Prologue: Death Bed

She sits at his death bed, holding his hand, limp and cold, already lifeless despite the slow, steady beeping of the monitor. Her thumb traces over the back, his skin so thin she used to be able to see his veins, blue tracery of spider-webbed life. Those are sunken, now, just his pale, pale flesh left behind. And his bones, jutting from what remains of him.

They said goodbye long before he slipped into his final coma. Before this trip to the hospital when the doctors told him, sad and quiet, it would be his last. Even before the cancer came back and he had to start more treatments.

They'd been saying goodbye for years. In the only ways they knew how. Soft kisses in the dark under the stars, on a blanket in the yard while his parents gave them space. Whispered conversations in the back seat of her car where they sat for hours, steaming the inside of the windows in the pouring rain. Texts and phone calls when they couldn't be together, hugs and smiles and sweet silence only they felt when they could.

And yet, this goodbye hurts her more than she expected.

Because it is their last.

She lays her head on his shoulder, feels the give of his weak body, the harshness of his breath. No life support. No heroic measures for the one she loves, a hero in her eyes already. Stronger than she will ever be.

And when his chest rises for the last time, she stops breathing, too. Can't hear the sound of the single strobing alarm from the monitor, his mother's sharp cry as she falls over him on the other side of the bed, sobbing.

The outside world means nothing to her.

His soul is gone.

And she is certain hers will never heal.

***

So Long, Riley James

I stuff a t-shirt into a tiny hole I find in the corner of my second bag and straighten up, lower back aching from hunching over for what seems like days. I think I've successfully crammed what consists of my life into two suitcases, a laptop bag, and a backpack I dug out from the back of my closet. High school leftovers, still with some old exams at the bottom, A's circled in red.

It feels like forever ago.

My thumb skirts the daisy drawn in blue ink, the edges a little wobbly, stem stunted and crooked. His favorite flower. Mine, too. Though this one has its issues.

Ian was always a terrible artist, though he tries.

Tried.

I cough, pretending it's dust giving me the sniffles, and shove the remains of my graduating year into the wastebasket beside my small desk. I take a look around my room.

Not much left. I'm not taking my comforter. Aunt Vonda already bought me a new one in her excitement to have me live with her, so that's covered. Dad can put my books and old knick-knacks from when I was a kid in storage. When he gets around to it.

If he gets around to it.

Who am I kidding? I hike the backpack over my shoulder, already aching with the effort of lifting the massive bag, and clench my teeth together. If Dad even notices I'm gone, it will be a miracle.

The first suitcase thuds down the stairs behind me as I pant to a halt and release the handle. It totters, overfull, and falls on its side, rocking on the rounded front like an upside down turtle. I'm out of shape, my body protesting as I dump the backpack and walk back upstairs for the rest.

I stop in my room one more time. Catch my breath, lost not to exertion but to a wash of memory.

I can clearly see Ian lying on my bed, thin body weak, but a smile on his face.

Come here and kiss me, his phantom says, one hand hiding the shunt under his shirt so I won't have to have the reminder. Because he is awesome like that.

Until a year ago. When "is" became "was".

I have to get the hell out of here.

My phone chimes with a text from Courtney.

Hve FUN! :D Miss U.

I don't bother answering my one-time BFF, lugging the next bag out of my room, the corner catching on the doorframe.

"Shit." I jerk on it too hard, the bag pulling free so fast it loses balance, twists sideways. Takes my wrist with it. I release it and let it fall while I hike up my breath and refuse to cry over my hurt.

Either of my hurts. Because it's not just my wrist that's aching.

Dad's downstairs. I hear him in the kitchen, right below me. Just like him not to help, not to even offer or acknowledge I'm leaving. I wipe at my nose with the shoulder of my t-shirt, finally able to breathe. Exhale. Inhale. Let my shoulders drop.

Let Ian's memory rest yet again. At least for a little while.

Until something reminds me the love of my life is gone and I'll never, ever see him again. Hold him. Whisper his name in his ear while his hazel eyes tell me he loves me.

Rye, his lips say in my memory.

It's become so ordinary to torture myself. I lose time in the quiet of the hall. Dad drops something below, the sound of shattering glass shaking me free of Ian. I square my shoulders and swipe at my tears as my father curses and bangs a cupboard door shut, reminding me about the other reason I'm leaving.

My phone vibrates again. Courtney.

See U in the city? :

Yeah, right. And though Courtney might not really give a shit about what I'm doing, only wanting a place to crash when she and her posse come to the city on weekends, she is right. This is supposed to be fun. A new start for me. Away from home and the grief I feel living in Clifton, surrounded by Ian. Weighted down by my father's disapproval and disdain for the last year.

Off to New York and adventure.

Twenty-one. Broken hearted.

Moving on.

I scowl at the suitcase and kick it firmly with the toe of my shoe.

Whatever. Still, the small act of violence makes me feel better. I wrestle the big bag upright on its knobby wheels and roll it to the stairs. Man-handle it to the bottom, shoulder brushing the edge of a photograph. I gasp as the frame slips, releasing my hold on the suitcase. My fingers catch the edge of the picture, just saving it from falling, but at the sacrifice of the suitcase, which bangs and smashes its way to the hardwood floor below.

But the photo is safe in my hands, now clutched to my chest. The sound of feet thud toward me. I look up from my mother's smiling face to see Dad come to a halt, looming over my things.

Scowling. As usual.

"Riley, what are you doing?" His harsh voice is no surprise. He hasn't said a kind word to me for years. Like I give a crap.

I hang the picture back in its place, carefully leveling it by eye, hating to frown at Mom while I answer Dad, but unable to keep anger from my face. Funny how no matter what I do it pisses him off.

I purposely push his buttons, wanting to strike at him for being a jackass and not lifting a finger to help me. "Nothing." I feel the tension growing between us with that one word. He hates one word answers. It's very satisfying to kiss Mom goodbye with my lips to my fingertips and then to her face before I turn and stomp my way to the ground floor. Refusing to meet his eyes as I shoulder my backpack, anger cresting, feeling suddenly frustrated and furious without knowing the main reason why.

I don't need just one reason. I have a million. The biggest one stands in front of me, arms crossed over his chest, face a dark cloud. His buzzed hair making him look old with nothing to soften the dark tan on his face, the frown lines around his eyes, the pull downward of his mouth. He towers over me, my fireman father, no hero in my eyes.

Just a damned bully. Watching instead of helping.

Asshole.

"I don't want to hear you've been partying and giving your aunt grief." I almost laugh in his face. Suppressing the urge to strike out at him, knowing it's not worth it. We've been on this ride before so many times I barely muster enough energy to shrug.

Instead, I choose to jerk the giant bag I dropped upright and examine it. The last party I'd been to was with Ian.

You know me so well, don't you?

At least the suitcase hadn't split, there was a bonus. I had to sit on it to close it, so luck was on my side.

I walk away from my father, the rattle of the bag's wheels loud behind me, drowning out the ominous silence. Still no help from him as I leverage open the screen door with one foot, grunting to pull open the heavy steel one. Manage.

On my own.

I guess that's a good sign, too.

I teeter down the three concrete steps to the walkway with my life on a leash trailing behind me. The suspension in the back of my little hatchback groans under the weight of the bag when I finally dump it into the trunk. Panting and sweating in the early June heat, I wipe at my upper lip, the beads of moisture. Great start to a three hour drive.

Dad stands in the entry, almost blocking me. Really? Are we going to continue playing this game, today of all days? I push past him, flinching from the contact as his bare arm brushes mine, and into the house.

Find my second bag waiting at the door.

Finally, some help. And a clear sign telling me to get the hell out.

I'm happy to oblige.

"You're going to look at colleges while you're in New York." Not a question. Like he thinks he can tell me what to do. But it's the first time Dad's said anything about what I'm doing, where I'm going. He barely responded when I told him Aunt Vonda-his own sister for God's sake-invited me to come live with her, "For the change of scenery, pet," she said.

I hate the sudden intrusion, his show of interest. This flash of fatherly whatever he seems to think is appropriate after ignoring me my entire life. Since when does he get a say?

Dad half-turns, the light behind him as I wrench the second bag to my side, snatch my purse from the hall table. Shoulder my laptop. I can't help but glare.

"That's the plan," I say, not wanting to start a fight after all, though I know one is brewing. I feel it in both of us. But I don't have time to argue.

I just need to go already.

Dad must agree with me, because he doesn't snap back. Just nods. But he holds his ground, doesn't move. I'm about to bowl him over with my suitcase when he finally stands back, as if we've just been in some stupid standoff he's choosing to let me win.

He holds the door open for me.

"See you, then," he says.

I hate him so much in that moment, my stomach heaves, tightens into a giant knot. The only thing saving me is the wide open door and the freedom beyond it. From Dad, from my memories.

So why does it still hurt there is no hug goodbye from her daddy for Riley James?

It's not until I'm in the car, driving away, hands clenched on the steering wheel, I allow the sobs begging to escape to build in my chest and I finally let them out.

***