Losing Hope

don’t know how long the two of them have been dating, but they were together before Les and I even moved here. And we moved here in the fourth grade, so it’s been a while.
    “How’s your mom?” she asks. As soon as she says it, she shakes her head apologetically. “I’m sorry, Holder. That was a really stupid question. I promised myself I wouldn’t be one of those people.”
    “Believe me, you’re not,” I assure her. I motion behind me. “You coming inside?”
    She nods and glances at the house, then to me. “Do you mind if I go up to her room? It’s fine if you don’t want me up there yet. It’s just that she had a few pictures I’d really like to have.”
    “No, it’s fine.” Based on the relationship she had with Les, Amy has just as much right to be in Les’s bedroom as I do. I know Les would want Amy to take whatever it is she wants.
    She follows me into the house and up the stairs. I notice my mother isn’t on the couch anymore. Brian must have finally coaxed her into going to bed. I walk to the top of the stairs with Amy, but have no desire to go into Les’s room with her. I nudge my head toward my bedroom. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
    She inhales a deep, nervous breath and nods while releasing it. “Thanks,” she says, eyeing Les’s door warily. She takes a reluctant step toward the bedroom, so I turn away and head to my room. I shut the door behind me and take a seat on the bed, picking up Les’s notebook while I lean back against my headboard. I’ve already written her today, but I grab a pen because I’ve got nothing better to do than write to her again. Or at least there’s nothing else I want to do because it all leads back to thoughts of her anyway.

Chapter Three-and-a-half
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    Les,
    Amy’s here. She’s in your room, going through your shit.
    I wonder if she had any clue as to what you were about to do? I know sometimes girls share stuff with their girlfriends that they wouldn’t share with anyone else—even twin brothers. Did you ever tell her how you really felt? Did you give her any hints at all? I’m really hoping you didn’t, because that would mean she probably feels pretty damn guilty right about now. She doesn’t deserve to feel guilty over what you did, Les. She’s been your best friend for seven years now, so I hope to hell you thought about that before you made such a selfish decision.
    I feel guilty for what you did, but I deserve to feel guilty. There’s a responsibility that comes along with being a brother that doesn’t necessarily come along with being a best friend. It was my job to protect you, not Amy’s. So she doesn’t deserve to feel guilty.
    Maybe that was my problem. Maybe I spent so much time trying to protect you from Grayson that I never thought who I really needed to be protecting you from was yourself.
    H
    • • •
    There’s a light tap on my bedroom door, so I close the notebook and set it on the nightstand. Amy pushes open the door and I sit up on the bed. I motion for her to come in so she eases through the door and shuts it behind her. She walks over to my dresser and sets the pictures she collected down, running her finger over the top one. Tears are silently streaming down her cheeks.
    “Come here,” I say, holding a hand out to her. She walks closer to me and takes my hand, then completely breaks down the second she makes eye contact with me. I continue to pull her forward until she’s on the bed and I wrap my arms around her. She curls up against my chest, sobbing uncontrollably. She’s shaking so hard and it’s almost a devastated cry, but like I said before, devastated should be reserved for mothers.
    I close my eyes tightly and try not to let it all hit me like it’s hitting Amy right now, but it’s hard. I can hold it in for my mother because she needs me to be strong for her. Amy doesn’t, though. If Amy feels anything like I do, then she just needs to know there’s someone else out there just as blindsided and heartbroken as she is.
    “Shh,” I say, stroking her hair. I know she doesn’t want me to console her with empty, overused words. She just needs someone to understand how she feels and I may be the only one she knows who truly does. I don’t tell her to try to stop crying, because I know it’s impossible. I press my cheek against her head, hating the fact that I’m now crying, too. I’ve done a pretty damn good job of keeping it in, but I can’t anymore. I continue to