Page 42 of See You in Your Dreams

A young teen with ruffled black hair who must be Ash steps into a ghostly bedroom and freezes. A woman lies sprawled there atop the bed, face-down and unmoving. Young Ash rushes to her, shaking her with increasing desperation. When she still doesn’t move, he buries his face in her back, cradling her lifeless body in his arms while he sobs.

Even as I remind myself this is nothing but a dream—a messed-up projection of my own psyche—my heart breaks for this imagined version of Ash. How closely does what I’m seeing align with the real Ash’s tragic past, and how much of it is fiction conjured by my own mind?

Real or not, I approach the Ash watching the vision and rest a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” I say softly.

At my touch, Ash jerks and looks up, surprised. “Dylan? What the hell are you doing here? I didn’t conjure you.”

Conjure me?“I’m…not sure,” I say. “All I know is I’ve been having the weirdest dream.”

Ash’s entire body goes rigid. His eyes bulge like they’re about to pop out of his skull. “You’rereallyhere?” he breathes. “Oh, fuck.”

The faded image of the woman in bed flickers before winking out of existence. An instant later, another tremor like the one I’d experienced back in the hallway rocks the earth. I catch myself on the edge of the picnic table, frowning at Ash.

“What do you mean, ‘I’m really here?’ Ash, what’s going on?”

He shakes his head mutely as he curls in on himself, cradling his head in his hands. “This can’t be happening,” he murmurs, rocking gently back and forth. “Itcan’tbe.Not again.”

The light around us dims, and I glance up to find the impenetrable darkness from the cafeteria has returned, encircling us like a pack of ravenous hounds.This is only a dream,I remind myself, but the thought does little to soothe my pounding heart. Whatever is happening here feels too real, too important, to be merely my imagination.

Ash gives a muffled half-sob. I huddle closer, wrapping an arm around him to draw his trembling body against my side. “Hey, it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

“You don’t understand!” Ash wails. “I can’t control it! I can’t break us out!”

The skittering shadows creep closer. The ground shakes. The light fades.

I ignore it all, focused only on the wounded boy beside me. I might not understand what the hell is happening here, but I understand his pain. And that, at least, I might be able to help with.

Tentatively, I reach out and grip his hand. His shaking fingers tighten around mine.

“It’s okay,” I say. “Whatever’s going on, I trust you, Ash. Just breathe with me, okay?”

I take a deep breath, holding it in for a handful of seconds before exhaling. Relief floods me when I feel Ash doing the same. Gradually, his shaky breaths even out, his racing pulse slowing. I sneak a peek at the area around us to see the ground stilling, the ravenous darkness retreating. Soon enough, it’s just Ash and me holding each other on the picnic bench beneath the oak tree.

Ash’s eyes slip closed on a long exhale. As they do, a penumbra of blinding light suddenly erupts from his skin in a kaleidoscopic vortex of color. In a flash, I’m awake, my arms instinctively flailing as I sit up on the floor in his bedroom with a groan.

A loudthuddraws my attention to the bed. I turn to see Ash scrambling across the room to the opposite corner as far away from me as he can get.

I stare at him, noting his panicked expression and heaving chest. Most dreams begin to fade the instant you wake up. This one, however, remains fresh in my mind, the details crisp.

That’s because it wasn’t a dream.

“I think,” I say carefully, never taking my eyes off Ash in case he tries to bolt, “that we need to talk.”

sixteen

Ash

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck,fuck!

My memories of last night are hazy at best, but I remember enough to piece things together. I’d gone to that stupid party to get wasted, hook up with some cute boy, and forget all about Dylan. Instead, I’d ended up thinking of nobody else. Greta must’ve called him at some point, and despite how terribly I’d treated him, he’d come.

And in one moment of drunken weakness, I’d ruinedeverything.

Just like with Harvey. Just like Ialwayseventually do.

My head throbs as my eyes flick from Dylan to the bed to the door, seeking something to latch onto but liking none of the options. What good would running do? We’re in my own room for Christ’s sake. And from the intent look on Dylan’s face, I can tell he’s not about to let this go. Not without talking about it first.