"

The girls laughed when Michael jumped back and bumped against the shelves, milk bottles tumbling at his feet. Michael's skin prickled, hot, though not from shame. He didn't like it when people looked at him. Usually, he made people uncomfortable enough for their eyes to avoid him, but a teenager with milk bottles shooting at him is basically begging for stares.

One pair of eyes struck him like red lasers and Michael's gaze shot to a table at the other end of the room, where his brother hurried to look down at his order of fries and burgers.

Without thinking, Michael started toward him.

A red fist punched at his ribcage where his heart should be.

Lincoln's presence suddenly seemed like the most appropriate thing in the world. After all, he'd been there when the police brought Michael back home to tell them their parents had died in a car accident. Even back then, the words had sounded ridiculous. Their parents had not died in a car accident. Michael was there. He'd seen what happened. Did the cops think he'd let them tell lies? It was a truck.

The detail hit Michael like a pebble thrust at a spinning wheel and he stopped dead in his tracks. Lincoln, only a few steps away now, and the whole diner staring at him.

A big yellow monster of a truck had sprung from the road out of nowhere and eaten their parents. Michael remembered the glass of the passenger seat where his mother sat splintering into cobwebs before it smashed and his father screaming and his mother's voice—

Michael close your eyes.

"What in the hell are you doing, Scofield?"

Michael swiveled toward his manager. Fear had hung thick over his words so he didn't need to look, really, to see it on his face. Time got rolling again, a Britney song playing in the background. Was it always so loud, or had everyone gotten very silent?

The girls, Gretchen, Nika, Lisa, eyed him no longer in delight. A moment ago, they'd been visitors at the zoo, tossing dirt at a panther in a cage to get a reaction. Now the panther was out, fangs bared, claws out, and they stood petrified.

He opened his mouth. For a moment, it felt like he might actually say, I was just going to tell my brother our parents didn't die in a car accident. A yellow bus sprung from nowhere and ate them alive.

He took a step back, glass grinding under his shoe. Something moist clung at his scalp where the bottled had knocked into him. Milk? Blood?

Before he could string together an explanation, his feet were carrying him out the door.

…

Michael was home before he could taste the outside air. Two hours' walk just glided by, like he was in another dimension. He'd left his jacket at the diner, where he knew he wouldn't go back for it any more than he'd beg Gary for his old job.

The spray of hot water hit him, too hot, and it was only after a few minutes that he registered he hadn't taken off his clothes.

Blood throbbed at his temples, daylight too bright although it was no more than a streak leaking through the ajar door.

He tried to conjure Sara's face, the taste of mint toothpaste on her breath, the twinkle of the crushed Snickers bar she tucked carefully into her jean pocket.

But the thought was unbearable, shrouded in red.

Michael stepped out of the shower cabin, dripping. The water had done nothing to clear his mind. His jeans felt like they'd been molten to his skin. Before he could think, he started pulling clothes out of his drawers, books, everything that made up his meagre belongings into the backpack he used for school.

Slowly, one distinct thought emerged from the chaos in his head and he knew that he was leaving.

Where to? No idea. Why? He couldn't say exactly, only that if he lingered here one hour more his blood might crawl out of his skin.

He'd lost his only money income when he stormed out of the Hive earlier, so if he didn't find a new job by the end of the month, he couldn't scrape together enough savings to finish high school. That didn't matter. He'd wait until his face shed the evidence of Lincoln's beating, then he'd start anew somewhere else, get hired and wait until he had enough money to graduate. As long as he disappeared from this town—from Sara's life.

A salt-coating wrapped itself around his heart, when he thought of her coming to school Monday morning, and not seeing him next to her in history class.

Part of him must have known he'd set all this into motion when she told him to close his eyes and he let her kiss him, like it was going to make everything all right. He should have known when she told him how she felt that day by the pool. The minute he heard her play Ophelia.

All his life, he had been alone, and it had been fine. His own captain, steering his boat to safety. Then that girl came along and he wanted her like ripe summer cherries, and he wasn't alone anymore and everything terrified him. The waves, the whirlpools and sharks waltzing around him.

He'd escaped that yellow bus, had escaped death when it took his parents, and he had never known that the monster was only waiting for this one girl to press her lips to his and get the machine whirling again, the wheels of tragedy unfolding under his feet.

Maybe he should leave a note, but how could he explain coherently?

I'm sorry. I can't lose you. I don't want to leave but if I don't—

"It'll eat you, too."

A chill went over him. His clothes were still soaking wet, and all his belongings probably damp by now. If he got out like this, he was likely to catch his death.

A laugh tore out of him, so cold he wanted to plug his ears.

What was he doing?

What would Sara think—

He opened the door, and stilled like his entire body had turned to stone.

Fist raised, looking a mess of confusion and bruised pride, his brother stood on the other side of that door.

…

End Notes: OK, I know you've waited long enough for that chapter. Promise you won't wait so long for the next one because I've got it almost finished already. Please let me know what you think in the comment section. Thanks for your patience! Take care