It’s not easy, but I manage to get her shirt on. Slipping my arms beneath her knees and around her shoulders, I move to lift her up.

A slight giggle slips from her lips, and her eyes flicker open again. Freezing me. Even bloodshot and unfocused, they’re gorgeous and light and hypnotizing. I can’t peel myself away from them.

That’s probably why she manages to get her hand coiled around my head and my mouth against hers before I know what the hell is going on. Her tongue, surprisingly responsive for someone as wrecked as she is, tangles itself with mine, drawing me in with unspoken promises, sending blood rushing through my veins.

It’s all so unexpected, so fast, so fierce, that I can’t stop it from happening. And then, as she wiggles within my grip and pulls me into her thighs, as her hands slide up the back of my shirt, I find that I don’t want to stop it from happening. We could get lost here together, tumbling down this rabbit hole of blind emotion, in search of a desperate escape that we both want. And maybe that only the two of us can truly understand.

That’s the precise moment when I come to grips with how low I’ve sunk.

“I can’t . . .” I wrench myself away, a new kind of guilt growing inside. A disgusting, loathsome sickness in the pit of my stomach.

Adjusting my clothes and the hard-on that hasn’t withered yet, despite my consciousness, I scoop her up again. Whatever brief spurt of energy she tapped into has faded, leaving her limp in my arms, her eyes closed.

“Did you come here with anyone?” I whisper more to myself, moving quickly and quietly down the stairs and through the crowd. I have no f**king clue what I’ll say if anyone stops me.

But no one does.

Not one person—not one friend—stops me as I carry a semi-unconscious Kacey Cleary out of a party and into a cold winter’s night in nothing but a T-shirt and jeans.

Doesn’t she have anyone looking out for her?

She doesn’t say another word until I sit her in the passenger seat of my car. “No . . . car . . . hate . . . car,” she moans, making a feeble effort to roll out.

“Shhh . . . Kacey. I know.” I brush her hair off her face. It’s even softer than I imagined. “I get it. Just go to sleep.” I hesitate before leaning in to recline the seat for her, wondering if she’ll kiss me again.

Wondering if I’d let her.

Yes. I would. It’s so wrong, and yet I would. What the f**k is my problem?

“It’ll be okay,” I promise, slipping her seat belt over her. Two years ago, I would have laid her down across the backseat and said screw the seat belt. But that’s never happening again.

“I wish I could take you back to my apartment. It’s so much closer,” I mumble, tucking my coat over her body. Cranking the engine, I program her address—the one I saved in my phone—into the GPS and pull my car away from the curb, not feeling the cold. Not feeling anything but shock over tonight’s turn of events. What if I hadn’t been there? What would have happened to her?

“Is this the real you? Or just the real you, now?” I whisper, turning to look at her. For everything else that happened to her, she has no glaring scars on her face. It’s still beautiful. That’s something, at least.

“Can you hear me? Kacey?” I can’t stop saying her name.

No answer.

With hesitation, I reach out and graze her fingertips with mine. Not a moan, not a flinch.

So, I slip my fingers within hers, feeling the softness of her skin.

And I say the things I’ve wanted to say for so long. “I’m so sorry. For everything. If I could take it back, could change it, I would. I swear it. I’d trade my life in a heartbeat.” And I would, honestly.

Somehow, saying these words doesn’t make me feel better. Not even slightly. So I shut up for the remainder of the drive. It takes exactly fifty-eight minutes to reach Kacey’s house, and I do it with the heat blasting and the radio silent, and holding Kacey Cleary’s limp hand within mine.

She lives in a modest brick bungalow, with small, weathered windows and concrete steps leading up to a two-person porch. A dim light flickers, providing poor lighting for anyone coming home this late at night. The roof’s been replaced and there’s a new blue Camry parked in the driveway.

I let go of Kacey’s hand to shake her shoulder gently. But she’s not waking up. With a sigh, I pull forward until I’m two houses down.

And simply stare at this unconscious girl in my car. How am I going to keep track of her? How can I know this won’t happen again? Right now, I wish I lived in Lansing. I’m too far away from her. Too far away to witness her deteriorate.

Before I can stop myself, and with careful hands, I search her pockets until my fingers wrap around her phone. No password to lock it down. I guess she doesn’t care about someone stealing it. Or some creep invading her privacy.

Like I’m doing right now.

I quickly scroll through her screens, copying down her phone number.

The little email icon stares back at me. I scribble her email address down, too—just in case—and then I tuck her phone back into her pocket.

Scooping her up, I carry her up the sidewalk, up the worn pathway, up the stairs, to the tiny porch, watching for any late-night witnesses. Though no one’s out at this time of night in the middle of winter.

“I’m going to put you down here,” I whisper, setting her down on the concrete floor with reluctance, leaning her up against the brick wall. She hasn’t stirred, hasn’t moaned, hasn’t cracked an eyelid. I wonder what the hell she’s on.

And then I remember that I’m on her front porch, and the last thing I want is for her family to catch me here and begin asking questions. So I ring the doorbell and cross my fingers, my heart pounding the entire time.

Footsteps approach from inside about thirty seconds later. I leap over the railing to duck behind a tree about ten feet away, making it just as the storm door creaks open and her little sister appears, shielding her eyes against the bright light. “Kacey.” She sighs. I was expecting a shriek, a cry. Something to tell me that this isn’t common. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” The pain within the whisper is unmistakable. She bends down and places two fingers against her sister’s wrist.

Because that’s what it has come to for this thirteen-year-old.

Their aunt’s head pops out—full of curlers, like you’d imagine seeing on an elderly woman. “How did she get here?” She squints into the darkness, searching, and I instinctively shrink back.

Livie’s head is shaking before the words come out. “Can you help me with her?”

I have to root my feet to the ground to keep from stepping out from the shadows and carrying her in. No good will come of me storming into Kacey’s life like this.

So, I watch a girl in Snoopy pajamas and a petite woman nearing her fifties try to drag a comatose Kacey into the house. It’s futile. As slender as she is, she’s pure muscle. Finally, after a few minutes, a groggy uncle in plaid flannel steps out and lifts her up.

“Come inside, Livie. It’s freezing,” the aunt calls out.

“In a minute,” Livie says over her shoulder as the storm door shuts. Wrapping her arms tight around her body, she drops her head back and gazes at the stars in the clear night sky. It’s dead quiet—so quiet that I’m afraid to move a muscle. “Please don’t let me lose her too,” she whispers to no one. Or maybe to someone. To two people she’s already lost. She brushes her hand against her cheeks, wiping away the tears that have begun falling.

And the weight of what I’ve done to these girls truly hits me.

Kacey’s spiraling. Just like me.

Chapter 12

April 2010

The streetlights flicker on and off as I wait, huddled in the cold. I’ve been parked out on the street for hours, slouched over in my seat, wary of her neighbors. The last thing I need is a call in to the cops about a strange guy lurking.

In that time, I’ve seen the aunt, a mousy woman with black hair and a buttoned-up blouse, come home from grocery shopping. I’ve seen Livie stroll past my car with a book bag slung off her shoulder and trudge up the stairs. I’ve seen the uncle drag his feet up the steps as if his construction boots are made of bricks, a brown liquor bag in hand.

But I haven’t seen Kacey yet.

And it’s eleven o’clock at night.

Granted she’s eighteen, but still.

Two hours later, when the porch light is shut off and I start to think she may not have left the house to begin with, a red Dodge Spirit pulls up to the curb. The sight of her long, fiery red hair as she climbs out of the passenger side lightning-fast, like she couldn’t wait to get out of the car, has me hunching into my seat.

She takes long, even strides toward the path up to her house, the hems of her jeans just barely dragging the ground.

“Hey!” a guy calls out.

Thanks to my cracked window, I hear her mutter a “fuck off.”

A guy in ripped jeans and a chain hanging from his pocket steps out of the driver’s side. “Hey!” he hollers again.

I hold my breath as she spins on the heels of her Converse sneakers and snaps, “What?”

He lifts his arm, a jacket and a plain black backpack dangling from his fingertips. “You forgot your stuff.”

She wanders back reluctantly, holding her arms out. The streetlight casts just the right amount of light to show the white lines running along her toned arm. And the vacant stare in her watery blue eyes.

The sparkle is long gone.

“You just wanted to see me again, didn’t you?” I can only see the guy’s profile, but I don’t like the leery smile that he’s showing her. He probably has no clue that the sparkle is gone. He probably doesn’t even care.

Snatching her bag and jacket from his grip, she blows a strand of fallen hair from her face. “Look . . . what was your name again? Rick? . . . Dick?”

“Mick,” he answers dryly.

“Right, Mick. Well, clearly you were memorable.” She oozes sarcasm. With that, she turns away.

He throws his hands up. “Seriously? Is that it?”

“What! We burned through a couple of lines and a couple of condoms. To be honest, the former was more enjoyable.”

The guy honestly looks stunned. “You’re a bitch.”

My hands tighten around my steering wheel and I have to remind myself that I’m not supposed to be here.

If she’s bothered by his words, she doesn’t let on, plastering a fake, sickly sweet smile onto her lips. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you in love with me now? Do you want to hold hands and talk about our future? Should we meet your parents? You can’t meet mine, sorry. Though I’m sure they wouldn’t approve of you, anyways. How about china patterns for the wedding?”

The guy stares at her like she’s lost her mind.

“You should probably get in your car and drive away now.” She turns toward the house again.

“I know what happened to you.”

“You don’t know shit,” she throws back.

“Look, I’m sorry. Maybe next time we can go out and, I don’t know . . .” He scratches the back of his head. “See a movie or something.” I don’t know if the guy’s an ass**le or not. If he’s doing lines and then screwing around with her, he’s definitely not a real catch. But right now he seems to be trying to appeal to her softer side.

“I’m not interested in movies or dinner or long walks on the beach. I’m not interested in friends. I’m not interested in getting to know you, or anyone else. And I sure as hell don’t want to talk. So do me a favor, and get into your little car and drive away. Forget about me. I’ve already forgotten about you.” She disappears into the house, the storm door slapping noisily against the frame.

Leaving me staring at the back of the Dodge Spirit, the hollowness inside me somehow growing. This isn’t the real her. It can’t be.

“Is there a reason you’re sitting out here?” a voice beside my window asks, startling me enough that I jump. Shit. I didn’t even notice the middle-aged man walking on the sidewalk and now he’s staring at me, his eyes full of suspicion. A Great Dane tugs at his arm, wanting to continue on its walk.

I hold up my phone. “Had to take a call. Turned out to be a bad one and I needed to get my bearings.”

The man’s face softens. “Got it. Sorry, just noticed you here on my way out and, you know, we keep an eye on the neighborhood.”

“Of course. Didn’t mean to scare you.” I crank the engine. He continues on his late-night dog walk, and I pull away.

Meanwhile, Kacey’s completely lost.

Chapter 13

April 25, 2010

The puck sails into the net with fifteen seconds left in the second period, sending the stadium into a frenzy.

My dad slaps my back—just like he always does when the team we’re cheering for scores a goal. Except this time, we’re at Madison Square Garden, watching the game live. “I’m going to run to the restroom before the intermission.”