“I do, Ry. You need to hear it.”

I nod slowly, opening the door wider.

“You ever feel stuck, Riley?” he says, but it’s not really a question because he doesn’t wait for my response. “I don’t mean in your house or anything like that. I mean in time. Or in your head. I feel like I am. I feel like I’m stuck in a dust-filled room with gunshots going off around me, staring into the eyes of the kid who shot me. I feel like I’m there and I can’t shake it, and even though so much has happened since that day, and time has passed, and I’ve moved more times than I can count, I’m still there. Sometimes, I close my eyes and it’s all I can see.” He takes a breath. “But being with you—being in your room—it’s the only place I feel free from it all. I can’t explain it. I’m not even sure I want an explanation for it. All I know is that I want it. Because even though, technically, time itself is the same for everybody—every second, every minute, every hour—it’s not when I’m with you. It’s like it doesn’t exist. Or I don’t care that it does.” He pauses, his jaw tense and his lips thinned to a line, then he curses under his breath and shakes his head. “I’m not good with words,” he mumbles. “Am I making sense?”

He makes more sense than anyone has before and if I could’ve found the words to articulate my exact feelings since the day of the “accident,” he’s just used them all. Every single one.

He takes another long breath, speaking before I can answer him. “When I was about fifteen, I think, my buddy Jake and I went to this party and got hammered.”

I start to speak because I have a feeling he’s about to ramble and go off track but he raises his hand between us to stop me. “Just let me get it out.”

I nod once.

“We got home at God knows what time and my dad was up waiting for us and he was so mad and we were both so drunk that we couldn’t even register what was happening. My dad said something like ‘Do you boys know what time it is?’ and I kept my mouth shut but Jake, he just started laughing. And then he said—God, it’s so stupid—” He rolls his eyes. “—He said, ‘Nope. Time flies when you’re having fun.’ And we all burst out laughing, even Dad. So, it became this dumb joke between Jake and I—like, whenever we hung out we never looked at the time because we always deemed that we were having fun or whatever, and the other day, after my first check up for my shoulder, I went to UNC to see him—that’s why I didn’t come over. I would’ve, Riley. I wasn’t avoiding you because of what happened with us. Even though you asked me to leave that day, it didn’t change anything for me. I still wanted to see you.” He shakes his head, as if trying to refocus. “Anyway, Jake—he called me out. He asked who the girl was that my mind was obviously preoccupied with and I told him about you, and when I asked how he knew, he said I kept looking at the clock.” He inhales another breath, taking mine with it. “So I guess what I’m trying to say is that even though I feel stuck there, in the middle of a warzone, trapped in the mayhem of my mind, and feeling like time isn’t moving at all—you had me wanting more. You had me wanting you. You had me checking the time, Riley.”

I wipe the tears off my cheek, but they do nothing to stop the million emotions flowing through me. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe I’d been looking at it all wrong. It’s not the chaos we created in the four walls of my room that had me fearful. It’s the comfort he provided. And I think, deep down, I want that comfort as much as he does. I’ve just never been willing to admit it.

Until now.

A slow smile pulls on my lips as I tug on his shirt and bring him closer. “You need to quit talking so much, Dylan.”

Once we’re in my room, he admits he hasn’t slept since I saw him two days ago. I offer him my bed, which he accepts without hesitation. I’m adjusting the blinds when he mumbles, his mouth pressed against the pillow as he laughs to himself, “I’m twenty-three and afraid of the dark which is stupid, because you close your eyes and it’s all the same darkness, right?”

I don’t respond, just sit on the cushions and pull out a notebook.

It’s not the same. The nightmares you fear when you’re awake are worse than the ones you can’t control in your sleep. That’s why I write it all down. Why I try so hard to remember. Because lately the nightmares are clearer than the memories and I don’t want to forget. I won’t ever forget you, Jeremy.

Twelve

Riley

Dylan knocks on my door for the second time the next day, looking the same as he did a few hours ago. Same clothes. Same squared shoulders, same hand in his pocket… but now the other’s holding a few plastic bags. He must see the confusion on my face when I look up at him because he says, “What? You didn’t expect me to come back?”

“After I told you I felt like shit because I’m on my period and that I was really grumpy and I’d probably end up throwing something at you? No. I didn’t think you’d come back.”

He holds up the bags in his hands. “Well, first, I wasn’t sure if it was the booze talking.”

“I haven’t had that much to drink.”

“Second. I wasn’t just going to leave knowing you were cranky…” He waits for my response. I don’t give him one. “I just got you some stuff that I’ve heard helps with the…” he points to my vagina. “The lady business.”