Page 58 of The Devils They Are

Getting home is an eerie daze. By the time I open the front door, completely drenched from head to toe, I have no recollection of my journey home, and it hits me again that I'm alone.

Did she lie? Did she know she was dying? Is that why things changed?

Was I not enough in life but I was in death?

The house is unnaturally quiet, and my feet automatically carry me to her bedroom door. Every time it was quiet in the past, I would find her here, sleeping peacefully. But now, her empty bed stares back at me, sending me spiraling into the icy cold grips of reality. The room still smells of her floral perfume, a pile of her clean clothes yet to be put away on the end of the mattress.

I slam the door shut when I can't bear to look at her room anymore, the hinges rattling with the force. Turning, I go to my bedroom, letting my body take the lead in autopilot mode while my brain shuts down and blacks out. And after that, it all becomes a blacked-out blur, and I remember nothing.

"Bex," Archie says, frowning from his seat beside me in American Lit. "Are you okay? You're… I don't know. You seem different today. And you never made it to the beach last night. I tried to call."

"I'm fine," I mutter quietly, cracking a forced smile. "Negotiations just took longer than expected and then it started raining again so I figured it was best to head home. I didn't sleep much so I'm just tired today."

Archie nods, his worrisome expression not faltering. "Alright…" he concedes. "You'd tell me if something was wrong, right? I can cancel my date with Abby tonight if you need anything."

My body jerks with a silent, sarcastic laugh that I quickly shove back down. I know he's asking about the negotiations—assuming something must have gone wrong since I never showed or answered any calls. Everyone probably just assumes we had a classic Bexley-Rylan fight and left it at that. They have no idea that the complete opposite happened in his car before he dropped me off at the hospital where everything went to shit.

"Everything is fine," I repeat, attempting to placate him. "Go on your date, Arch. It's been a long time coming. And you don't have to worry about the Willowbrook bastards."

A few people hear us, whipping their heads to glare at me, their white jerseys reminding me that I'm, in fact, still in Willowbrook territory. And just my luck, my comments will no doubt filter down the line of gossip until it reaches the people we're speaking about.

He nods again, finally falling silent. Even though he turns his head to face Mrs. Camerons, I still spot his eyes darting sideways to me every so often.

It takes everything in me to keep my body seemingly relaxed and fake a picture perfect expression of composure. I know I should tell someone or, at the very least, ask for help… but I don't know how. It's rare I ask for help, and even then, it's never for something personal. I don't know how to ask. The option has never been available to ask for help, and I'm left saddled with the fear that I'll be turned away if I do. What if I'm too much? What if my problems are too complex? What if someone takes my pain and tries to hurt me with it? I'm already in pain—I can't handle any more.

How the hell do I say to someone 'I need your support to plan my mother's funeral. Yeah, she was in the hospital for a bit. Died while I was at some shitty warehouse instead of being there with her in her final moments'? I don't even know how I'm going to be able to pay for it. We had nothing, but we had each other, and that was enough. Now, I'm left with a gaping hole in my chest and I'm staring down the barrel of financial ruin at eighteen. Funerals are expensive, aren't they? That's why people often need to do Go-Fund-Me's and turn to family for help. But I don't have that option.

I don't have anything or anyone at all.

I can't do it. It's already hard keeping this information to myself. But to have people look at me with pity? To try to use her death to paint me as weak? No—just no. I can't. It puts everything at risk. I won't be able to cope with having people look at me like I'm a charity case. I'm already the girl whose father walked out on her. I don't need them slapping the alcoholic dead mother label on me too. I'll crumble, and truth be told, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to pick myself up again if that happens.

But if there's one thing I'm absolutely certain about, it's that I'll never forgive myself for having a moment of weakness with Rylan Astor when I should have been with her in her dying final moments on this earth.

After third period, I had officially reached the point of breaking. It was getting harder and harder to stay focused and have conversations as if I wasn't falling apart. I faked being ill with stomach cramps and went home. I lied to the school nurse and said that Mom was in the hospital and that she would be fine with me leaving. I hated having to admit that she is—or was—in the hospital, but it was the only way to keep my secret. Nurse Millar didn't want to call and disturb Mom—jokes on her, I suppose—so she went against policy and let me go home without making parental contact.

School has barely finished for the day when a knock pulls me out of my catatonic state, forcing me off the couch where I have been for several hours just gazing blankly at the ceiling.

When I open the door without thought, I immediately try to shut it, but Rylan shoves his foot in the gap, blocking it from slamming closed.

"What the fuck, Bex?" he grunts, wiggling his foot in pain. "You slammed the door on my goddamn foot!"

"What do you want, Rylan?" I snap, not bothering with pleasantries. "I'm really busy."

It's a lie—kind of. But if I want to lay and dissociate from reality for a few hours, that's my prerogative.

He straightens up, huffing slightly as he glances down at me, taken aback by my sudden change in attitude. "I tried to catch you at school but apparently you left early. You left your cell in my truck. The damn thing hasn't stopped ringing." I finally notice it in his hand, seconds before he holds it out toward me.

It feels like there's a boulder-sized lump in my throat. He's beingniceagain, and on any other given day, I might have felt guilty for my cold demeanor.

"You didn't answer it, did you?"

That seems to catch him off-guard, face upturning. "Of course not. It'syourcell."

"Funny," I say without laughing. "Never stopped you butting into our personal shit before."

On more than one occasion the Kings of Willowbrook have proven to be snakes. Why would I ever believe a word that comes out of Rylan Astor's mouth? At least… that's what I'm trying to tell myself. I'm trying to convince my mind again that he's our enemy, not the sweet guy he's pretending to be right now—or the past week.Or last night.

He has a way of bringing down my walls, and I can't let him do that. I can't let him see the broken person I'm fighting hard to hide.

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