Losing you

C H A P T E R T E N

C H A P T E R        T E N

Dylan avoided his mum that night.

Instead of going home, he drove himself to Jason's house. They didn't seem surprised to see him there, nor did they care. Hell, it was his second home. So he'd eaten dinner with them, played PS3 with Jason until he'd fallen into an exhaustion coma.

As he reflected on it the next morning, lying on Jason's bed and staring up at the ceiling, he felt like a loser. Weak. Pathetic. He was avoiding his own mum because he knew she held the key to the next letter.

Dylan looked over as Jason groaned from next to him. "Damn, dude, what did I drink?" His voice barely carried it was so groggy. "My head is killing me."

Dylan rolled his eyes, grateful for the distraction. "You're the alcoholic here. And just be glad you didn't puke—there's shit I'd do for you, but cleaning vomit off you isn't one of them."

"Ha. Freaking. Ha." Jason turned onto his side, clutching his stomach. "I feel like I'm going to puke . . ."

"I just said I'm not helping you," Dylan repeated, sitting up and leaning against the wooden headboard.

"Shut up," Jason muttered. He squinted heavily, as if he couldn't make out Dylan's face properly. Then again, he probably couldn't. Last night, Jason had crashed just after twelve—and he'd only been drinking beer. "Why're you here anyway? I couldn't care, but I'm curious."

"You're hungover," Dylan corrected, kicking out his left foot. As it hit Jason's stomach, the pained grown was loud. As was the insult. "It's the last thing you care about."

"I need a distraction, asshole. So, yeah, I care."

Tell me about it. Dylan scrubbed a hand over his bare chest, rubbing over his heart unconsciously. "Fine then. Found the letter yesterday. I thought it was bad that I had to see her parents. See her room . . . and man, it's the same." It hurt physically to think about it now. "But . . . man, just shit."

Jason tried to sit up—only to collapse back onto the bed with a groan. "How'd it get worse?"

Dylan sighed roughly. "Turns out the letter was a positive one. And now my mum holds the answer to where the next one is. So I came here because I'm too pathetic to face her."

"Rough." Jason grinned crookedly. "Should've drank with me—that makes everything better."

"Until you wake with a hangover the next morning."

Jason laughed, muttering, "True that." Then he got serious. "Does that mean your mum knows about the letters?"

Dylan shrugged. "I hope not. Hey, ever heard of a Connor Jenkins?"

Jason was silent, before shaking his head. "Name doesn't ring any bells. Why?"

"Don't worry about it."

They lapsed into silence after that. Dylan hated being left to his own devices—he had no other choice but to think about going home. With strangers he could ask question and in the moment it was uncomfortable—afterwards though? They just forgot about it. His mum would remember, though, and that made it all the more daunting.

He wished he'd brought the letter from his car. Then he could search up his Facebook—get an idea of who he knew, if Dylan had mutual friends between them. He could get an idea of his age. See his face. Hope it would jog his memory.