I woke up to a throbbing headache.

     Laying on my back, all I could see was the off-white ceiling above me. But I didn't need to turn my head to remember where I was, or how I'd gotten there. I knew who was next to me. I could feel him like a fire; my skin burned in his proximity, and I craved to jump away from him. But I stayed where I was, skin crawling under the heat. I figured that, after everything, I deserved the burn.

    My mind did a cruel thing, then. I pictured myself turning toward Jamie, resting a hand on the smooth white of his back. Kissing between his shoulder blades, hearing his little hum in response. I would kiss his cheek, and he would pretend to scowl, but when I started to get up he would take my hand and pull me back down to him.

     I almost wanted to cry. That was all over. Now, all I could do was watch the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders as he slept.

    Jamie was a quiet sleeper. He never snored and he hardly moved; if I wasn't used to sharing a bed with him, I might've thought he didn't breathe at all. But he always responded unconsciously to touch. I remembered the nights we'd spent at Stevie's apartment, and all the times he'd fallen asleep in my lap after hours of studying, safe behind my locked bedroom door. He was so much more vulnerable when he slept. I could put my hand over his, and he would unknowingly intertwine his fingers with mine; I could touch his face, or his hair, and he would lean into it. It was his silent way of admitting that liked -- maybe even needed -- the affection.

    I didn't dare touch him now, though. Somehow I knew that if I did, and he didn't respond the same way, I would be more heartbroken that any angry words or hateful glares could ever make me. And if I did, and he did respond the same way . . . then I was taking something that wasn't mine. He would never know, but I would feel like a criminal.

     So instead, I took my fill of him from a distance, knowing that this was probably the last time I would ever see him like this. Last night had been a moment of weakness; I knew that he wouldn't let it happen again. This was meant to be something like closure -- after all, we were right back where we'd started.

     It didn't feel like closure.

    The tattoo along his spine -- the wilting daisy -- seemed to stand darker than ever against his pale skin. Finally, I could give it a meaning that I understood. Not the one he'd intended, not one he'd ever know; one that would only ever be significant to me.

     Daisies were the flowers of innocence and purity. I couldn't say that our relationship had been pure, exactly; we had worked so well because we were gritty and choppy and chaotic, because we started out filthy and never truly cleaned up our act. Still, there was something innocent about a first love. Innocent and fragile. Easy to destroy; much harder to save.

    I didn't let myself linger on the fact that it wasn't impossible. That a dying flower could be revived if acted on soon enough. There was no soon enough for us.

    I turned my eyes back to the ceiling when I felt the bed shift next to me. Jamie rubbed his face, ran a hand through his sleep-roused hair. I was sure he was awake, but he didn't say anything. He simply rolled onto his back and followed my gaze upward.

    The room was quiet enough to make my ears ring. The air was almost too thick to breathe. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, only to hold another in tense anticipation of his first words. I hung onto every inhale and exhale of his, torturing myself with guesses of what he might have to say to me. Trying and failing to remind myself that, whatever it was, it wouldn't be good.

     "Liam?" he said finally. It was quiet, but his voice was a gunshot; the bullet ricocheted in my head.

    "Hm?" I hummed, because it was all I could manage. I hated how raw I felt. I hated the way just hearing him say my name could cut me open. I hated being in love.

     "One of us has to leave before I lose my mind."

     I hated knowing that he still loved me. I hated the taste of heartbreak -- both of ours, I think, but mostly my own -- in the air.

     "Get some rest," I murmured, already rolling onto my side, away from him. For just a moment, I shut my eyes tight and wanted to cry again. Then I stood up to get dressed. "I'll go."

     Jamie didn't look at me until I was halfway to the door. I told myself not to look back, but my head turned anyways. It should have been a relief to see that whatever hatred had been in his eyes last night  was missing now, gone with the wind. It wasn't.

     "I'm sorry," I told him; I wasn't sure why I did it.

     Jamie sat up. The room wasn't cold, but he rubbed his upper arms with his hands and looked around the room for his shirt. "I know," he said, staring down at it when he found it. "Doesn't change much . . . but I know."

++++

Bryan was waiting by my parking spot when I got to school on Monday. I could tell he was freaking out, because he had a very Bryan way of freaking out: hands in his pockets, staring at the floor, rocking back and forth on his heels. I'd known Bryan since I was a kid, and that was something that had never changed about him. I remembered all the times I'd moved into new homes with new step-families; sometimes I'd gone months on end without seeing him. By the time we met again, he had always changed into a jarringly different person -- so had I -- but two things about him had always stayed the same. His crush on Vanessa, and his mannerisms when he freaked out about something.

     I raised my eyebrows at him through the windshield and got out of the car to greet him, wholly surprised when he wrapped me in a choking hug and started blabbering on about I'm sorry.

    "Woah, dude," I said, holding him by the shoulders so I could gently push him away. "What're you talking about?"

    "Saturday," he said hastily. "After you hung up, I drove to your place, but you were gone, and . . . I don't know, man, I got really fucked up worrying about you, and I didn't sleep, and I did a lot of thinking. I know this is going to sound lame, but I looked some stuff up --"

     I surprised us both by laughing. That had to be the most Bryan thing I'd ever heard.

    "Shut up," he said. "Can we sit down?"

     We climbed into my car, and he continued. "So I thought about how you'd been acting all week, and I looked some stuff up, and -- to grossly oversimplify, because I'm not an expert and I don't want to say you're something that you're not -- I kind of figured out that you're not as okay as you pretend to be all the time. And not just because of Jamie. I don't know, a lot of things started to make sense. Not just now but . . . last year, when you kept missing school and leaving early and stuff -- around when you broke your wrist, I think -- was that the same deal? What happened in the middle? Has it been going on this whole time and I've just missed it, or was there a long-ass gap where everything was okay? And what I said to you Monday, did it make things worse? I swear I wasn't trying to --"

     "Hey," I cut him off with a slight raise of my hand. "Calm down, okay? I can't answer a million questions at once."

    Bryan scratched the back of his neck. "Okay. Okay . . . has whatever's been going on with you now happened before?" When I nodded, he pressed his lips together and let out a frustrated sigh through his nose. "How did I not realize it last year?"

     "I hid it a lot better last year . . . and it wasn't as bad."

     Worry flashed in Bryan's eyes. "Why did it stop? Or, why did it come back?"

    All I could do was shrug; it was the most honest answer I could give him.

   "Did I . . . did what I said about Jamie last week make things worse?"

     It was hard to pick words that wouldn't make him feel bad. "For a little while, yeah. But it wasn't just you. Like I said, things are kind of worse now. I feel like I can't control my own thoughts anymore. You didn't know, you were just trying to be a good friend. It's not your fault."

    I could tell that didn't make him feel any better, so I added, "And I'm glad you said it."

    "Why?"

    I nodded sideways, directing his gaze to the driver's side window. He searched for a moment before his eyes landed on Jamie. He wasn't in the bed of some truck with a cigarette between his lips, but walking toward to school with Vanessa. I smiled to myself as I watched her hold his blazer toward him by the shoulders and wave it at him, laughing through her attempt to coax it on him. He wasn't smiling, exactly, but I knew the look on his face as he rolled his eyes at her.

     I pulled his cigarette pack from my back pocket. I was positive he'd replaced it by now. But I also had a feeling he wouldn't be going through one or two packs a day anymore.

     Bryan's lips formed an 'O', and he was excited when he looked at me. "Are you guys good again?" he asked hopefully.

    I didn't respond until Jamie and Vanessa had disappeared through the doors. "Not really," I said, turning back to him. "I talked to him, and I don't really know what he's thinking, just that he's . . . finished." The truth would've been to say that he hated me, but I couldn't manage that. "He always likes to act like he isn't listening but, well," I gestured toward where they had been moments before, as if that finished the sentence. "Something in him still wants what I could have given him if I hadn't fucked up so bad, and god, I really hope he holds onto that long enough to find it. He's okay, I think. Or, he will be."

     Without me.

     It almost made it all worth it, knowing that there was a chance -- however small -- that I'd still done something good for him.

     "What about you?" Bryan asked. "Are you alright?"

     I laughed darkly, sliding lower in my seat. "Worse than ever."

     Bryan seemed to understand that I didn't want him to comment on that, because he didn't. "One more question," he said.

     "Shoot."

    "Why don't we talk about this stuff?"

     I tilted my head sideways onto the headrest. He'd asked the question like one might ask about the weather, but it was jarring. "I don't know," I said. "I guess because we never have."

    It was true. Bryan and I had always stood behind each other without question. It was comforting, having a friendship so loyal, but asking no questions meant getting no answers.

     "How much are you willing to tell me?" he asked.

     If I'd asked myself the same question a few weeks ago, my answer would've been elusive at best. But now I said, "However much you want to know," and I meant it. "How about you?"

    Life hadn't been all sunshine and roses for Bryan, either. I knew that, but if someone asked me how he'd felt during his hard times, I wouldn't be able to tell them.

     Bryan grinned. "I guess it's time to get into the nitty-gritty then, huh? Bonus points if one of us cries."

    "It'll definitely be you," I teased; I was shocked to hear the smile in my own voice. "Now a good time?" I asked, shifting my car into reverse.

    "As good as ever," he said. I had never been more grateful to have him by my side.

     By the end of the day -- after eating out at four different fast-food places, battling our way through our favorite video games, and tossing around a football in his backyard for hours -- we'd both earned our fair share of bonus points.

++++

Two more weeks crawled by at a snail's pace. March rolled around with nothing to offer.

     People kept telling me things would get better. Stevie, Bryan, even Vanessa at one point. My mom, too -- she pulled me aside one evening to tell me that she could tell something was wrong, that she wouldn't ask but was there if I needed her, and that everything that seemed like the end of the world now would mean little in five years.

    I was still waiting for the better part to start. They say time heals all, but I felt myself sinking lower and lower every day.

     Some things were good. The last of my college letters has trickled in, and I'd gotten into most of the schools I'd wanted to. Now that I had come clean to both Stevie and Bryan, I had -- for the first time -- two different people to confide in. One who always had advice to offer, and one who was close enough to hug when I needed it, who would come over in the middle of the night with a twenty-pack of McDonald's chicken nuggets if I so much as "sounded sad" over text.

     College, Stevie, and Bryan were about the only good right now, though.

     I spent so much of my time being anxious about something -- whatever there could possibly be to be anxious about -- that I was almost used to the feeling, though that didn't make it any easier. The constant fear of having another attack was overwhelming, so that even when I wasn't panicking, I missed information in class and fell out of favor with my teachers. I'd been good, after the situation in stats, about making my escape any time I felt myself slipping -- it was a little sad, how skilled I'd gotten at excusing myself to the bathroom or the nurse's office with a smile on my face. Still, I got enough attention that people were catching onto the change; knowing that didn't make calming myself down any easier, to say the least.

     My family was in about as good a state as my mentality. My parents fought more than ever, and Jacob shut himself out more than ever. I was starting to feel like Stevie was the only thing keeping us together, but even her effect was limited; things had been tense between her and our parents ever since her manic episode. They supported her, but she was putting a serious strain on their lives and their wallets, and she knew it -- it wasn't that they treated her any differently, but that she shied away from their care out of guilt.

     It was frustrating, the feeling that there wasn't a single aspect of my life that I had any hold over. I couldn't fix my mind. I couldn't fix my family. I couldn't fix my relationship with Jamie.

     I didn't feel like I was getting punched in the stomach every time I saw him anymore. But I wasn't over him, I wasn't getting over him. I knew a few weeks wasn't enough time, but hell, I just wanted to stop thinking about him. I wanted to stop missing him all the damn time. Dreaming about him changing his mind. Hovering over his phone number for minutes at a time before ultimately deciding against calling. Worrying about him, and how he was doing, like his life still had anything to do with me.

    His SAT was in a week. I wanted so badly for him to do well. I knew he would, too; Bryan told me that Vanessa had been helping him study. In a fucked up, unfair way, I resented her for it.

    My unwarranted jealousy didn't stop me from being grateful for her, though. Ever since Jamie and I broke up, she'd abandoned lunch with Bryan and I to sit with him. She'd offered to babysit Penelope several times, just so Jamie would get uninterrupted time with her. She'd taken up the role of helping Jamie catch up in his classes and study for the SAT. I was sure he hadn't made it easy on her, because he was Jamie, but she'd been just as stubborn as me, and she'd made sure that he wasn't alone in the aftermath of my storm.

     I wondered how much he'd told her by now. About us. I had a feeling he'd told her everything, and I wasn't mad at him for it.

     It was a relief to know that he had somebody to stand by him, unmoving, willing to put up with his moods and ready to offer him comfort. But it felt like defeat to know that it wouldn't be me. I guess it was bad -- manipulative, even cruel -- that a small part of me wished she wasn't there, so he'd need me again. But I was only human, and heartbreak spoke with a powerful voice.

++++

"Liam, honey, dinner's ready!"

     My mom's call carried through my bedroom door, strong and clear despite the fact that she had hardly raised her voice.

     "I'll eat later!" I called back, rolling onto my stomach and pushing my face into my pillow.

     "It smells really good!" my dad coaxed; unlike my mom, he had to yell for his words to carry the same distance, and even then his voice was muffled and strained.

    I didn't lift my head to respond until my lungs started to feel tight for lack of air. "Later!" I insisted.

    My dad wasn't what I'd call a stubborn man; he left most of the fieriness to mom. But when he'd had enough of something, he'd had enough, so I wasn't entirely surprised when he pushed open my bedroom door, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, "Kitchen. Now."

    The last thing I wanted was to spend my Sunday night sitting through twenty minutes of him and mom making snide comments at each other across the table, but I played off my distaste with a forced chuckle. "I'm technically an adult, you know. You can't make me."

    My dad was a pretty goofy guy; he was the type to roll with the punches, always ready for some teasing or bickering. But today, he shook his head crossly and said, "What are you even doing, Liam? What's your excuse? I don't see any homework around here." He looked around my room, just to make his point. "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages. I'd get it if you were doing something in here, but you're just laying around. Would it kill you to spend some time with your family?"

     I swallowed back a biting remark about his definition of 'family' and shrugged my shoulders at him. He seemed to realize he'd won this one, because he turned and left without another glance. After a dramatic eye-roll and a mumbled curse, I pushed myself out of bed and followed him out.

     "You know," I said to his back as I trailed him to the dining room, "I think it's pretty unfair that Jacob can skip dinner as often as he wants, but I can't take some time to myself and --"

    I broke off at the sight of Jacob sitting at the dinner table. He glanced up from his phone just to look me in the eyes and say, "Fuck you."

    I gave my dad an exasperated look, and he gave Jacob some halfhearted scolding before sitting at the head of the table.

     My mom smiled warmly from where she sat at the other head -- the spot that left as much space as possible between her and dad. "I'm so glad you joined us," she said. She waved her hand over the center of the table, where a beef and cheddar casserole sat, and said, "Dig in, boys."

    That was when I realized what was happening. The abnormally tasty-looking food, dad's persistence, mom's forced smile; it was time for a Family Talk.

   Jacob seemed to piece this together, too, because he groaned and said, "You know, I'm not really hungry," and started to rise from his seat.

     "Sit," my mom said, and he plopped back down immediately, though not without an irritated mumble. When my mother wanted to be commanding, she was downright intimidating.

     She was the first to serve herself. The rest of us followed suit, and we fell into an uneasy false-calm, forcing conversation and pretending to be pleasant. Even Jacob and I took a break from snapping at each other.

     The last time we'd had a Family Talk was when mom and dad announced that they were getting back together three -- or was it four -- years ago. Back then, Stevie had been here to do most of the responding. As the oldest, I realized with some dread that the responsibility would fall on me now. The idea alone of having to answer to whatever was coming made my fingers twitch, and I hoped to god that it wouldn't be too much for me to handle.

     "So," my mom said when we had all finished, setting her knife and fork at the center of her plate the way she'd been trying to convince us to for years. My dad, on the other hand, left his silverware wherever it was -- he'd never cared for etiquette inside the home. I took after him. Jacob and Stevie took after mom.

     "Your dad and I have been talking," she said to me and Jacob.

    Is that what the screaming I heard last night was, then?

    "We know these are hard times for the entire family," she continued. "Your sister has been going through a rough patch, which has obviously caused some added stress for all of us. You boys are still growing, and you're at that stage of your lives where little things seem big and you feel . . . misunderstood."

    I hated the way mom spoke to us during Family Talks. Like we were at some kind of low-budget group therapy.

    "We were teens once, too," my dad said, throwing out the most overused parent line of all time. "We know what it's like. You guys can come to us, you know. I hate how I feel like this family is barely a family anymore."

    "And whose fault is that?" Jacob snapped. My dad's eyes widened, and my mom took a sharp breath, but I was the first one to turn to him.

     He was staring down at his plate. It was the first time he'd ever given any sign that our parents' relationship bothered him. Even when they were going through all of their failed "fresh starts," he'd handled their animosity wordlessly, whereas Stevie and I had been rather vocal in our complaints.

    "Now Jacob, dear, that really isn't fair," my mother said, calm but firm.

     "Isn't it?" he retaliated. "I mean, how can you guys even think about blaming us for how messed up our family is when you know damn well that it's because of all the shit you dragged us through?"

    "Jacob!" my dad scolded. "All your mother and I are trying to say is that we wish the two of you weren't so closed off with us!"

    "Can you blame us?" Jacob sneered. He had a white-knuckled grip on his fork, and he pressed the prongs into the table. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to open up to your parents when your parents keep changing?"

    "We have always been your parents," my mother pacified. "Yes, we fell out, but at the end of the day, I have always been your mother, and he has always been your father. Jacob, don't push your fork into the table like that."

     Jacob let the fork fall with a clang onto his plate and leaned back against his seat. "Can I go?" he asked dryly.

    "We just want to talk, Jacob --" my mom pleaded.

    "You've had fifteen years to talk. Go fucking talk to each other. Go talk to Liam. Leave me out of it."

    "Could you quit being such an asshole?" I snapped at him. The glare he pinned on me could've melted glass, but I was used to it. "You're right; all of the divorcing and moving and stepparents . . . all of that made things really hard. Yeah, this family is fucked up, and yeah, that's why. But stop being such a brat and cut mom and dad a little slack, would you? They obviously care a lot. You can't pin the fact that you're an ungrateful little shit all on them."

     "Liam!" my dad started, but Jacob was already on his feet.

    "Yeah?" he sneered. "Maybe it's all been peachy for you, because you're the perfect son and you can do no wrong and you were around when things were better. Maybe you're forgetting that I was too young to even remember the first divorce! This broken excuse for a home has been my whole fucking life, Liam! And while we were going from house to house, who did I have to talk to? It was always you and Stevie! Even when you and I lived together and she was in a different goddamn city, you couldn't be bothered with me!"

     "That's not true!" I protested, rising to my feet as well. "We used to be close!"

     "What is close to you?" Jacob was yelling now, fists clenched on the tabletop as he leaned toward me. "Playing ball in the backyard? Movie marathons? We were brothers -- we hung out -- but we were never close, because we never really talked! You don't know a damn thing about me!"

     "You never told me!"

    "You never asked!"

     I tried for a response, but all I could do was stare at him. His gaze never wavered, but mine did, because I realized -- with this burning, cutting guilt -- that he was right. Suddenly, the room seemed to flip, and I had to grip the back of my chair for support; there was no feeling like the realization that I wasn't as innocent as I'd thought I was. That I'd played a hand in something I'd been so quick to assume was beyond my control.

    "Jacob . . ." I trailed. I looked helplessly at my parents, but they were staring at their youngest son in shock. Whatever Jacob thought of them, I could see clear as day how much they cared about him in the way they looked at him now.

     "Go ahead, Liam," he growled. "Say whatever it is you've got to say." When I stayed quiet, he laughed. "Nothing? Does anyone ever have anything to say to each other in this family? Anything real," he glared between our parents, "That doesn't sound like it came from some shitty Lifetime script? You guys want me to open up, but what the hell do you know about Liam?" he looked at me again, and no amount of time could prepare me for what I saw in his glare. "Other than the fact that he's popular and he plays football and he's good at math? Go ahead, Mr. Model Son -- tell us something real."

     The challenge was malicious. Jacob assumed that I was just as shallow and artificial as the facade my family put on. He thought I had nothing to say; he just wanted to prove it.

     "Okay," I said quietly, trying to swallow back the burn in my throat. "Okay, I'll tell you something real."

    My words weren't apologetic. No, I was too angry and terrified and frustrated and anxious to apologize to him. There was a bite behind every syllable.

     Clenching my shaking hands into fists and staring directly at my little brother, I said, "I . . . I like boys. I only like boys."