I blink through the tears, hand fumbling into my purse.
Jasmine:Life’s been hectic. But I miss you.
That’s it. One line.
But it’s the one I needed. Because somehow, that girl—the hurricane, the soft and sharp storm I haven’t been able to stop loving—is still out there, and that is the one thing right now I can hold on to.
24
JASMINE
The last monthhas been a slow, gnawing kind of pain. The kind that doesn’t announce itself with screaming or sobbing, just settles deep into your bones and makes a home there. I’ve been pushing Brooke away—not outright, not cruelly, just with silence. With distance. With excuses that sound thin even to me.
And outside of the occasional meme exchange that makes me exhale a little harder than usual, nothing’s made me smile.
I know because Landon’s been trying like it’s his goddamn mission in life. Like if he stacks enough dumb jokes and soft touches on top of each other, they’ll finally be enough to break through whatever shell I’ve grown around myself. He’s been a walking disaster—shirtless dance routines, dramatic readings of cereal boxes, turning my darkest hours into his personal stand-up set—and still, it’s not enough.
There’s an emptiness inside me, and it’s growing by the day. Expanding like a bruise that keeps getting hit. A silence that keeps getting louder. And Conner? He’s a ghost. I haven’t even tried to reach out. I don’t know if I can see him again after he ran away from me. I reached for him, clouded by the darkness of thenightmare and he ran. I can’t face him now, because I can barely face myself.
The nightmares have come back worse than ever. That night has become clearer than ever.
I am thirteen. My shorts are torn. My hands are shaking and red—red like rust, like ruin, like rage. Boyfriend number four is dead at my feet. His eyes are open, lips parted like he’s about to crack one of his disgusting jokes, but nothing comes out except a slow, wet breath that never finishes. My fingers still clutch the handle of the kitchen knife, slick with blood, like I’m afraid to let go or maybe afraid of what I’ve become if I do.
I can’t hear anything except the throb of my own pulse. The kitchen light flickers above me, casting everything in yellow. My mother’s scream is just white noise—distant and sharp and useless. The whole trailer smells like metal and fear, and I just…stand there. Eyes empty. Face blank. I am hollow and wide-eyed and gone.
And then I’m screaming.
The dream fractures with the sound of it. My throat rips open with the force of the scream as I jolt upright, breath ragged and shallow. I don’t know where I am at first, only that the sunlight peaks through the blinds and there’s warmth all around me. I thrash before I register the weight holding me in place—strong arms, solid chest, the steady beat of a heart not my own.
“Peach,” Landon whispers, groggy but urgent. “It’s just a dream, you’re here—you’re safe.”
He’s behind me, his chest pressed to my back, one of his arms coiled tightly around my waist, the other hooked under my neck like a makeshift cradle. My legs are tangled with his, our bodiesmolded together like we were built to fit this way. His breath is warm against the nape of my neck, his voice low and heavy with sleep.
“You’re safe,” he repeats, firmer now, as he presses a kiss to my temple and gently rocks us, like he can sway the memory out of me.
But I still feel the blood on my fingers. I still hear the knife clatter to the floor. I still see those lifeless eyes. I still wonder who that night has made me become.
Landon kisses my temple, the grip around my waist loosening as he whispers in my ear. “Peach, you can’t keep these nightmares up.”
“You don’t have to sleep in here with me.” I whisper, pulling his hand up to my mouth.
“I will stay here as long as you want,” he grumbles into the crook of my neck before placing a chaste kiss there. “And when you're ready, you can tell me why you have nightmares.”
I shift slowly, carefully turning in his arms until I’m facing him. His ocean-blue eyes blink down at me through the low light, still heavy with sleep, but alert now—searching. My fingers graze the curve of his jaw, rough with stubble, and for a moment I just breathe him in. Salt and smoke. Something like pine. Like safety.
“I killed him,” I whisper, voice barely audible over the whir of the ceiling fan. “When I was thirteen.”
His brows knit together, lips parting—but he doesn’t interrupt.
“My mom’s boyfriend,” I go on, the words scraping their way out of me. “He… he touched me. Hurt me. I told her. She didn’t care.Or she didn’t believe me. Or maybe she did and just… didn’t want to deal with it.”
I pause, blinking back the tears that threaten to rise again. My fingers dig into the soft cotton of his shirt. “So one night, he cornered me in the kitchen. I got scared, grabbed a knife, and I stabbed him.”
Landon doesn’t say anything. His whole body goes rigid—like every nerve inside him is on high alert. His arm tightens around my waist, protective and still.
“I didn’t even cry. Not then. I just stood there while he bled out on the crappy carpet. And you know what the worst part is?” I shake my head, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. “I didn’t feel bad. Not really. I felt... relief. Like I could breathe for the first time.”
I drop my gaze, ashamed, my breath catching in my throat.
