Forever, Again

by Victoria Laurie

  Copyright © 2016 by Victoria Laurie

  Cover design by Tyler Nevins

  Cover photographs © 2016 by Andrea Chu

  Title lettering by Molly Jacques

  Designed by Tyler Nevins

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-4847-0044-0

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Amber

  Lily

  Spence

  Amber

  Lily

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Sandy and Steve

  May your love for each other be

  forever…again…and always

  I FELT THIN AS PARCHMENT, delicate as a house of cards, held up only by my own carefully poised architecture—so fragile I could come apart at the slightest breeze. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I held perfectly still…waiting.

  It’d been three days since we found Spence, the memory of seeing him in the field seared itself into my mind like a hot brand. His face, so waxy and pale; his eyes—lifeless, staring up at a sky he could no longer see; his chest a wash of crimson, and his heart, permanently broken…just like mine. Slowly but surely that memory was waging battle against me, sucking out any will I had left.

  I took a tiny breath, my only resistance against the onslaught. I closed my eyes and prayed for release. Soon, I thought. Let it come soon.

  After setting things in motion, I didn’t think I’d have long to wait.

  Behind me I heard the bedroom door creak open. I took another small breath tinged with a tiny ray of hope. “Amber, honey?” Momma said.

  I let out the breath. The hope went with it.

  Momma came into the room and I stiffened as she sat down next to me. I curled my fingers around the note in my hand, hoping she wouldn’t notice it poking out of my closed fist.

  “Sweetheart, won’t you come have something to eat?” she asked.

  I opened my eyes and stared out the window, willing her not to touch me.

  “We were thinking of taking you out,” she continued. “Bill Metcalf came by this afternoon and said that the football team is heading to Bennigan’s after they visit the funeral home for the viewing. I thought it might be good for you to be around Spence’s friends.”

  Momma put a gentle hand on my shoulder, threatening the architecture. I trembled with the effort to hold myself upright. “Your dad says you went out earlier. Did you go for a walk, honey?”

  I said nothing, all of my focus intent on holding up the house of cards. Around us the air was still and hot. Summer was about to come early to Fredericksburg.

  Momma sat there, looking at me expectantly, and I waited. Finally, she got up and said, “We’ll bring you back something to eat. Bailey’s sleeping in our room. The poor pup is exhausted with worry over you, I think.” Momma paused, and when I didn’t acknowledge her or what she’d said, she sighed softly. “We’ll be home by eight, but call us at the restaurant if you need us, okay, baby?”

  I said nothing, and at last she left the room and I was alone. A few minutes later the house fell silent as my parents drove to dinner.

  The sun began to set and with it, the searing memory of Spence lying in that field burned hotter. I’d found him at dusk. He’d died just as the last rays of the sun painted the sky pink, lavender, and deep indigo. It’d been a beautiful night. A perfect night. A night of hopes and dreams…until it wasn’t. Until it’d become a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

  In my mind I replayed the moment I’d gone to look for Spence and heard something odd. A small pop. Nothing more than that. Just a small popping sound piercing the spring night. And then, a few moments later, a second pop. I’d thought little of it. A firecracker. A toy gun. A car backfiring. Nothing unusual, and yet, that had been the moment I’d lost him.

  The house of cards quivered and I took a breath, reinforcing it for just a little longer.

  The sun dipped lower, sending magenta rays streaking across the sky and in through the window to bathe me for one final time in soft light. I wondered if I could ride one of those rays and find my way to Spence. Would it be that easy?

  Behind me, out in the hallway, I heard light footsteps on the floorboards. At the same time a cool breeze fluttered the curtains and caressed my skin. I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. Death had found me. At last.

  Upstairs I heard Bailey bark once—a soft woof to alert me. A tear slid down my cheek for Bailey. For leaving her. For leaving them all.

  I’d placed a letter on the desk, trying to explain, but I couldn’t seem to get the words right, and it pained me greatly to think they’d always wonder why.

  My door protested squeakily as it eased open, and I stiffened as the whisper of fabric and footfalls approached me from behind. A moment later the bed depressed slightly and a viselike hand gripped my shoulder. I made no move to fend off the attack, and had only a moment to wait for the sharp pierce of the knife as it drove into my flesh. The pain was excruciating, and I gritted my teeth against it. Fresh tears leaked out of my shuttered eyes. With my right hand I reached up to grip the knife, holding it to me as I sank backward onto the bed where I let my limbs fall. My last act of will opened my left palm to expose the note: payment for the deed.

  A shadow hovered over me before the note was lifted away and then the shadow departed and the world above me blurred. I inhaled one final ragged breath, but I couldn’t hold it in. I exhaled on a wave of release. And then, the house of cards crumbled completely and the soft rays of dusk carried me up and away, toward Spence.

  IN THE CENTER OF MY CHEST there’s a birthmark that looks like a bloodstain. It’s red, elliptical, but the bottom trickles away from the center, like blood leaking out of my heart.

  It’s one of those things that, when I look in the mirror, seems completely foreign to me, even though it’s been there my entire life. It’s not the imperfection of it, but the implication that bothers me. It feels sinister, like a terrible memory of a horrible event I try to recall but can’t.

  Sometimes I swear I even feel it burn.

  And I’ve never been able to figure out why it always hurts the most the morning after a recurring dream I keep having. Recurring nightmare actually.

  The dream has always been the same—it has never, ever varied. It begins with me running toward a field. It’s dark out, but the field is lit by fire, and yet, there’s no smoke. The flames are alive with movement, pulsing over the grass of the meadow, but there’s no heat.

  I’m fueled by panic, but I
don’t know why. I just know I need to run toward the middle of that field. And then I come to the center and there lies the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. He’s staring up at me, a half smile on his lips, but his eyes are lifeless. I drop down beside him as the flames lick across our skin. I take him into my arms, willing for life to come back to him, but he’s cold against me. He’s already gone.

  And always I feel as if I’m the one dying.

  I’ve woken up crying every single time, shaken and so profoundly sad that I think it’s a wonder I ever knew joy. In those moments, the birthmark burns, and I always touch it with my fingers and then check to see if there’s actual blood.

  There never is, but I can’t shake the feeling that there should be.

  I don’t know who the boy is, and I don’t know why I keep having that nightmare, but I do know that I’ve been having the exact same dream since I was four. I think it has importance. I think it means something. But what that could be I have no idea.

  The dream had been intermittent, never coming more than a few times a year, but it’s been waking me up every night for the past two weeks, ever since Mom and I moved into my grandmother’s guesthouse.

  I know most people would say that the dream is happening more often now because of the stress from the divorce. But what’s weird is that I was so much more stressed-out when my parents were fighting under the same roof. It was bad. Every single day they just shouted accusations and obscenities at each other. My dad cheated on my mom, but really, I felt like he cheated on all of us; the us that’d been a family until he’d gone off and gotten himself a girlfriend.

  And as if my life wasn’t miserable enough, in the final week of my sophomore year I’d found out that Tanner—my boyfriend of two years—was cheating on me with Sophie—my best friend since first grade. At least their secret had come out at the very end of the school year and I was spared the humiliation of having to see them together in the hallways and hear the whispers about poor, pathetic me.

  Soon after summer vacation started, Mom came to me to tell me that Grandmother Bennett had learned about my dad’s affair and the divorce, and, disgusted by her son’s behavior, she’d reached out to Mom to offer us a place to live on her estate. Grandmother had also used her influence on the board at the hospital in Fredericksburg to get Mom placed as a resident there.

  She’d asked me what I’d thought about moving out of Richmond, and I’d told her I could be packed in a day. I wanted nothing more than to run away from all of the reminders of how messed-up my life had become.

  So we’d packed our stuff and, toward the end of the summer, we’d moved.

  Through all of that mess, I hadn’t had the dream of the boy in the field even once, but ever since we’d settled into Grandmother’s guesthouse, I’d woken up in a cold sweat every night, breathing hard, trembling, and crying.

  The boy’s death always had the same devastating effect on me, and I knew it was impossible to fight the tears, so I settled for allowing them to rinse the heartbreak from my muddled, sleep-deprived mind before chancing a look at the alarm clock next to my bed.

  I groaned when I read the time: two thirty.

  “Why?” I whispered, putting fists to the side of my head. “Why, why, why?”

  I’d need to be up in three hours for my first day at my new school. I wanted so bad to figure out the dream. Or to make it stop. I’d prefer to figure it out and then make it stop, but neither choice seemed open to me at the moment.

  With a sigh I pulled back the covers and sat up, rubbing my chest where the mark was burning. I took a few deep breaths and pushed myself out of bed. I knew from experience that I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep.

  Padding out of the room, I made my way to the kitchen, careful to step around the few boxes that hadn’t been unpacked yet, when I heard a noise behind me and jumped.

  “Lily?” Mom said. “Honey, it’s two thirty in the morning. What’re you doing up?”

  The light came on, and Mom was standing there. She looked like I felt—tired to the bone—but probably for very different reasons.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I told her.

  She shuffled over to me and put a hand on my brow. “You’re coated in sweat,” she said. Then she cupped my face and peered down at me. “Do you feel sick?”

  “No, Mom,” I assured her. She had enough on her plate without worrying about me. “Just had a bad dream.”

  But Mom’s brow lifted and she said, “The one with the boy in the field?”

  “Yeah,” I said, a little surprised. I’d been having the dream most of my life, but we hadn’t talked about it in years. “How’d you know?”

  Mom seemed surprised herself. “I didn’t,” she said. “But it’s always been the only one that can do this to you.”

  I shrugged. “I’m so tired. I want to turn it off.”

  Mom’s mouth tilted down into a concerned frown. She wrapped her arms around me, pulling me close, and stroked my hair. “Sounds like you’ve had this nightmare more than just tonight.”

  I sighed heavily against her. “Just a couple times recently,” I admitted. I didn’t want to tell her the truth, because I didn’t want to lay a guilt trip on her.

  Before she could press me about it, I moved out of her embrace and over to the refrigerator to open the door and peer in. “Want some cocoa?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

  There was a pause then she said, “Sure,” and I heard the chair slide back from the table. I busied myself for a few minutes at the stove, hoping she’d let it go.

  “How long have you really been having the dream, Lily?” Mom asked again, her tone serious.

  I stirred the milk, avoiding her gaze. “Ever since we moved in here.”

  I heard Mom’s breath catch, but she managed to hold her tongue. I sighed as steam lifted from the milk in the pan. After pouring the milk into two mugs, I brought them to the table.

  “Tell me about it,” she said, her eyes creasing in the corners with worry.

  So I did. And Mom listened in patient silence. At the end she simply studied my face while our cocoa cooled, before reaching across the table and putting her hand on mine. “It’s been a tough couple of months, hasn’t it, kiddo?”

  I sighed, staring into my mug. “Yeah. For both of us.”

  “You know that the dream is probably about the divorce, and your breakup with Tanner, right? Maybe it’s time to see someone professionally, Lily, you know, to talk about all that you’ve been going through.”

  I’d balked at her earlier attempts to enroll me in therapy. Mom had first made the suggestion shortly after she and Dad filed for divorce. Dwelling on all my problems in some stranger’s office didn’t sound very therapeutic to me.

  “I don’t know how the dream connects to all that, though, Mom. I mean, I started having it when I was a little kid. How could it be about your split with Dad or my breakup with Tanner when it started happening twelve years ago?”

  That seemed to stump her. “Is it exactly the same dream?”

  I nodded. “In every way.”

  Mom tapped her finger on the tabletop. “Well, that’s odd,” she said. “And maybe even more of a reason to talk to a therapist.”

  I shook my head. “Please don’t make me.”

  Mom smiled patiently. “I’ve been talking to one.”

  My eyes widened. “You have?”

  “Yes,” she told me, as though that was hard to admit. “It’s helping, Lily. It’s how I managed to swallow my pride and accept Maureen’s offer.”

  The feud between my grandmother and Dad was something of a mystery to me. Mostly I think that it had to do with the fact that my grandmother was really, really wealthy, and she liked to control people through her money.

  I suspected that at some point in the past my grandmother had tried to control my dad one time too many, and he’d rebelled enough to cause her to cut him off. He’d gone on to become successful anyway, and I think that irked her.

&nbs
p; It worried me a little that Mom had accepted Grandmother’s offer to live on her estate and work at the hospital where she was so influential, but even this situation beat staying in Richmond.

  “I didn’t know,” I told her.

  She smiled and sipped at her cocoa. “He’s good,” she said. “Dr. Carson. He’s nice, and he helps me figure things out. He’s given me some perspective about what happened between your dad and me, and he’s helping me to cope with the fallout.”

  I looked down at my hands. I knew exactly what Mom meant by “fallout.” Three months ago, in May, Mom and I had been in the car on our way to a boutique on the other side of Richmond when we’d spotted Dad at an outdoor café with his girlfriend. The PDAs between them were disgusting, and Mom had had to pull the car over, she was so upset.

  That afternoon, our family had crumbled like an old ruin. Dad had admitted to the affair, and in the next sentence, which I’d overheard because they were shouting at each other, he’d said that he was leaving Mom for his pregnant girlfriend. He never told me if he was also leaving me; I think I’d assumed at the time that that was implied.

  “What’s your doctor say to you?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  “Well,” she said, “he’s helped me see your father in a more compassionate light.” My brow furrowed. Was she kidding? “I know that may sound strange,” she said, “but it helps to see him as a flawed human being rather than my son-of-a-bitch ex-husband who had an affair and got his girlfriend pregnant. It helps me feel less angry toward him. And Dr. Carson also helps me to see how I was complicit in the demise of our marriage.”

  My mouth fell open. “You? How were you to blame?”

  Mom sighed but there was a sad smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “It’s complicated, Lily, and I’m not going to burden you with the details, so you’ll have to trust me that it takes two people to make a marriage either succeed or fail.”

  I frowned at her. “It still doesn’t excuse what he did,” I said stubbornly.

  “No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t. But it’s helping me sleep better at night.”

  I shook my head and stared down at my hands again. Her hint was well taken. “How long would I have to see Dr. Carson?”