5.

Amber sinks heavily into the old Ford’s leather seat. It’s comfortable. Too comfortable. She turns her head to the side, watching Vincent as he calmly maneuvers the car out of the parking lot. His face is illuminated by passing streetlights. She doesn’t know how many times she’s asked herself why he’s doing this. The answers that come to mind are never satisfying.

Her eyes feel heavy. She cannot fall asleep. Amber thinks of Katlyn Greger, her open mouth, the soft snoring, her head lolling back and forth on the seat like a bobblehead. She doesn’t want Vincent to see her like that. She forces herself upright. She adjusts the seatback.

“I like your car,” she says, trying to shake off her drowsiness.

“Thanks.”

“Old leather seats always remind me of my dad’s armchair,” she adds. “It was big and ugly, with its green upholstery. But I still liked sitting in it when my dad wasn’t home. He was almost never home.” She throws an arm over her eyes. Seriously? Talking about her father? She should just keep her mouth shut. But that plan falls apart quickly.

“I didn’t want to celebrate,” she continues. “Hannah surprised me.”

“She just wants to be there for you,” Vincent says. “That’s why she threw the party. Because she’s worried about you. That’s what friends do. Sure, the party got a little out of hand, from what I heard, but be honest—what was the alternative? Another night alone?” He glances at her briefly. “I get it. You want to be alone, wait until you feel better. But… at some point, you have to leave the cave, even if the daylight hurts.”

Amber closes her eyes and sighs. “Admit it, you got that from a book.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t play dumb. I know you’re smart. But ‘the daylight hurts’? Come on. You totally stole that from somewhere.”

“Nope,” Vincent insists. “But if it cheers you up, I’m fine with you not believing me.”

Erin’s desk flickers in her memory—the ruined bedsheets. Did she put everything back where it belongs? No. How could she? She’s far too drunk. And even if she had, it wouldn’t change the fact that she screwed up.

“Melissa’s never going to speak to me again,” she says. “I already hate tomorrow. I’ll have to talk to my dad about this. He’ll need to pay for the balcony door.”

Vincent stays silent.

“Not gonna cheer me up?”

“No. What you did was stupid. I’m not going to make you feel better about a stupid choice.” He sighs. “Step by step, Amber. Give yourself time. Go out more. What you need is a change of scenery. Go surfing. Meet your friends—Hannah, and that big guy, Calahan. They’re your friends. They miss you.”

Give it time…

Amber closes her eyes again and tries to picture what comes after, if she waits it out. All she can see are weeks of pain. Fighting, day after day, not to fall apart. For what—just to keep moving? Alone? You have to let go, people say. It sounds so simple. But how is she supposed to let go when she doesn’t know what comes after? When she doesn’t even want to know? If the pain fades, if she finds the strength to move forward—then what? Leave this place? Study at some private girls’ school in England, like her father wants? Meet someone new? Does letting go mean she has to stop loving Erin? She rubs her temples. Just thinking about it feels like betrayal.

“I was asleep,” Amber says, trying to distract herself.

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“When Hannah and the others picked me up, I was asleep. Had a bad dream.”

Why is she telling him this? Can’t she keep her mouth shut for even ten minutes?

“Are we talking about a normal dream,” Vincent asks, “or one of your… other ones?” His eyes flick to her, then back to the road. The second she brings up her dreams, he’s always wide awake. Like he’s genuinely interested in the mess her life is. Sometimes she’s sure it’s the only reason he sticks around. She’s pure chaos. It’s entertaining.

Don’t talk to anyone about it—that’s what she used to tell herself when she was a kid.

But Vincent’s different. With him, she can talk. And if he thinks she’s crazy, that’s fine. Crazy enough, hopefully, that he’ll never fall in love with her.

“Sometimes I think you actually believe me,” she mutters.

“Is it all made up?” A quick glance. “Why would you do that? To impress me? That doesn’t fit you. I’m not even your type. So yes—I believe you. I even think you should write a book about it,” he adds. “The Diaries of Amber Kane. Surf champ and a lucid dreamer. That would sell.”

“I’ll pass,” Amber replies. Her mouth feels like it’s moving too slowly.

Vincent stops at a traffic light, the red glow casting dark shadows across his face.

“I looked it up online,” he says.

“What, dreams?” Amber frowns at him.

“Yes. Lucid dreaming. Have you heard of it?”

Amber nods sluggishly. She has no idea what he’s talking about, but nodding—that, she can still manage.

“In a lucid dream,” Vincent explains, “you’re fully aware. You know you’re dreaming, and…”

“Please stop,” Amber cuts him off. “I’m not in the mood for lectures.”

An awful silence stretches.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Amber manages to lift her head, studying Vincent’s face. His bright hair shines under the streetlights, flowing like liquid. The sharp line of his chin casts a long shadow. “No, I’m sorry,” she says. “I know you’re just trying to help. Thanks for putting up with me.”

Vincent’s eyes stay on the road as he steers the car around a long curve and up a hill. “There’s an even cooler word for it,” he says, his tone cheerful. “Oneironaut. Borrowed from Greek. Oneiros for dream, nautēs for sailor. A dream sailor.” He pauses. “Sounds cool, doesn’t it?”

“Come on now.” Amber nudges him, smiling. Her cheeks feel numb. She closes her eyes. A dream sailor. Sounds nice. Except her ship is always sinking.

When they arrive at the mansion, Vincent walks her up to the front door.

“I’m good, seriously,” Amber insists.

“Sure you are. Now get inside and straight to bed.” Vincent places his hands on her shoulders, gently turning her toward the stairs. “Up you go.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the way,” Amber mumbles. But the moment she steps onto the first step, the room starts to tilt. She has to make it to her room somehow.

“Okay, bad idea,” Vincent says.

Amber feels Vincent’s arm, firm around her middle, steadying her as he hauls her up the stairs. “You’re heavier than you look.”

They make it upstairs somehow.

“Which room?” Vincent asks.

“I’ve got it,” Amber repeats, pulling away from him. “See?” She lifts her arms. “No problem.”

Vincent watches her for a second, then cracks a smile. “Get some rest. See you tomorrow.” He turns and disappears down the stairs.

“I’m putting the cake in the fridge,” he calls.

“Think twice about driving me tomorrow. It’s not gonna be fun,” Amber calls after him, hoping for a smart reply. The only thing she hears is the front door clicking shut.

She drops onto her bed, completely drained, ready to vanish into sleep. Tim Miller is smiling in the dark. What will he pull her into this time? Another night trapped in his childhood closet, praying his father won’t notice her—won’t rip the door open and make it painfully clear that she doesn’t belong here? Amber doesn’t want to find out. She swings her legs over the side of the bed. It takes everything to push herself up. Her head spins as she searches the desk for her sketchpad. She shoves aside the three folders. Nothing. Did she use her last sheet? A look in the trash can doesn’t help. Empty. She remembers dumping it earlier.

She’d been meaning to go to the city center for more paper, but kept finding reasons not to. Too tired. Too afraid. Too sick of running into people offering their condolences. Now she has to get creative. No sketchpad? Fine. An old piece of cardboard, toilet paper, something. Anything. She rummages through the overstuffed folders on the desk—June, May, April, March. There has to be a blank page somewhere. Or should she really draw on cardboard? Or worse, on the back of one of these portraits? The idea feels about as safe as walking a tightrope blindfolded. She won’t even let herself touch up a finished drawing. Once a portrait is done, it goes straight into a folder, exactly as it is. That’s the rule.

She stands and yanks the drawers open. With each folder she pulls out, the stack on her desk grows taller. Once the drawers are empty, she starts rifling through the folders at a frantic pace. The first ones are fresh, barely a week old. The creepy guy who stares at her on the bus. Mr. Derben, her English teacher—again. A drawing of Hannah. Hannah’s father. Erin, Erin again. And again. The newest portrait of her father is buried somewhere in the middle of the first folder. How old is it? Six weeks, the date says. No wonder.

Suddenly remembering the cardboard boxes on the top shelves, Amber drifts into her closet, one hand on the wall. Maybe there’s an untouched sketchpad up there. She reaches up, grabs the biggest box, realizing too late how heavy it is. The weight yanks her backward. To make it worse, there isn’t even a lid on the damn thing. The box pitches forward, and everything inside spills out into her face. She lets go. The back of her head smacks the doorjamb. Sketches fly, then flutter down and scatter across the floor.

A collage of faces lies sprawled before her, each one looking up at her, eyes following her every move. She stops when a face from an even darker past is mocking her. Him again—Henry Smith. She picks up the sheet. Thick, angry lines are slashed across it, two bold strokes nearly missing his small, piggy eyes. His bloated face glares at her, like he might burst from the page at any moment, chase her down the schoolyard, yank her hair, or worse. There are more drawings of him—enough to fill a whole goddamn book. She notices the difference instantly. The style is nothing like her recent work, which is sharp and precise. These lines are frantic, carved deep into the page with a child’s raw fury. Every stroke a cry for help. She sees herself at eight years old, pencil clenched tight in her fingers. So much hate in these sketches. Sometimes she wishes she could hold on to that hate. But the anger from back then is long gone. All that’s left is regret. How different would things be if she’d just endured his torment? Eight years now. Almost to the day. Time to pay him another visit.

Among the scattered pages, something catches her eye. A sheet, half-hidden beneath a pile of faces. A pure, untouched white sheet.

Back at the desk, Amber grabs a pencil. Her fingers move on their own, effortlessly capturing every last detail of Tim Miller’s face. When she was eight years old, she had been seized by an almost violent need to draw. She could spend hours bent over her sketchpad, burning through pencil after pencil. Within weeks, she had developed the speed and precision of a courtroom sketch artist, capturing faces in a way that left her parents in awe. Well, at least her mom. At first, Amber thought it was just joy. The rush of creating something from nothing. But then she saw the pattern. She only ever drew the people around her. Never celebrities. And she never chose them. The Pull chose for her. If she felt it, she had to draw. There was no resisting it.

Amber doesn’t need five minutes to finish Tim Miller’s portrait. With the same speed and calm, she makes two more—one of her father, the other of Melissa. She marks them all, ready to slide them into a folder when the mess around her forces its way back into her focus. With a sigh, she drops the drawings onto the desk. Vincent will pick her up in a few hours. She crawls under the covers and is instantly out.