Hey guys! So sorry about the wait. Got caught up in college-y things :) Anyways, this is the last chapter. Thanks for reading!

You spend the whole night in Buck's waiting for news, and you're not quite sure why. You've never been too invested in that Soc/greaser stuff, mostly because it doesn't affect you much. You're poorer than dirt, your momma's never home, and you can't wait to leave Tulsa. If some rich kids like to throw parties across town, it's got nothing to do with you.

Mathews promised he'd let you know how it went. That was a couple days ago, when he'd been all jazzed after their war council meeting with the other side, so he's probably forgotten all about it by now.

With a bruised cheek and cut on his lip, Tim shows up instead. He's high off the fight, and a few of his boys come tumbling in after him. They must've beat the Socs, then, because his gang doesn't fall easy.

You spend a couple minutes watching Tim, he spends a couple watching you, and you half expect to see Dally come through the door and drag you away from his friend. Enemy. Whatever the hell they are.

But Dallas doesn't come, because he had to go do something stupid like burn down a church. You roll your eyes. If he wasn't damned before, he sure is now. Burning down a church sounds like a one-way ticket to eternity with the devil as far as you're concerned.

But you'll probably end up in Hell, too, because you brush up against Tim, put your hands on his chest, and whisper in his ear. "All your bones still intact?"

He looks down at you with that sly Shepard grin. You realize what you've just said, but your face stopped flushing years ago.

"Why you askin'?" he says. Tim doesn't have a lot of time for teases, which is why you'd never work together. Teasing is half the fun, and Dally seemed to agree as long as the payoff was alright.

You raise an eyebrow, digging your nails into his chest through the fabric of his shirt. His muscles are tight underneath your hand, and you can see every one. He's taller than Dally, thinner too, but Dallas's muscles are nothing to write home about, either. He can't afford enough food to look as strong as those Hollywood actors you always see on TV.

Your lips brush against Tim's jaw. "I'm not plannin' on going home tonight. I already got a room."

Yes, you're going to Hell, because less than two minutes later, you take him up the stairs. There's a tiny flutter in your stomach as you walk, but it doesn't belong there. You're broken up with Dally, and even if you weren't, you wouldn't be sorry about this. Neither of you are ever sorry about anything.

XXX

The next morning, you wake up next to Tim. You didn't get drunk the night before, but there's still that brief moment of alarm when you realize Dally isn't the one lying next to you. Still, Tim's not such a bad guy. He might not have the same bad-boy appeal since you already got that out of your system with Dallas, but who cares? He's good-looking, occasionally entertaining, and maybe you'd even date him if your boyfriend wasn't in the picture.

You wonder if you should bother to feel guilty. The guilt will be short-lived anyway because the next time you see Dally, you're sure one of you will start another fight. You'll both find somebody else to tide you over for a few weeks, then you'll get back together just because you feel like it.

Tim's going to feel like shit when he wakes up because, despite what he told you last night, you know he must've taken a few good punches. You saw the bruises forming on his stomach, but you'd been a little too preoccupied to pay them much attention. But either way, he'll be in a bad mood, and you've dealt with enough angry guys to last you a lifetime.

You accidently elbow him in the ribs as you try to untangle yourself from the sheets. He groans a little in his sleep and rolls over. "Whoops," you mutter, though you know he can't hear you. "Sorry."

You get dressed and go downstairs without bothering to hide what you did last night. Everyone who glances at you will know, but they can't say anything worse about you than they already do.

The dirty looks don't come. The catty whispers don't come. Instead, you get at least seven hung-over, awkward apologies. You stand there awhile in confusion, arms hanging limp at your sides, until someone has the sense to hand you a newspaper. Mitch is nice enough to take you over to a stool at the bar so you can sit, too.

"I'm sorry, Syl," Mitch says, leaning against the bar next to you. You should probably thank him for taking care of you better than anybody else does, but you're too busy reading the front page.

You've never been a big fan of cops. They lock your dad up when he gets too rowdy at the bars, then it costs your family money to bail him out. As if your momma needs more stress on her shoulders. But, on that day, you learn what it means to hate them. To really, truly hate them the way Dallas does. Or did. He doesn't feel anything anymore.

You put the paper down on the bar in front of you and wonder why it had to be cops. He spent his whole life trying to prove they couldn't stop him, and the last thing he ever did was give in.

XXX

You find yourself remembering that girl you saw at The Dingo the day you asked Tim if Dally was racing, back when you were fourteen. Tim had called you a kid. You disagreed.

But he was right. You were a kid, because you had no fucking clue what the real world was. It had nothing to do with age.

You'd thought you were so smart, so cynical, and better than all the other dumbasses the hung around the diner. You remember rolling your eyes, thinking how stupid the girl was for crying over some guy. But now, you know what she felt like.

Sort of. Though you can't even call what you're experiencing 'heartbreak.' It's not the right word. No, heartbreak is when you get dumped after a month and now you have to start the whole fucking dating thing over again. But what you're feeling—right then, in that moment, standing in the upstairs hallway at Buck's—isn't even close.

The door at the end of the hallway grabs your attention. You have no idea why it matters, or at least you tell yourself that you don't. You're sure there's some explanation for it, but just before you can figure it out, it slips out of your grasp. Or rather, you push it away before you throw up.

Someone tried to paint the wooden door white at one point, but now it's peeling, and you're liable to get a splinter if you don't know where to push on it. In short, the door is ugly and useless as shit. And it almost makes you cry.

The thought you had just moments before, that glint of pain that you pushed away, resurfaces. This time, it hits you before you can suppress it: Dally won't walk through that door again.

It's a stupid thing to think, because he won't walk on the stained carpet again, either, or on gravel in the parking lot, or anywhere on the fucking earth at all. He's dead, maybe already in the ground for all you know, and that's it. That's the cold, hard truth. The facts, the reality. He's never coming back.

For a second, when all the blood rushes to your head, you wish you didn't have to come back either.

You slouch against the wall and let yourself slide down to sit on the dirty gray carpet. It strange—you don't hear a single noise coming through the paper-thin walls, though you're vaguely aware that there's some Kitty Wells playing on the main floor. Not that it matters. It all seems so far away that it doesn't mean anything. Doesn't register.

As if all on its own, your head dips forward, and your hands move to cover your face. You sit like that for a while—you don't know how long—and nothing happens. You don't cry, don't speak, don't even notice the couples walking past you, piss-drunk. And they don't notice you, pathetically slumped over with your head in your hands. One of them bumps into you and lets out a slurred, "Sorry."

When you don't respond, they leave you there. Just like he left you.

XXX

You didn't know it was possible to drink as much as you have and remain conscious. A lesser person may have already passed out somewhere, but you? You're awake, but too drunk to really enjoy anything because you can barely make your way around the roadhouse. Today, for once, your alcohol tolerance seems like some lousy trick of nature. As if you haven't already had enough of those in your life. You'd rather be unconscious.

Some guy (Ed?) flops down on one of the bar stools next to you. He seems steady and together, but the tiny slur in his voice gives him away. "How's yer beer?"

"Not workin' out too good," you respond, though you still take a drink.

"Sorry ta hear that. Mine's good. Real cool an' shit."

"I didn't ask how yours was."

He looks at you with his eyebrows furled. "You di'nt? Well you shoulda."

This pointless conversation is going nowhere, so you put your elbow up on the bar, rest your chin on your fist, and close your eyes. Maybe you can fall asleep right there if you try. Shit, you're drowsy enough.

You're pretty sure Ed's still talking to you, oblivious to the fact that you're ignoring him, but your ears pick up another voice. "—Better bring money, 'cause Glenn's organizing a tournament for…"

This voice sounds slightly familiar. You can't place it, though, so you don't bother opening your eyes. At least, not until he speaks again.

"I played that son of a bitch in poker, and Winston fuckin' cheated me out of my money," he says. "My fuckin' money. Guess that's what that asshole gets, an' we can all be happy knowin' where he's rottin' right 'bout now."

You clench your fists, ready to beat the shit out of the guy. You don't care if you're a girl, shorter and slimmer than this 200 pound jackass. You don't care that you're a little too drunk to win a fight, even against someone your own size. Hell, you don't even care if you win—so long as you can hurt him.

But it turns out you don't have to touch the red-faced fuck. Tim Shepard does it for you.

XXX

You don't visit Dally's grave. Shit, you don't even go to his funeral. It's too melodramatic, too unnecessary. Too painful.

Instead, every time you miss him, you pick up the nearest drink, and find some lonely place for yourself. And you drink. Drink and drink until you fall asleep, and then when you wake up, you're able to trade in the emotional bullshit to deal with a very real hangover.

Speaking of which…

Groaning, you sit up and swear as your back cracks. You squint around the room cautiously. Apparently you couldn't make it all the way upstairs to your bedroom, but hell. At least you're in your own house. One time a couple weeks ago, you wound up on the Curtis couch, but it wasn't too bad. Dally's old friends were too busy worrying about the sick Horsekid to bother with you.

Dallas always had friends you weren't too fond of. Mathews was alright, and you'd have to be blind to say Sodapop wasn't good-looking, but you already know you're never going to be friends with any of them. As far as you're concerned, that's nothing to be sorry about.

But you give one of them a call, anyway. Probably the one who hates you most of all.

He picks up the phone after a few short rings. You have no clue what you're doing when you say, "Randle?"

His voice drops and turns cold. "This Sylvia?"

"Yeah."

There's a heavy silence, and you can barely stand it. You've worked so hard to avoid the quiet ever since the night Dallas died.

Eventually, Randle says, "What do you want?"

That's a damn good question. What do you want? "I dunno."

You hear him sigh, and he says, "I'm gonna be late for work."

You can practically hear the phone moving closer to the receiver, but just before it clicks off, you find your voice. "Were you there?"

"Where?"

"On that street? The paper said the cops had to deal with some friends of his."

Another pause, even worse than the first. Then, "Yeah, I was there." He raises his voice, suddenly angry. "And where were you?"

You're so surprised by the question that an honest answer slips out. "Fucking Tim Shepard."

"Yeah, I heard."

He hangs up. It's a long time before you do the same.

XXX

Buck tells you he needs to rent out Dally's room, and he's sorry, but if you can't get your shit out of there by the end of the week, he'll have to throw it out. You nearly claw him across the face, but he gets back in his little red car before you get the chance.

When you go back to Buck's, up the familiar staircase and into the room you've spent so many nights in, you aren't expecting to find everything the way it was the last time you were inside. But apparently no one else had the guts to go through a dead kid's clothes and empty bottles and cigarette packs.

First thing you do is light one up. From his pack, with his lighter, on his goddamn bed. You think about dropping the burning thing onto the sheets just to see if they'll catch fire.

Kneeling on the ground in his room, you shuffle through his drawers, cough on the dust, and wonder what the hell he was keeping an broken old radio for. At the bottom of the top drawer, under a few pairs of socks with holes in them, you find your ring. Or his ring? Nobody's ring, actually, except some drunk senior he stole it from. He'd been so proud of that, too.

You pinch it between your index finger and your thumb and wonder why he bothered keeping that, too. You don't have any good answer, but you do the same dumb thing he did: You pocket it and decide to carry it around with you for a while.

But, unlike him, you're not brave enough to put it back on your finger. It'd probably get stuck or some shit like that, and you're already crying hard enough as it is.

You gather up a few pairs of your panties, a dress he'd slid off of you on your birthday, and take a nice, expensive lighter for good measure. He must have bought it after you cheated on him because you would've remembered seeing such a pretty blue lighter.

Before long, you beat it the hell out of there.

Buck can have whatever he wants from that room because none of it means anything to you now. You wander around Tulsa without any place to be, and sooner than you'd like, you find yourself back at home. It's dusk, with the sun just beginning to set, and there's a cool breeze that occasionally brushes your face.

Sitting on the steps of your front porch, you numbly stare out across the yard with its weeds and brown grass that's too damn tall. A few words slip past your lips, in more of a monotone than you've ever used before.

Once you've said them, you wish the sentence had more of a bite to it, so it could sound like the way you used to talk when Dally was alive. But your speech is slow coming, and there ain't shit you can do about it.

You give your first real apology when you're seventeen. "I'm sorry I ever met you."