It begins to rain in the parking lot of the town's park. I leave the engine running, the windscreen wipers working hard to clear my view. I'm blasting the heater, warming my hands over the vents.

Because my phone had died, I'd driven to the closest pay phone available and called Maia's number. She'd picked up instantly, as though she somehow knew it was me.

My passenger door opens, revealing Maia bundled in a long great coat and a matching beanie. Her dark skin has a slight rosey tinge to her cheeks as she sighs, closing the door on the cold.

"I tell you," she shivers, "this winter is way too damn cold."

"You say that every year," I smile softly. "It's that endless cycle where you forget how hot summer is in winter and how cold winter is in summer."

She turns to me, holding out her frosted hands. I take them in my warm ones, clasping our fingers together. "Firstly, I'm sorry," she says, breathless. "I always bully Layla for speaking before she thinks, but I'm just as bad. Or worse, really. Because maybe I did know what I was saying and I did it anyway.

"I just — I don't want this to be an excuse, because I was in the wrong — but sometimes it's hard for me to let go of things. I saw how badly your brother hurt you, and I couldn't just sit around pretending I was okay that he was in our home. And when I saw how you were really trying, it made it even harder for me. It was as though you'd been through all this pain and trauma just for you to pretend that you were fine.

"And you have to realise, Rhea, that since you took on that internship, you haven't been fine. You've changed. You've become obsessed again with Braxton's case. Just like how you became obsessed with— I don't need to remind you. That isn't my point. I need you to realise that it's okay to relapse. Just talk to me, though."

When she stops, I begin to take in everything she's told me. It takes a few seconds, her words spewing out of her like she's waited a long time to tell me. Maybe she has.

"And don't scare me by shutting me out. I was terrified when Layla told me you weren't safe," tears swim in her eyes as she clutches my hands tighter, as though she's afraid to let go. "If you can't live with us, fine. But tell me first."

"It's not forever," I start, not knowing where else to begin. "Just until the trial is over."

"You're in danger because of Brax, aren't you?" she sniffs. "Everything bad that is happening is circling back to him. You see that right?"

I sigh, closing my eyes. "It'll be alright," I urge.

"Where are you staying?" she pleads. "At least give me that."

"With Brax and his family."

"Where?"

"Not far from home," I promise, vaguely. "If I need you, it wouldn't take long to get to each other."

She pulls her hands from mine, rubbing a hand over her face. "I don't like this, but I can hardly stop you, can I?"

I lean my head against her shoulder, closing my eyes briefly. "I know you're doing this for Lay and I," she whispers. "I hope you know that you being away is harder than us fighting whatever is going on together."

Despite her words, I disagree. There is no need for me to put them in harms way if I can avoid it.

"At least keep talking to your therapist," she murmurs. "Promise me that."

I hold out my pinky, and she wraps it around mine. We hold it there for a while, an unspoken bond that should never be broken.

"Didn't think you'd really come back."

It's almost four in the morning by the time I'm back standing before Brax. He's in the living room; his arms rest on his knees as he cups his clasped hands to his mouth. The light from a nearby lamp illuminates his skin.

The party is over. It's a total mess, but I don't see anyone else in sight. Brax has even dressed himself since I left. I wonder faintly if anyone is still waiting for him to return to bed.

"I don't break my word...usually," I whisper, walking towards the armchair.

"Where'd you go?"

"To talk with someone," I offer, tracing patterns on my hand. I stop when I get to my wrist, the perfect lines of my scars halting me. "I needed to get out of here for a while."

"Casey's worried about you," he says.

"He shouldn't be," I stand up, suddenly too exhausted to do anything but find a nice pillow to fall onto.

"Shouldn't he?" Brax mutters, just as I begin to walk from the room.

I don't have an answer for him, not one that is truthful, anyway. Lying can become so tedious, so consuming and tiring. I can't handle it right now.

"I don't want to talk to you," I state. "I'm going to bed."

"You'll have to share with me," he mumbles, his tone clipped.

I halt again, raising an eyebrow at him. "Why?"

"Sof still has someone over," he clears his throat, clearly unhappy that his sister is with someone.

"Great," I sigh. "I'll take the couch then."

"This is where Marco sleeps."

"Can't I just drag my mattress out here then? Or even put it in Casey's room?"

"If you want to walk into Sof's room right now," Brax grimaces, "be my guest."

I frown. "Fine," I grit, following him.

He opens the door to his room. When he turns on the switch, I take in his bare space. The off-white walls are completely blank, so unlike Sofía's and Casey's which have photos and posters.

When I shut the door behind me, I take in more of his space, noting that he barely has any decor at all. An overflowing chest of drawers fills one side of his room. Clothes litter the floor. A desk and laptop fill the other side, a plastic chair with a large crack running down the back is tucked in.

"Quite a space you've got here," I deadpan.

He doesn't answer, pulling the black sweater he'd put on over his head. His tense back faces me and I take in the intricate patterns of tattoos lining his skin. His muscles flex as he throws the sweater towards his drawers. I look away when he turns towards me.

He lays down, placing his hands behind his head as he stares at the ceiling. "We're all replaceable. Living lives that end and facing problems that consume us. I don't see the point in decorating something that won't be mine forever. Because forever isn't a true meaning of time."

I take in the space differently now, my eyes landing on every inch of wall space. I note blue tack marks and shapes where the paint has faded. I look back at Brax as he watches me and I realise that he's done this because he doesn't think the trial will free him.

He's preparing to say goodbye to his life here.

"I didn't know you could be so deep," I mumble. "Imagine if you'd been so honest from the beginning."

"I have been honest," he sits up on his elbows. I notice the slant of his nose, how it resembles Casey's.

Did Brax ever think about getting out of this life? Did he ever think like Casey before he was consumed by everything else?

"Not from the beginning, though," I step towards the bed, lying down.

"Why does that matter now?" he whispers. "I've given Davina my truth. You know everything there is to know about me. Can I say the same for you?"

I turn towards him, my heavy eyelids fighting sleep. "I'm not the one on trial," I state. "And I don't believe that to be true, anyway. There's a lot I don't know about you."

I look away for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. "I hope you changed your sheets tonight before making me stay here—"

I turn to him, watching as he sleeps. I wonder how someone can look so peaceful when they seem so haunted.

I flick a strand of hair from his eyes, brushing it back from his forehead. I freeze when he shifts in his sleep, turning to face me. His muscular arm extends towards me, brushing against my thigh. He rests it there and I suck in a breath, afraid to move.

When he turns over, I hate that I miss the warmth. I hate even more that I care at all.