I shrug again. “I’m not sure.”

One of the things I like about both of them is that they respect privacy and so they don’t press.

“Where are you headed?” Kayden asks me, pulling Callie in to give her a kiss on the top of her head. “Back to the dorm?”

I start to back toward the elevators, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “I was thinking about hitting the gym. It’s been a while. You want to come with me?”

Kayden nods. “Yeah, I’m down.” He glances at Callie. “You want to come? I’ll help you with your kickboxing skills.” He winks at her and she rolls her eyes, smiling.

“Whatever. I totally kicked your ass last time,” she says, reaching for the key code on the door. “I can’t anyway. I have to study for my biology final.”

Kayden looks disappointed and I look away as he leans in to kiss her. As much as I’m happy for them, I sometimes miss my best friend not being whipped. I start to head toward the elevators to wait for him there when Callie calls out my name.

“Wait a minute, Luke,” she says and I slowly turn around.

She’s walking toward me with Kayden at her heels. When she reaches me, she snags my arm and hauls me past the elevator while Kayden waits behind, like he knows she wants to talk to me alone.

“How are you doing?” She tucks some strands of her brown hair behind her ear, seeming uneasy. “With the stuff with your sister, I mean.”

I swallow hard. “I’m doing okay.” It’s always been hard dealing with the fact that my sister killed herself when she was sixteen, but a month ago I found out that Caleb Miller, some douche Amy used to go to school with, and who used to be friends with Callie’s brother, raped her during a party a few months before she threw herself off the roof of an apartment complex. I guess the police found some journals written by Caleb about what he’d done, but Callie was the one who told me. Although she didn’t flat out say it, I think Caleb might have done something similar to her.

When she first told me, it took me a while to process what it meant—that maybe Amy killed herself because of it. It’s frustrating to feel so much rage inside me every time I think about it. Caleb’s lucky he vanished, otherwise I might have tracked him down and beat the shit out of him, like Kayden did once. Or maybe I’m the lucky one, because sometimes when I get going, when I feel that much heat and tightness in my chest, I have a really hard time not swinging.

“Are you sure?” She touches my arm, then quickly pulls away. She’s a sweet girl, but sometimes she’s a little skittish. “Because I’m here if you ever want to talk. I know it’s hard, especially since Caleb never got caught… he’s just out there living his life…” Her eyes well up, but she quickly sucks the tears back.

I force a smile. “I’m not much of a talker, but thanks for the offer.” I learned at a young age that trying to talk about what was bothering me was pointless. I once told my mom I didn’t like that she was doing drugs and she only did more. I told my dad once during his yearly phone call that I hated my life and he told me that a lot of people do. When I found out about Amy’s death, I went on a silent streak for about a week because it seemed like if I said anything to anyone they’d tell me to suck it up. I found serenity in the quiet and I seriously wish I’d never spoken again, at least about anything important, but my mom wouldn’t let me mourn so easily and wanted to talk. About Amy.

“Neither am I,” Callie says. “But sometimes it does help.”

“Thanks, but I’m good for now.”

She smiles and hers is real, not forced like mine. “How’s your mom doing with all this?”

I internally cringe. My mom showed very little reaction when she found out and I’m not the least bit surprised. She barely paid attention to Amy while she was alive and after she died it was like she’d never existed. She threw all her stuff away days after it happened, saying horrible things about Amy choosing to leave us in the most monotone voice. She did sing a song at Amy’s funeral, but the lyrics were crammed with madness. Not too many people heard it, though, since hardly anyone came to the funeral and those that did blamed the insanity on my mother’s mourning.

When I told my dad about Amy, during our yearly phone call, he started to cry. It pissed me off. How dare he cry when he wasn’t around to help and maybe some of this stuff could have been avoided. He’d abandoned us in that house with my mom and her craziness, letting his two kids get sucked right along into it.

“My mom’s fine,” I lie to Callie, inching around her to head toward the elevators. It’s nice of her to care, but it doesn’t make it easy for me to talk about my mother.

Callie seems wary by my offish answer, but drops it and steps out of the way so I can scoot by. Kayden’s waiting for me at the elevator and when I approach him, he hammers his finger against the button.

“I’ll call you later,” he says to Callie and then kisses her.

I look in the other direction again, ready to get away from this whole affectionate thing they’ve been obsessed with for months. Affection is overrated. I’ve never wanted it and will never, ever go looking for it. The one person that showed me affection made it seem wrong and it’s one of the reasons I won’t get close to anyone, not even Kayden. Yes, we know stuff about each other, but we’ve never had a heart-to-heart. I’ve never had a heart-to-heart with anyone and I plan on keeping it that way, no matter what it takes because the last thing I want is anyone to find out about my past and how screwed up my thoughts are.

Violet

Right after my parents were murdered, I used to come up with reasons why their lives were taken. The police’s theory was that it was a freak accident when we were getting robbed—for some reason the robbers thought no one was home. My parents had woken up in the middle of it and saw them. Panic ensued. Then gunfire. They never caught who did it and as far as I know these people are walking around in the world, living their lives while my parents were left to rot.

It drives me absolutely insane when I think about it, but sometimes my mind opens up on its own. Thoughts of the people I pass on the street. It could be any of them and I worry that maybe they’ll recognize me. Even though I’m not sure, there’s always that question in my mind if one of them saw me that night, because they looked right at me, but never said a word. It’s something that’s haunted me to this day

I always wonder what I’d do if the murderers were actually caught. Freak out. Celebrate. Be filled with overpowering hate toward them because now I had a face to link with the event. Be terrified. I’m not sure and every time I analyze it too much, my habit kicks in and I seek comfort in the one thing that can give it to me. Danger. Pushing death. Parasuicidal. Adrenaline junkie. Insane. There’s so many different things it could be called and I honestly don’t know which one it is. All I know is what I do—what I need—to get through my life.

I haven’t been doing it over the last few days, though, since I can barely limp around let alone walk. It’s becoming an inconvenience and making me feel weak. But my ankle’s refusing to heal, so I have no option other than to hobble around in pain. The worse part was work. I’ve never been that great of a waitress, since my dazzling people skills are lacking. Add pain to the lack of people skills and my supervisor, Johnny, was threatening to tell our boss about my bitchy attitude toward the costumers. Thankfully I charmed him with a dime bag and that seemed to smooth things over.

I’m headed to the nearest McDonald’s to feed my junk food addiction, wearing a pair of cutoffs and a FROM AUTUMN TO ASHES T-shirt I’ve worn so much the letters are starting to fade. My hair was untamable so I pulled a beanie over it and I’m still sporting the flip-flops. Not my greatest of fashion moments, but I’ve never tried to claim to be some sort of fashionista.