The Redemption of Callie & Kayden

doesn’t he.”
    I return his nod and then it grows quiet. Snowflakes drift down and our breath laces in front of our faces. I wonder why he’s really here. Did Seth tell him I needed to be watched?
    “You want to go somewhere?” Luke uncrosses his ankles and sits up straight. “I don’t know about you, but I could really use a break from this place.”
    “Yeah.” I don’t even hesitate, which surprises me. Does that mean I’m getting over my trust issues?
    He smiles genuinely, but there’s intensity in his eyes; something that’s always there. I used to be intimidated by it, but now I know it’s just him. Besides, I think he hides behind it—maybe fear, loneliness, or the pain of life.
    I tuck my notebook underneath my arm and we get to our feet. We hike across the campus yard, heading toward the unknown, but I guess that’s okay for now. I’ll know where I’m going when I get there.

Chapter 2
    #22 Make a decision that frightens you
Kayden
    Whenever I close my eyes, all I see is Callie.
Callie. Callie. Callie
. I can almost feel the softness of her hair and skin, taste her, smell the scent of her shampoo. I miss her so fucking badly I can’t breathe sometimes. If I could sleep forever, I would, just so I could hold onto the one thing that makes me happy. But eventually I have to open my eyes and face the reality I put on myself.
    The torture.
    The brokenness.
    What’s left of my life.
    I probably don’t deserve to think about Callie, not after what I did, after she found me… like that. She knows my secret now, the darkest one I’ve hidden inside me since I was a kid, the one that’s the biggest part of me. The worst part of it is that she didn’t hear it from me. She heard it from my mother.
    It’s for the best, though. Callie can go on living her life and she can be happy not having to deal with my problems. I’ll stay here and keep my eyes shut and hold onto the memory of her for as long as I can because that’s what keeps me breathing.
    * * *
    I’d never been afraid of death. My dad started beating the shit out of me when I was young and an early death always kind of seemed inevitable. Then Callie entered my life and my acceptance of an early death was wrecked. I’m afraid of death now, something I realized after I cut my arms. I can remember watching the blood drip onto the floor and then staring at the bloody knife in my hand. All this doubt and fear had washed through me and I’d regretted it. But it had already been done. As I lay down on the floor, all I could see was Callie’s sad face when she’d hear the news that I was dead. There would be no one to protect her from the world if I was gone. And she needed protecting—deserved it more than anyone. And I was such a fuckup that I couldn’t even give her that.
    About two weeks after the incident, I was transferred to the Brayman’s Facility, which isn’t much better than the hospital. It’s located over on the side of town near the garbage dump and an old trailer park. The room is bare, with plain white walls, no decorations and a stained linoleum floor. The air smells a little less sterilized, but the garbage dump odor drifts into my room sometimes. There’s not so much death lingering over everyone’s heads, but people really like to talk about it. I’ve been here for only a few days and I’m not sure when I’ll be ready to leave yet. I’m not sure about a lot of things.
    I’m lying in bed, which I do a lot, staring out the window, wondering what Callie is doing right now. I hope something fun that makes her happy and smile.
    It’s almost time for my checkup so I slowly sit up in the bed, placing my hand over my side where I was stitched up. The knife miraculously missed my organs and it was actually the less severe of my injuries. I was lucky. That’s what everyone kept telling me. I was also lucky I didn’t cut any major arteries on my wrist. Lucky. Lucky. Lucky. The word keeps getting thrown around, like everyone’s trying to remind me how precious life is. I don’t believe in luck though, and I’m not even sure I believe that surviving means I’m lucky.
    Several times while I was in the hospital, I thought about telling someone what really happened, but I was so doped up on painkillers that I couldn’t seem to clear my head enough to get around to it. When the fog in my brain finally cleared, I saw the situation for what it was. I’d just kicked Caleb’s ass, I was considered unstable, and the