Glad to be getting this one up a bit sooner than the last one! Hope you guys like it and please please review! It's quite a bit longer than the last couple of chapters. And thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! You can message me here or on my tumblr anonymously if you have any questions or want to harass me :)


For all these years, you've lived under the illusion that, somehow, you made it because you were tough enough to overpower the abuse, the hatred, the hard knocks of life. But really you made it because love is so powerful that tiny little doses of it are enough to overcome the pain of the worst things life can dish out. — Rachel Reiland


Chapter 13: I Forgive You

I forgive you, I forgive me
Now, when do I start to feel again?


When Kendall walks in to yet another message on the answering machine from his father, he starts to think that maybe he's ignored him long enough. At the sound of the beep signaling the end of the message, Kendall hesitates before deleting it. He first scribbles down the number on a post-it note and shoves it into his pocket for later, then listens to the message one more time. Really listens to the way his father sounds nervous and kind of sad, like maybe he's starting to give up hope that his kids will ever speak to him again. Not that he deserves it, Kendall thinks defiantly.

Finally, he does delete it, though, patting his pocket and going upstairs to his room, where he plops down onto his bed and stares at the ceiling for awhile. He thinks of calling Logan to talk this out, but remembers how touchy he got the last time Kendall tried to talk about his dad and decides against it. He could always talk to Jo, but she's been so consumed with giving her deposition to the lawyers and going over her case for Jett's trial that Kendall doesn't want to burden her with this just yet. At least, not until after the Jett Stetson thing is over and done with and he's in jail.

After who knows how long of Kendall going back and forth in his head and staring at the phone number scrawled in his long, messy writing, he hears Katie come in through the front door, having been dropped off by her ride. He puts the number back in his pocket and makes to go downstairs to greet his sister, but before he can get up, she's barging into his room without knocking or anything.

"Katie!" Kendall frowns. "You can't just come in here whenever you feel like it!"

"I'm sorry, did you need some alone time?"

"What? No! What are you-? You know what, never mind. I don't want to know how you thought to ask me that question." The boy shudders lightly, growing uncomfortable at the small smirk his sister's giving him.

"You really should password-protect your computer, big bro," Katie says, her smile widening. "You never know when your poor, innocent sister might need to borrow it for project. Just think what she might accidentally stumble upon while her brother, who she idolizes, is away for the weekend…"

"Ughhh, Katie!"

Katie only grins as Kendall's face grows red and he sputters incoherently about doing research for health and anatomy and demon sisters sent to destroy the planet.

"Don't worry, big brother. I'm in sixth grade; nothing can shock me. Just, in the future, if you could at least put your stuff in a folder that's not immediately visible, I would appreciate that."

"Deal," Kendall agrees quickly. "If you promise to start knocking before you come in here. And asking before you use my computer!"

"Fine, fine. Anyway, I came in here to tell you that mom's not working late tonight and I think we should make dinner for her."

"How considerate of you."

"Come onnnn," she prods him until he gets up and goes down to the kitchen with her.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that she caught you playing online poker again, would it?" Kendall asks shrewdly.

"What?" Katie says with feigned innocence. "Can't I, a loving and thoughtful daughter, suggest to my responsible and caring older brother that we do something nice for mom without my motives being questioned?"

"No," scoffs her brother. "Especially when it's this close to your birthday."

"Your lack of faith in me stings."

"Whatever. So what are we making?"

"Spaghetti," Katie replies. "All we have to do is make the noodles and warm up the Prego sauce. Easy."

"Of course it sounds easy," Kendall rolls his eyes. "Since you're not allowed to use the stove and I'll have to do everything."

Katie sticks her tongue out at Kendall and goes to the pantry to retrieve the necessary items, handing them over with a grin. Kendall ruffles her hair and takes out the pots and pans he'll need, not letting her see that he's smiling, too.

Mrs. Knight is pleasantly surprised to find the table set and her kids sitting quietly together in the living room when she arrives home from a long shift at the restaurant. Kendall thinks she might cry from emotion, so he's pretty pleased with himself (and his sister) for saving his mom at least one night of having to worry about them.

After dinner is finished and the table is clear and the dishes are washed and put away, Kendall shuts himself back in his room, again looking at the number written on the scrap of paper in his pocket. He pulls out his cell phone and types the number in, but doesn't yet push the button to connect the call; he still isn't sure he's ready for this. But he thinks of Logan, whose own dad won't even put forth this much effort to understand the son he actually lives with, and he thinks of James, who reluctantly spends every weekend with his dad, who is too wrapped up in his hot new wife to pay much attention to James.

So, taking a deep breath and letting it out with a whoosh, Kendall connects the call and listens to the phone ring once, twice, three times…

"Hello?"

Kendall freezes. He didn't plan what he was going to say, he has no idea what to talk about. He wanted to yell at Mark Knight, to make him feel bad for walking out on his family, for not giving a damn for the last half a year when Kendall was in the hospital and in therapy, for missing Katie's elementary school graduation. But all of that seems to flee his mind now that he's here.

"Kendall?"

"H-Hi, Dad." Kendall clears his throat to shake off the quaver in his voice. This was stupid. He wants to hang up.

"Thank you for calling, son."

"Uhh… yeah. Sure. You're welcome."

"Have you and Katie been getting my messages?"

"I have," Kendall tells him. "Katie only knows about the very first one."

"I see… Is—is she-?"

"She's not here. She doesn't know I'm calling. Neither does Mom," he adds in.

"Okay. Okay. I, um, I just wanted to—to apologize for not…"

"For not checking in on me at all?" Kendall interrupts, his anger coming back. "For not coming to see me once after I was in the hospital? For not calling me this whole time that I've been spending my weekends in therapy?"

"Kendall—"

"It's fine, Dad." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, wanting to hang up the phone. Instead, he sits there, seething in silence.

"I didn't think you wanted to hear it from me, son. I thought you'd be better off without me complicating things further. I was wrong, obviously, and I am truly sorry for that. I just didn't think you needed anything from me."

"I didn't need anything from you," Kendall says. "What I needed was for you to care about me."

"Son, I—"

Mr. Knight pauses and Kendall can hear the emotion in his voice and as suddenly as it flared up, his anger dissipates.

"It's okay, Dad."

"No, it isn't. I should have—"

"No. Really. It's okay. I'm okay," Kendall hears himself say. And he's surprised to find that he means it.

"Do you want—can you tell me about it?"

And so, he does. Kendall stays on the phone with his dad for nearly an hour, talking about the beginning of senior year and drinking too much and getting kicked off the hockey team. He talks about getting his stomach pumped at the hospital and how Katie got him to go to therapy, and he tells Mr. Knight about Logan and the boys, and about Jo, and about how well Katie's doing in school.

When he's done, he feels a sense of relief flood through him, a lightness inside him that he hasn't felt in a long time. He hangs up the phone, promising to call again in a few days, not without noting the nagging in the back of his head that he needs to tell Logan he was right. All he had to do was give his dad a chance. This could be good. Better, even. This could be great. Sure, he's definitely old enough to know that his parents will never get back together and Mr. Knight won't magically come home and rejoin the family, but he still wants to be part of their lives. All Kendall had to do was let him.


"You know how I hate to say 'I told you so,'" Logan grins at lunch the next day. "But…"

"Just say it," Kendall throws a French fry at the boy across from him, who picks it off his sleeve and eats it casually, ignoring how Camille wrinkles her nose at the unsanitary action.

"Well, I did tell you so," Logan says smugly.

"Right, right. All hail Hortence, resident genius extraordinaire!"

"All hail Hortence!" Everyone at the table says this loudly, causing several people nearby to look over at them and Logan to hang his head, cheeks reddening.

"Don't call me that!"


Kendall's good mood carries him through the next day, enough that on Tuesday night, with his mom working the night shift at diner, and Katie spending the night at a friend's house, he decides to invite Jo over for a dinner-date type evening.

Things have been so good between them that sometimes he forgets that they're supposed to be crazy. At least, that's how everyone at school sees them. Alcoholic Kendall and Jo Taylor, girl of zero words, two former popular kids who would have ruled the school had it not been for the fact that they met in therapy. Kendall, with his jock status, and Jo, a cheerleader, both blond and All-American and picture-perfect.

But the way other people see him has never mattered to Kendall. Not since going into therapy, at least. Not since a very public breakdown sent him to the hospital and he was forced, finally, to take a long look in the mirror and realize that he needed to stop living for everyone else—for the hockey team, for his coaches, teachers, and yes, even his mom and Katie.

And then there's Jo, of course. Bubbly little Jo who suddenly went silent and is just now beginning to find her voice again. He prefers this new Jo to the one he first knew in therapy. The girl who doesn't look terrified when any male approaches, who doesn't flinch away from physical contact, who isn't afraid to argue with him and tell him when he's being a pain in the ass—which he is, he knows. But usually it's for the simple pleasure of having Jo tell him off.

After they enjoy a romantic dinner of Chinese takeout (because, hey, he's a teenage boy, not a five star chef), Kendall and Jo settle into the living room to watch some old DVD they've both seen a dozen times. Kendall grins when Jo recites her favorite parts along with the DVD. She doesn't even realize she's doing it until Kendall joins in and recites the next line.

He's forcefully reminded of Katie when she sticks her tongue out at him and he bites back a laugh; soon however, all thoughts of his sister flee from his mind because Jo's tilting her head up and he's leaning down towards her and their eyes are falling closed as their lips and tongues move against each other.

Teenage hormones racing through his system, he doesn't notice the way Jo's body stiffens up when he presses his chest against hers.

Meanwhile, Jo allows him to lay her down on the couch, kissing her neck and her collarbone and every so often moving back up to her mouth, which she fights to control to keep silent. She keeps her eyes closed and though she wants to stop him, to scream, to claw at him and push him off, she has to remind herself that it's Kendall. It's Kendall, her boyfriend—her patient, caring boyfriend who doesn't deserve to be treated like someone she's scared of. He's not Jett. He's not Jett. He's not Jett.

Kendall knows, somewhere in the deepest, farthest back part of his mind, that he's probably pushing his luck right now, but he's a boy after all, and things are getting away from him and he likes the feel of her beneath him and there's blood kind of rushing from his brain to his groin, causing him to lose all common sense, which he hopes she doesn't notice, because Jesus, this feels good and he isn't ready to stop yet.

He's not Jett. He's not Jett. He's not Jett.

And suddenly, he is Jett. He's Jett and she's trapped beneath him and she can feel his hardness against her thigh and his hand slipped under her shirt and this is too far, way too far, and she needs out.

"Stop, stop, stop! Get away from me!" It comes out as a kind of hysterical shriek and Jo instinctively raises a knee to Kendall's crotch in order to get him off her, not realizing that he had frozen from the moment she first said 'stop.'

Kendall lets out a noise somewhere between a groan and a hiss of pain as he curls up on the floor, paralyzed from Jo's well-aimed knee.

It's that noise that snaps Jo back into the present. "Oh God, oh God, oh God, Kendall I am so sorry! I don't know what happened, I just panicked, and oh my God, are you okay?"

Kendall continues to lie on the floor, gritting his teeth, barely hearing her words because of the pain he's currently experiencing.

"'M fine," he mumbles, looking anything but.

"No, no you're not, oh God, I'm sorry," Jo says frantically. "Here—"

She goes to help him up and guides him back to the couch, stammering apologies.

"Jo! Stop. It's fine. It's not your fault; I got carried away."

"No, it is, I shouldn't have—I just—I thought—"

"You thought I was him," Kendall finishes for her quietly and though he tries his best, he can't quite hide the look of hurt on his face.

"I'm sorry," Jo whispers miserably. "I don't—I wanted—"

"You don't have to explain," he says soothingly, taking her hand. He's relieved when she doesn't pull away. "Look, I'm sorry too, okay? I should have stayed in control of myself. This isn't your fault; it's mine."

"No, it's… This is stupid," she sighs. "I don't want to be afraid of you."

"It's not stupid. And you know you don't have to be. But you can't control how you feel, Jo," Kendall tells her. "You just… feel it. Until you're ready to let it go."

"It won't always be like this," she says determinedly. "Once this stupid trial is over and I put all of this behind me."


Logan wonders how long it will take his dad to notice that he's being given the silent treatment.

It's been five days, and the tactic doesn't seem to be working. Mr. Mitchell seems determined to remain oblivious to his son's mood, which grows worse by the day. He is stoic and steadfast, never acknowledging Logan's huffs of indignation or sighs of melancholy or pointed glares in his direction.

Against his better judgment, Logan has been further torturing himself by reading message boards and facebook posts from fellow students who he should be studying with in the fall, with a hot bubble of jealousy and anger and sadness boiling inside him as they talk about their excitement for the upcoming semester and wonder about roommate assignments and registering for classes.

It's not fair, he thinks. I should be there.

He doesn't care that he's acting like a typical moody teenager. He doesn't care that his parents think they're doing what's best for him: they don't even know him. They haven't seen him for who he really is in a long time, and nothing he does is going to make them understand that.

Logan looks down at the scars on his arms that remind him every single day of what a failure he is. How he fails to impress his parents, he fails to make them listen to him…

He even failed at dying.

He doesn't want to think it, but he can't help it. It's times like these when he has to remember to breathe, to let those kinds of thoughts pass because if he dwells on them… well, it's probably best not to find out what would happen he allows himself to sink too far down. He's been there before and that was how he ended up with those scars in the first place.

And no matter what he says out loud, he knows, in the farthest back corners of his mind that it's still an option. It's an idea that sits there constantly, and the rough pleasure of knowing that the reason he lives now is by choice, not by accident, is exactly the same as running his tongue over the bittersweet terrain of a sour candy tucked in the back of his mouth.

He doesn't want to die.

But sometimes, he wants to not feel.


"You really think you'd like that?"

"Yeah!" Kendall says enthusiastically. "It'll be great, Dad."

"Fantastic. Listen, I have to go, but I'll check in again soon and we can get some of the details squared away."

"Okay. Talk to you soon."

"Bye, son."

Kendall hangs up the phone with a grin that quickly slides off his face when he realizes what he's just agreed to and what Katie and his mom will say about it.

Biting his lip, he frowns and thinks hard about how to break the news to them. He should probably start by telling his mom that he'd been speaking to his father. That things were actually good between them now.

That he'd been invited to spend spring break with him in Vermont.

His mom might be understanding, but if he knew Katie—and he did—she wouldn't like it. She wouldn't get how Kendall could forgive the man who abandoned them to start a new life with someone else.

She doesn't have to get it, Kendall thinks.

So at dinner that night, when Mrs. Knight asks Kendall how his day was, he continues chewing his food slowly, not answering right away. When she and Katie look over at him expectantly, waiting for his reply, he swallows and takes a drink of water and puts his fork down.

"Well," he clears his throat. "I, uh… I talked to Dad today."

"What?" Katie drops her own fork onto her plate with a loud clatter.

"Honey, you talked to your father? Did he call you? What happened?"

"He first called a few weeks ago…"

Kendall tells his mother about how he spent weeks deleting the messages on the answering machine, refusing to acknowledge his dad's newfound persistence in getting in touch with him. Katie looks mutinous as Kendall talks about how he finally relented and called back, how he finally stopped feeling so angry at Mr. Knight, and how he thinks he might be able to really forgive him and have a real relationship again.

"That's wonderful, sweetie," says Mrs. Knight. "Forgiveness takes such strength of character."

"There's one more thing," Kendall says hesitantly. "Today, when we talked… he invited me out to visit him. In Vermont. For spring break. And, um, well… I told him I would go, if it was okay with you."

"Do you really think that's something you want to do?"

"Well… yeah. I just—I think if I don't go, I'll always wonder if maybe I made a mistake by not going."

"If this is something you really want, I won't stop you, Kendall. But I do think you should make sure you aren't rushing into anything. Make sure you make your decision for you. Not for him."

Katie abruptly pushes her chair back from the table and takes her plate to the sink, stomping up the stairs to her room and slamming the door. Mrs. Knight closes her eyes and rubs her temples tiredly, moving to follow Katie so she can try to get her to cool off.

"Let me," Kendall stops his mom. "I'll talk to her."

Katie ignores him when he knocks on her door, so like any good sibling, Kendall walks in anyway.

"Katie."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Don't you think we should?"

"Why? It's not like what I say matters. You'll just do what you want."

"That's not fair. You know I care about what you think."

Katie looks at him for the first time. "Why didn't you tell me you were talking to him? Why didn't you even tell me he was still calling?"

"I don't know," Kendall sighs, sitting down beside her on the bed. "I guess I… I didn't want to get your hopes up."

"What do you mean?"

"In case things didn't go well."

Katie falls silent, not knowing what else to say. Kendall sits with her for awhile until she figures out how to ask the question on her mind.

"How?"

Kendall frowns. "How..?"

"How can you forgive him? He abandoned us, Ken, when we needed him! He just… gave up on us and left! How can you want to see him again after all that? How you can you stand it, without wanting to yell at him and tell him that he ruined our family?"

"It's not that black and white, Kates."

"It is for me." Katie crosses her arms as if to punctuate her statement.

"Look… I'm gonna tell you something that no one else knows, okay?" Kendall nudges his sister to get her to pay attention to him. He can see that her curiosity is struggling with the desire to remain angry.

Curiosity wins.

"Fine. What?"

"One of the things my therapist told me was important about recovery is learning to accept mistakes."

"Is this like a twelve-step thing?"

"Kind of," he half smiles. "It's just that what I've been learning, that I didn't know before, is that just because you want something, that doesn't make it so. You know that saying, good things come to those who wait?" Katie nods. "My therapist told me that's crap. He told me good things happen when you work for them… So in order for me to get better, I have to accept the fact that I made mistakes, that I hurt not just myself but my family and friends too, and if I really want to change I have to make a conscious effort to be different."

"But I don't—"

"Part of the reason I got so bad," he cuts her off, "is that I was letting myself hold on to all that anger for too long. I let myself blame Dad for everything because it made me feel justified in screwing up my life. People would look at me and know I was a fuck-up, but they'd also know why. And as long as I didn't have to take any responsibility for the fact that I was getting out of control, I didn't have to change."

Kendall looks down at Katie for the first time since starting his monologue, almost afraid of her reaction to it. He knows that she knows what was wrong with him, but he had wanted to shield her from the all the dirty details—she's too young to have to deal with this, he would tell himself, I should be protecting her. But Katie's always been too smart and too mature for her own good. She's seen and heard things in eleven years that she never should have had to.

"The reason I want to try to forgive him isn't because he deserves it," he says quietly. "I'm not as selfless as you're making me out to be. I need to forgive him because I can't move on until I at least try. Can you understand that?"

Katie swallows and nods, wrapping her thin arms around her brother and leaning her head on his shoulder. "I can."


Logan feels a slight touch of guilt for the fact that his mother is trying valiantly to get him and his father to speak to each other, to no avail. But he also feels a vindictive pleasure in being the one to do the ignoring this time. Years of them being too busy or simply too disinterested in what he had to say are manifesting now, and it finally—finally—seems to be making an impression on at least one of his parents.

"How was your day, Phillip?" Mrs. Mitchell asks, bravely attempting to start a conversation at the dinner table.

As Mr. Mitchell talks, Logan stares moodily down at his plate, having no appetite and no desire to sit here and listen to small talk.

"Can I be excused?" He mutters, already halfway out of his chair.

"You may not," says Mr. Mitchell with a stony expression.

Logan has to bite his tongue to keep the retort that springs to his mouth inside. He sits back down with a defiant look.

"Look, son, this has gone on long enough," his dad tells him. "We've let you stomp around and get your aggression out over this, but it's time to move on. There are plenty of colleges in the city for you to choose from, and it's about time you stopped moping and started making some reasonable decisions about next year."

"I already made a decision!" Logan argues, abandoning his silent routine. "I had a plan! You're the one who ruined it!"

"We have been over this, Logan. You know very well why we can't let you go."

"No, I don't."

"Listen—"

"No, Dad! I dealt with my problem! It's in the past now and you treating me like a piece of glass isn't going to make any difference if I'm stuck here again next year! This isn't fair."

"I know that it's hard to understand—"

"You know what I think?" Logan interrupts, a sudden fury rising in his chest. "You think if you let me out of your sight again I'll try to kill myself, and I won't have anyone there to come home and save me. So instead you just want to trap me here and make sure you never have to suffer the embarrassment of having people know your son committed suicide."

"Logan—" his mother gasps as he stands abruptly.

"You'd think after seventeen years of disappointment, I'd be used to it by now."

He slams the door to his room, liking the crash that echoes in his ears. A rage such as Logan has never felt before courses through him. Pushed beyond his breaking point, he feels like he could snap at the tiniest thing. So when his phone beeps and a reminder flashes on the screen that it's time to take his nightly dose of anti-depressant medication, he throws it against a wall with all his might, not sorry at all that the resulting collision shatters the screen and causes it to go black. Still fuming, he goes into his bathroom to reach for the medication, uncapping the lid with more trouble than usual due to his shaky hands and frustrated state. When it finally pops open, a few of the pills sprawl across the countertop and Logan, losing all ability to think rationally, sweeps them into the toilet, dumping the rest of the pills out along with them, watching them all sink to the bottom and flushing the handle.

Breathing deeply, he throws the empty bottle into his trashcan.


"James," Kendall rolls his eyes, "that's a goalie's mask."

"You might be fine with a black eye here and there, but my mother with throw a shit fit if anything happens to my face, Kendall." He straps the helmet in place and pats himself down, checking that all his pads are securely in place.

"You alright, Loges?" Carlos calls over to Logan, who is stepping hesitantly onto the ice, helmet and stick in hand.

"Fine," Logan says, stifling a yawn. "It's just.. I've never really played hockey before. Not since like pee-wee."

"This is Minnesota," Kendall exclaims incredulously. "How can you have never played hockey?"

"I was always busy with school stuff, I guess," Logan shrugs. "My friends weren't exactly the jock-types."

"But you can skate, right?" Carlos asks.

"This is Minnesota," Logan scoffs. "Of course I can skate. I can probably beat any one of you in a race," he says, grinning confidently for the first time since the boys agreed to come out with Kendall.

"Good," the blond boy declares. "So Logan, you'll be on my team, and Carlos you can be on pretty-boy James' team. First to ten wins."

"Shove it, Knight," James yells from the other side of the rink, where he laces up his skates. "Hope you're ready to get your ass kicked!"

"Why, you got game, Diamond?"

"Oh, I've got game." James glides over easily with an air of that old Diamond swagger that the boys haven't seen from him in a while. "Bring it on."

The boys head out to the center of ice, Kendall facing off against James.

"On three. One—two—three!"

Both sticks hit the ice at the same time but Kendall prevails, passing the puck deftly to Logan who seems not to know what to do for a second. Carlos takes off towards him and when Kendall yells "Logan, GO!" he rockets off like a bullet. He hadn't been lying, he was fast. Guiding the puck with his stick, Logan races towards Carlos and James' goal, but focusing on keeping the small object in front of him makes him forget to be aware of his surroundings and James comes out of nowhere, cutting him off abruptly and stealing the puck while Logan struggles to stay on his feet and not crash into the nearby wall.

James is nearly is fast as Logan, and he's already halfway to the opposite goal when the shorter boy looks up. Kendall is all that stands between them, two-on-one, and James fakes left before passing to Carlos, who shoots the goal and scores. The two boys let out whoops of celebration while Kendall retrieves the puck, his eyes narrowed.

"Alright, so you've got some game," he calls. "That just means no more going easy on you."

This time Logan faces off against Carlos, and Carlos succeeds in getting the puck to James, but almost as if Kendall can read his mind, he steals it before James can even contemplate his next move. Logan races ahead, braking suddenly when Carlos tries to block him, so that Carlos is forced to make a wide turn, leaving Logan wide open for a split second. Kendall, anticipating this, passes to Logan at just the right time, and he scores his own goal, high-fiving Kendall with a grin.

The game goes furiously on, back and forth, all four boys taking verbal digs at each other and playfully knocking each other into walls in attempt to gain the upper hand. In the end, though, Kendall's years of playing experience coupled with Logan's speed prevail 10-7 over James and Carlos, who after all is said and done, do put up a pretty good fight.

"Good game, gentlemen," Kendall says, exhaustedly, sitting down on a bench outside the rink and unstrapping his helmet. "I'd put any one of you on my team."

"Ah, shut up," Carlos grins good-naturedly. "You can't beat us and then be nice about it!"

"Yeah, besides, we'll get you next time," James says.

Logan smiles to himself, listening to their banter and rubbing his eyes tiredly. As they leave the rink, all four boys stop short, noticing Lucy sitting nearby.

"How long have you been there?" Kendall asks.

"Long enough to watch you and Logan kill these two," she replies with a smirk in James and Carlos' direction.

"Good, so you saw the most important part—the part where I won."

"Ahem," Logan coughs.

"We," Kendall corrects himself. "The part where we won."

"Gee, thanks."

"No problem," Kendall ignores Logan's sarcasm. "Now I'd love to stay and chat, but I've gotta get home and relieve the babysitter of the nightmare that is looking after my dear sister. See you guys."

"Bye."

Logan likewise heads for home, looking over his shoulder as Lucy stands in front of James and Carlos.

Lucy watches until both boys disappear around the corner before turning back to the two before her. Neither one says anything, both waiting for her to let them know why she came. She can feel their questions burning into her. Who is she here to see?

Who does she choose?

She glances at James with an apologetic look on her face before looking back at Carlos, who stares back silently. He doesn't want to, but he understands. James blinks rapidly a few times, waiting for her to say something—anything—that will justify her choice, why she would choose Carlos over him. But this wasn't a competition, he reminds himself. This was never about me vs. him. So rather than make her say it, he gives her an out.

"Right, well, I've gotta get home too. My stepmom wants us to try and bond or something," he makes up the first excuse he can think of. I'll, um, see you guys at school."

He claps Carlos on the shoulder, his own form of silent congratulation, and walks away from them with shallow breath and a pang in his chest that is much larger than he would care to admit at the moment. He's not exactly sure what he was expecting. What? That he and Lucy had some sort of connection just because he drove her home from a party one time? Because she kissed him outside her doorstep? Because they'd had what he considered to be pretty amazing sex, several times, at his house?

Or because he asked her to talk to him if she felt like hurting herself? Or better yet… because she actually did talk to him?

I was stupid, James thinks, to believe we had a real chance at something. She and Carlos… they fit. They have a history together.

But we could have a future, says that nagging voice in his head.

He glances back one last time, just in time to see Carlos enveloping Lucy in a tight hug. He was stupid to have thought this could happen and nothing would change between him and Carlos. A small surge of anger washes through him, but it's nothing like before. He doesn't feel suddenly blinded by rage like he used to, he doesn't feel like snapping. It's not even anger directed at Carlos, or at Lucy. It's anger at himself. Why wasn't he enough for her?

What he does feel, though, is lost because no matter what he and Carlos agreed on, he's not sure how he can see the two of them together and still be friends with both of them. The two people he'd do anything for, the two people he'd die to make happy… the only two people whose happiness might actually kill him.

But somehow, he has a feeling that this isn't the end of it.


"Lucy—"

"Don't ask."

"But I thought—"

"Carlos, seriously. Don't ask. Either keep going or get off me."

He does contemplate it, for a brief moment. Maybe he'll surprise her and just say no, not tonight. Not right now. But her hands are running down his chest, lower and lower to his belt buckle, and she looks so sexy when she licks her lips like that, and he wants to stop and make her talk to him, but she's too good and he's too weak, and who knows when he'll ever get this chance again because it's not every day that he has the whole house to himself.

He can ask her about the new cuts later, right? There's no point in trying to make her talk about something that she's not ready for. She chose him for a reason, after all.

So he gives in and lets her remove his shirt and his jeans, laying back and watching while she strips her own clothes off and lets them pile at the foot of his bed.

"Will they be out long?" She asks, unclasping her bra and dropping it to the floor.

Carlos pulls her towards him, nuzzling her neck. "Few hours," he murmurs. "They're at my brother's academic decathlon thing."

"Good."

Lucy kisses him deeply, slipping her tongue past his parted lips as both of them let their eyes drift shut. Carlos snakes his arm around her lower back, holding her against him as the friction and heat build between them. He continues to press kisses down her neck, biting down and sucking on one side, marking her as his while his hands roam her body. She inhales sharply when his mouth moves lower, leaving a hot trail down her chest and stomach, not noticing how he frowns when he sees the scars littered over her. He could have sworn there weren't that many before…

Lucy lifts her hips slightly when he hooks his finger beneath the band of her underwear, allowing him to slip them off so that his fingers can work their way into the slick folds of skin, panting and writhing against him when he finds her clit and rubs circles around it. Her eyes stay clenched tightly as small whimpers of pleasure escape her throat in short bursts. "Hnnngh… right there," she moans. "God, yes."

The lust in her voice makes him ache with need for her, but he continues applying the sweet pressure to sensitive bud between her legs, coating his fingers with the warm wetness that gathers there. He picks up his speed, reaching up with his other hand to palm her breasts, trying to touch every part of her that he can. "Fuck, Carlos."

"Come on," he growls. "So close, baby."

Lucy's body feels alight with fire as Carlos works his fingers and she grips his hair tightly, legs shaking as the need for release begins to overtake her. She pushes up to meet him and with a noise somewhere between a groan and a yelp, Lucy's body stiffens and then stills as an orgasm wracks through her. She's still breathing heavily when Carlos kisses her again, her chest rising and falling as she tries to regain a steady heartbeat. But soon Carlos is grinding against her leg and massaging her breasts, and she can feel his arousal pressed against her, and that burning sensation in the pit of her stomach kindles again.

Carlos reaches into his bedside table, blindly groping around for the small box of condoms that he keeps there, finally locating one and ripping off the foil while Lucy pulls his boxers down and discards them. He loses focus for a moment when her hand wraps around him, but he mentally shakes himself and rolls the thin piece of rubber down his length. Lucy's hands go to his shoulders and hold him in place so she can ease herself on top of him, moving lower and lower until he's buried deep inside her. She moves slowly at first, rolling her hips down on his to build up a steady rhythm, gasping when he pushes up hard, hitting a new spot inside her.

He lets out a grunt when Lucy leaves a scratch down his chest, more out of surprise than actual pain. He feels the friction heating up between them—they're not moving so slowly anymore and things are getting rougher. Lucy's fingernails leave indentations in the skin near his collarbone and he thinks he might be gripping her waist hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, but it doesn't matter because he's sweaty and hot and breathing shallowly and his heart is about to beat out of his chest, and his toes are curled from the effort of holding himself back.

Lucy gasps his name again and he pulls her down to kiss her forcefully, feeling her walls constrict around him and shudder run through her body as she comes again, sending a deep vibration through him as well so that he finally lets go, the release he's been desperate for shooting through him violently. She slumps down on top of him, exhausted, letting him graze his fingertips over her back soothingly.

Finally she scoots off of him and when Carlos looks down at her, she smiles, but he doesn't miss how the smile never quite reaches her eyes.


"Try to get some rest, okay? You've been looking terrible this week," Camille teases.

"I'll keep that in mind," Logan says sarcastically. "See you tomorrow."

"Okay. Good night."

"Night."

Logan puts the cordless phone down, angry with himself for having broken his cell. Camille's voice rings in his head… He supposes he has been looking pretty terrible. He does a brief count in his head and calculates that he's probably slept about ten hours total since the big fight with his parents. He's replayed it in his head every night, hoping that somehow it would turn out different and knowing that it would be no use.

He's been so tired this week, but yet every night when he would get in to bed, he'd be unable to fall asleep, or else drift into a fitful, uneasy rest from which he would wake often. It had been bad enough to affect his studies this week. And bad enough for Camille to notice and say something.

Not tonight, though, he thinks, reaching into his bag. He pulls out a small container of over-the-counter sleeping-aid pills, determined to get a whole night's sleep tonight.

After he brushes his teeth, he crawls into bed and uncaps his bottle, bought surreptitiously from a drugstore earlier this afternoon. Logan pops two of the small pills and swallows them, closing his eyes and hoping for peace to overtake him.

It doesn't.

An hour later, he still feels as wide awake as ever, continuing to toss and turn and punch his pillow in hopes that he'll be able to find a comfortable position. Nothing works, so in desperation, Logan gropes for the bottle beside him and fishes out two more pills, not daring to think about what he'll do if this doesn't work.

Another forty minutes go by and Logan's starting to get frantic. He feels too hot, and then too cold; he's sweaty and chilly at the same time, and the weird part is that he wants to be asleep, his eyes want to droop shut, his body is physically spent. But it's his brain that won't shut off. He can't stop his mind from wandering, to think about college, to his parents, to Camille, to his friends, to therapy, to the girl who jumped off the roof of the Palm Woods, and back around to school and college again. An endless loop of things he wishes he could change or do better or be better, and the more he thinks about them… the more he thinks about them.

He's beginning to wonder if he'll ever sleep again when he absentmindedly swallows two more pills.

And then two more.

And two more after that.

Something's gotta be wrong…

This is not normal…

I just want to sleep.

And two more.

Later, when he looked back on it, Logan could never be sure if his foggy thoughts and the images drifting in and out of his head ever really blended into actual dreams, but he would suppose that at some point they must have, because the only other clear thing he would remember is being violently shaken awake by his mother the next morning.

"Logan? Logan! Answer me!"

He can vaguely hear someone or something nearby, but it's as if he's underwater, fluid filling his ears and blocking out most everything. His eyes refuse to open.

"Phillip! Call 911!"

But I'm fine… Just wanted to sleep.

"The pills, Phillip! The pills! Do something!"

Logan's brain continues to refuse to clue the rest of his body in to the fact that something isn't right. He can hear his mother screeching in the background, feel her hands on his face and shoulders, shaking him at first and then slapping him in desperation and despair, thinking maybe this time, she got there too late.

Finally, finally, something clicks together and Logan is able to open his eyes. His mother isn't looking at him, perhaps unable to do so, because she seems to be sobbing into his father's shirt. Logan wants to say something, to get her attention, but he's unable. Everything is groggy and blurry and he's seeing without really seeing, unable to form coherent thoughts. He blinks once and lets his eyes fall closed again… he's so tired…

He must have twitched, or else Mrs. Mitchell happened to glance down at the exact right moment, because her hands fly to his face again, smoothing hair back from his forehead and caressing his cheek.

"Logan? Logan, can you hear me? You're going to be fine, sweetie, okay? I need you to hold on for me."

He doesn't respond—he can't—but he blinks again, and Mrs. Mitchell takes this to mean that he understands, which is probably more out of need to be understood than the actual reality of the situation, which is that Logan still really has no idea what's happening, other than that he thinks he's half awake. Or is it half asleep? Are they actually the same thing?

In the time it takes for the ambulance to arrive, some semblance of alertness begins to return him and he becomes aware of his chest rising and falling, of his mother gripping his hand tightly in both of hers, of the extreme heaviness of his eyes, of the dryness in his mouth. The paramedics hover over him, shining a light in his eyes, listening to his heartbeat, taking his blood pressure, as he doesn't seem to be in any immediate danger now that they're sure he really is alive.

"Do you have any idea why he would do this?" He hears someone ask.

His mother shakes her head tearfully and looks down at him on the stretcher. "Logan, why?" She doesn't really expect an answer; he hasn't yet spoken, but the need to ask is too strong.

Logan closes his eyes again and he feels his lips move.

"I just wanted to sleep..."