They found Charlotte. They actually found her.

Ollie and I sit in the backseat of a cab, tapping our feet like crazy. It's probably irritating the cabbie, but I don't care. I can't breathe. I have to see Charlotte again, to see she's real.

City lights reflect in the windows as we drive. Finally, with dry, aggravated eyes, I arrive at the hospital. Ollie and I don't speak as we burst inside. We get the room number from a receptionist and rush to the elevator, but when it takes more than thirty seconds to arrive, we storm to the nearest stairwell and bolt up three flights.

I hate hospitals—they bring back the worst memories, and the older I get, the shittier they become. My first suicide attempt hangs on the walls of the psychiatric ward, along with the embarrassing memories of my last episode.

Now Charlotte's here too, and I don't know what to expect. This is a good thing, right? So why do I have such dread in my gut?

"Almost there," Ollie says. We land on the third floor. When we turn a corner, we stop.

Lucy stands outside of a door. She wears that old green and black flannel, looking just like she did on the night we met. It's like a lightning bolt to my chest, electrifying my month-long depression—ending it. She's here. And Charlotte's here, too.

Things are gonna be okay. And suddenly, I'm really glad I decided not to kill myself today.

"What's she doing here?" Ollie mutters.

I hold Lucy's eyes as I walk down the hall, Ollie trailing behind. Her eyebrows are stitched, and her hair has gotten longer, her body thinner, her bones jauntier. She hasn't been eating well. She should've stayed with me—I'd have taken care of her.

"Hey," Lucy says.

God, she has the voice of a fucking angel.

"Hi," I say, chewing my cheeks.

"Your sister's in there with your parents."

"Is she okay?" Ollie asks.

Lucy averts her eyes. "You should see for yourself."

Ollie and I exchange an uneasy glance. I don't like the sound of that, but I open the door.

Charlotte lays on the bed beneath a pure white sheet, and black makeup streams down her pale cheeks. Her hair is a ratty mess and her eyes are shut peacefully, but all I see is my baby sister, the little girl who used to curl up and sleep beside me on the couch.

Mom jumps to her feet. "Ollie, El!"

She rushes up and hugs us. Dad's just behind her and circles his arm around all three of us.

"What's going on?" Ollie asks.

"I don't get it, either," I say. "Why is Charlotte handcuffed to the bed?

"She's—" Mom chokes up and turns to Dad, who hugs her shoulder.

"Your sister's been through a lot." He clears his throat. "She's probably gonna have to go to some rehab place to get better."

"What?" I say. "But... but she's back now... I thought..."

Dad's lip twitches. "That bastard got her hooked on all sorts of drugs. The doctors found a bunch of shit in her system. Opiates, LSD... a bunch of shit."

Mom sobs, and Dad holds her tighter.

"To make it worse," he says, "she thinks we're the monsters for taking her away from that guy. She was spewing all sort of nonsense... saying she loves him..."

Charlotte remains unmoving on the bed, a bag of bones with sunken cheeks and brittle lips.

I could've stopped this.

"She'll be okay though, right?" Ollie says. "Like, is she gonna get better?"

Mom's eyes are teary, but she smiles. "Yes, honey. We've got her back now, and we're going to make sure she gets the best care she can get. She'll be okay, she just needs to rest for now."

"Well, when is she gonna wake up?" I ask.

"Not for a long time," Dad says. "Could be ten, twelve hours. They had to flush her system and sedate her."

Mom touches my cheek. "You look exhausted, El. Why don't you go home? We'll call you as soon as she wakes up."

"No, I should be here when she wakes up."

"Gonna be a long wait," Dad says.

"Go on." Mom nods at the door. "Go."

I get what she means now. She wants me to go talk to Lucy. I hesitantly nod, take one last look at Charlotte, and leave the room. I'll come back and see her tomorrow, but based off what Dad said—I might not like what I find.

In the hall, Lucy leans against the wall with her arms crossed. She looks up when I close the door behind me.

"Hey," she says.

"Hi."

"You okay?"

I slide my hands in the pockets of my jeans. "Managing. Can I ask why you're here?"

"I wanted to make sure she was okay, and—"

Silence. Lucy kicks at the floor, and I rub the back of my neck. It feels so weird to be in front of her again, but the sad look on her pretty face kills me.

"Hey," I say, "come home with me."

With a reluctant nod, Lucy follows me out of the hospital.

When we get back to the house, we go to the kitchen. The rooms are so deathly silent and cold, like nobody lives here at all, like the whole place is haunted. I throw my keys on the counter and take my spot across the island, but this time, Lucy doesn't sit at the stool.

The dim lighting creates a gold ring around her hair as she clasps her hands together, a frown on her lips. Why does she look so guilty? Everything's gonna be okay now, right? Lucy's back now. Charlotte's back now. It might take some time, but we can rebuild what we had. We can make it work—I know we can.

But after all this time, I still don't know how she feels.

"So." I lean on the counter. "Was it you who found her?"

"Kind of, yeah. I figured out where Colt had her and told your dad."

I smile, and I can't take being so far from her any longer. I need to hold her again, so I walk around the island and hug her. She smells like vintage shops and roses, but I can't wait until it's my shampoo I smell on her hair. God, I love it on her.

She lets out a tiny yelp when I pick her up and sit her on the counter. I run my hand from her thigh to her hip. I want her to wrap her legs around me, but she doesn't.

"Thank you for saving my sister." I kiss her hair.

Lucy trembles. "What are you doing?"

"What's wrong?"

Tears blur her freckles, and she places her hand on my chest with a gentle push. "It wasn't enough, El. She's still—"

"She's alive, and she's gonna get better." I touch her silky hair. "If it weren't for you, we might not have found her. Thank you, Lucy."

"If it weren't for me, she never would have disappeared to begin with."

I sigh. "Look, we can't just dwell on that, okay? What happened, happened. I don't blame you for it. I'm just happy to have you back."

Lucy jumps off the counter and slips past me. "I'm not back, Elliot."

Her words cut me. "What do you mean? I thought..."

"What, that we could just get back together?"

"I mean, sort of, yeah? Isn't that what you said?" My voice cracks and my eyes sting. "You promised you'd find her, and you did. So we can talk it out now, right?"

"I meant we could talk, not miraculously get back together."

Her rejection knocks the wind right out of my lungs.

"But no," I choke out. "Can't we move past this? Please? My life is nothing without you in it. This is your home, Lucy. Your home is with me."

"It's not that simple. Whether you blame me or not, it's still my fault, Elliot. Your sister has to go to rehab, for fuck's sakes! We can't just get back together!"

"Why not?" My voice rises and anger grips my heart. "When did I ever mistreat you? What did I do wrong? Why the fuck won't you get back together with me? I want a straight answer!"

"Because every time I look at you, I feel guilty!"

"Fuck you, Lucy!"

My rational mind leaves my body and watches me pick up a vase and smash it off the tile. The ear-splitting shatter of ceramic breaking shakes the entire room. I scream at her. Her eyes shoot open. I step forward, she steps back.

I can barely hear what I'm saying. A lot of fuck yous and I love yous spew from my mouth, and when the fit ends, chills of regret leave me cold. I look at the shattered ceramic on the floor, the red blood pooling from my hand from where I'd cut myself, then to the horrified look on Lucy's face. Her eyes are wide, her hand pressed firm over her mouth.

"Oh, no. No, no, Lucy, I'm sorry." I go to her, but she staggers back. "I'm so sorry. I'd never hurt you, no matter what. I'm so sorry. Please don't go."

She runs to the front door. I rush after her and stop a safe distance away. Lucy shoves her boots on her feet and grabs the door handle. My head pounds.

Please don't go. Please don't leave me like this.

"Lucy, please," I say. "Please don't go."

I don't know what I'll do if she leaves. She hesitates and faces me, fear and shock still in her eyes.

"Stay," I beg.

She leaves. The door slams behind her, and I stand there like a statue for what could be minutes or hours. What have I done? She looked at me like I'm a monster. Oh God, what did I say? I place my hands on the sides of my head and pace and pace and pace. I punch myself in the temples, but the memory won't leave. It plays in my head on repeat. She looked at me like I'm a monster. Oh God, what did I say?

I can't take this. I need to get out of my skin. I storm into the kitchen, where shattered pieces of glass litter the tile. Clean it up. I have to clean it up. Someone could get hurt. So I drop to my knees and pick up the pieces, and I don't feel a thing when they pierce my hands. Blood drips down my arms and soaks red into the sleeve of my blue hoodie.

"Fuck, what am I doing? Fuck, fuck, fuck."

She looked at me like I'm a monster. Oh God, what did I say?

"Fuck you, Lucy—I love you, but you're a selfish bitch, you don't care about me at all! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! Don't you get that I fucking love you?"

My cheeks are molten hot, and I shudder as the memory plays and plays and plays and plays. How could I say that? How could I freak out like that? Shit, I'm still bleeding. Red pools from the open gash in my palm and into the mortar between the tiles. It runs along it like red rivers. Kind of mesmerizing, actually. The blood flows, and flows, and flows...

Lucy's horrified face pops back into my head and I punch my temples and clench my eyes shut. The memory won't leave. I can't live with it.

I don't care about the vase anymore. I go upstairs and crash into my room, still bleeding. I wrap my wound in my hoodie so it doesn't leak on Mom's carpet. I don't want her to have to clean it up. I hope she knows this isn't her fault—it's mine, it's all mine. I open my desk and go for the bottle of pills, but crumpled next to it is the note Lucy had left me.

See yah, Junior.

Thanks for everything.

Love, Lucy.

I run my finger over her handwriting and taint it with a trail of red.

I'm so sorry, Lucy. Fuck, I'm so sorry.

Her horrified face. My disgusting words. I punch my temples, but the memory plays and plays and plays.

I can't live with it.

Sorry, Mom...