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Pulling to a stand, I extended my palm with a nod, helping her up.

Helping her to her feet.

I took her home.

CHAPTER 13

September, 1996

Fireworks painted the sky, and I watched as the stretch of black above me came alive with streaks of emerald and violet. Labor Day weekend had officially wrapped up, and the summer season had been given a final colorful sendoff.

While the end of summer for most eighteen year olds marked shining, new adventures ahead—college, moving out, career-planning—for me, it signaled nothing but a replay.

I’d been held back.

Because of my deteriorating mental state and poor grades, catching up seemed an insurmountable challenge. It was humiliating, but I’d made the decision to repeat my senior year of high school. I had goals. Plans. I refused to be a high school dropout.

And I supposed the only plus-side to repeating senior year was that I was in the same grade as Tara now. Assuming there were no more setbacks for me, we would graduate together.

Tara cheered beside me in a lawn chair, whooping as she pumped her fist in the air. I sipped my lemonade through a straw, my legs curled up beside me on the adjacent chair.

Whitney stood in front of us, her eyes on the sky as the night went quiet. “They do such a great job with the fireworks,” she mused, glancing back at us. “Reminds me of being a kid again.”

I couldn’t relate.

My childhood was filled with fireworks, but not the pretty kind. Instead of vivid displays bursting among the stars, it was the explosive whips of a leather belt across my back that produced stars behind my tear-filled eyes. It was the sparks of uncertainty and fear that always shadowed and defined me. The booms were echoes of raised voices and cruel words that painted a different kind of show—one that left painful claw marks on the canvas of my memories.

I forced a smile anyway. “Yeah, it was great.”

“Want to go to that beach bonfire with me?” Tara popped up from her chair.

“You’re going out?” Whitney turned to Tara. “It’s getting late.”

“C’mon, Mom, I’m almost eighteen. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Do you want me to make a list?”

Tara huffed. “I’ll have Josh pick us up.”

“I’m going to stay in,” I told her, rearranging my face into another weak smile. “Have fun. Take pictures.”

“You know I suck at that, Hals. Every time I try to take a picture, it turns out to be this weird, blurry blob that wouldn’t even pass for abstract art.”

I smirked. “That’s because you can’t stop moving. You need to focus on the moment.”

“The next moment always sounds better than the one I’m in.”

Again, I couldn’t relate.

When you’re always fearing the next moment, you tend to appreciate the good ones while you have them.

Whitney sighed, gathering her hair into a ponytail and securing it with a purple rubber band. “Will you call me when you get there?”

“No phones at the beach, Mom.”

“Page me, then. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“Yeah, yeah, will do.” Tara turned to me. “You sure you want to stay in?”

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