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“He
is
the exception to my own rule,” my mother shouts to us
through tears.

“And do you, Tyler Wright, take Carolina to be your lawfully
wedded wife? Will you promise to love and trust one another until you both shall part?”

“I do,” he smiles.

“By the power vested in me in the country of Mexico, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

We kissed. We laughed. We kissed again. We took our little girl in our arms and became a family just like that.

HE WAS MY WEAKNESS
and I was his strength. And we needed each other to survive.

Tango’s hand slips inside mine. This type of pain never bothers me. I know it’s worth it, so I endure it. We found this little tattoo shop on a side street in Cancun. They’re our wedding gifts to each other. Our parents were all busy fawning over baby Tyler, so we took the opportunity to have a little
us
time.

Our chairs sit side by side and he’s looking at me with a proud grin. “You are one cool chick, Carolina
Wright
.”

“You should have
that
tattooed on your arm instead,” I laugh.

“No.” He squeezes my hand a little tighter. “The only tattoo I will ever add to my body is this one, the one symbolizing life after death.”

I smile at his words, knowing I feel the same way. “Me too.”

Doves will now soar out of the old tattooed skulls on his back. And as for me, I won’t cover up or touch the tattoo that represents the death of Krissy, but I did promise her I would live for both of us.
And that’s what I’ll do. Instead of a tattoo that represents life, I’ve chosen to add a man—Tango, to the lonely island on my arm. He is my life after death.
He is the exception to the rule. And with my life-long vow: Know
everyone. Trust
no
one.

PREVIEW
OF

R
ED
N
IGHTS

C
OMING
EARLY
2015

(C
ONTENT
SUBJECT
TO
CHANGE
DURING
EDITING
)

WHEN SOMETHING
is your fault, you can do one of two things: deny it or accept it.

I have done both.

Acceptance has never been an issue for me. I accepted the truth from the moment I looked up into my second-floor bedroom window
and watched a tidal wave of thrashing flames take away almost everything I had. Even though I was free from the blaze, it was all I
could feel inside. I may not have been in the fire, but I was burning from the inside out. I’ve accepted that I’ll never forgive myself, and
for that, I’ve accepted this undying pain—it will never go away. I don’t feel like I have the right to be breathing air and feeling life when I took it away from the closest person in my world.

I should have been killed up in that room instead of him. I shouldn’t have had to watch the firestorm swallow him whole,
leaving nothing but charred skin and burning bones.

I watched as the firemen carried him out on a stretcher. I’ve never heard him or anyone scream like that before, his voice gurgling from fluid collecting in his lungs—his crying draining
every last breath he
had. I don’t know what happened once they put him in the ambulance. I don’t know if he died in pain or if he was unconscious. I only know he survived for two more hours. I remember the
paramedics telling me they were sorry. Sorry? For what? For having to live with this blame, or for the loss of my brother? Sorry doesn’t fix things. Sorry digs the knife in deeper. And I would have said that to them if they hadn’t been rolling me away, too.

After jumping out of my bedroom window and enduring a severely broken leg and a separated shoulder, the sustained agony was nothing compared to hearing the numbing words, “He didn’t
make it.” Those
four words made him disappear from my life quicker than I had time to realize it was all my fault. Strapped down to the gurney, staring up into the very same stars I’ve always looked to for comfort,
I knew then it was
all
my fault. All I could do was wonder why those stars stopped providing for me that night.

The social workers tell me this will eventually become easier, but I
don’t see how. A moment of inattention, just a quick misdirected
thought burned my brother to pieces.

The doctors and nurses say I won’t feel this type of pain forever, but I can’t see that happening. I’m alive, living with my thoughts and memories. My nightmares and flashbacks. There isn’t a day that feels better than another. The pain doesn’t go away or even subside. Maybe numbness will eventually take its place, but as of now: every day since
that
day, I’ve woken up feeling worse than the day before.

When I tell those doctors and nurses the pain keeps growing,
they
tell me I need to heal before the pain will lessen. But I’m smart
enough
to know that when a piece of your heart has been taken away, it doesn’t grow back. It leaves a hole. And the hole has grown. It’s taken over, changing who I am and who I’ve been, ultimately
creating a person I might never know again.

EVERY MORNING
is the same: when the red glow fades into
daylight,
I know I’ve made it through another starless night. I relish in the minutes before I open my eyes—trying to convince myself I’m
waking up from a nightmare rather than real life.

I used to lie in the cool grass, staring up into the darkness above,
wondering who was looking back at me. Someone up there had to be granting wishes, and I believed whoever it was could hear me, because my wishes were always answered. The serenity of feeling
alone under heaven’s vault allowed my mind to wander and think clearly. It’s the perfect spot for meditation and contemplation, but I never could wrap my head around the simplicity of the night’s sky being able to hold so many answers to life. Maybe it’s just the comfort of believing in something larger than anything else in existence. After all, the sky
does hold the world together. But as of a couple of weeks ago, I feel
like I might have slipped through the cracks.

The sky has all but forgotten me—it’s left me without the stars, granted wishes, and answers I so desperately need.

I force my eyes open, confirming everything is real, not a nightmare. I’m still in rehab with no end in sight. The pain never
kicks in until my
eyes are open, which is when I see the damage left behind. I push myself up on the bed, careful not twist the wrong way. It’s been three weeks, and I think my body is developing a tolerance to the pain meds since they don’t seem to be working as well as they were
in the beginning.

The beginning, meaning, really . . . the end.

It could be the rods holding my left leg together or the plate they
had to surgically fix to my ankle bone. It’s an all-over type of pain. My leg feels heavy, as if I may never be able to lift it again. And this scares me. Not a day goes by where I don’t wonder if I’ll be left
immobilized forever. But if I am left that way, don’t I sort of deserve this type of suffering? If Blake had the option of burning to his death or losing the use of his left leg, I think he’d choose the latter.

I look over the other marks on my body, observing the healing process, determining which scars I’ll be left with in the end. Everything is scabbing, except for the contusion on my arm where a
rock broke my
fall. Because they had to use a skin graft to close it up, it will take the longest to heal. I feel weak and tired, bored and stiff. Every other
part of my body beside my left leg wants to get up and run away from this life I’m now confined to.

I reach to the side table and grab my phone and ear buds. I need the music to drown out the silence. Silence creates memories and images in my head, and I have to do what I can to avoid it. With the ear buds in place, I lean my head back against the pillow and lie in a
daze, focusing on the darkness behind my eyelids, while imagining the swirls and blurs growing and shrinking along with the beat, like the audio visualizer I used to watch on my laptop. My imagination hypnotizes me until I feel lips on my forehead. I peel open my heavy eyelids and find Mom standing in front of me with two cups of coffee. I remove the buds from my ears and let them fall to my lap.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, keeping my voice soft to avoid scaring her away again. I’ve only seen her twice in the past three weeks: once the night of the fire and…now. I’m not angry, and I don’t blame her, especially seeing the pain behind her eyes,
showing the struggle she must have overcome to be here today. Her eyes scan my body, stopping at my left leg. It makes her cringe and clutch her stomach. The look in her eyes turns to guilt. I give her the time she needs to find the right answer. I doubt she’ll say it’s because she missed me.

“It was wrong of me to say what I said to you that night. I’ve come
to apologize and see how you’re doing.” She expels a quiet sigh and
presses her finger into the center of her forehead. “I’ve
gotten daily
updates from your doctor, but I needed to see for myself.” Her words come out so cold and very unlike her. Coming from the woman who always acted like nothing bad would ever happen to us, it sounds as if the rug was ripped out from beneath her—which it was. Neither
Blake nor I could do anything wrong by her before this.

But that’s different now.

“You weren’t wrong about anything you said, Mom.” I try to push myself up to a better leaning position so I can take the coffee
cup she’s
trying to hand me. It takes a minute to reposition myself, but she’s patient and watches me intently. Once upright, I curl my fingers around the hot Styrofoam, feeling the heaviness within my weakened hand. “Thank you.”

“I was wrong, Felicity,” she says again.

She isn’t wrong; I did kill Blake—not intentionally, maybe, but he died because of me anyway. I took away our house, our memories, and a piece of our future. “Mom, it was all my fault.
Everything. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see me again. Death and destruction change everything. They change love. I know this because
I
don’t love me anymore.”

She sits down on the guest chair beside my bed and places her purse down on the table. “Sweetheart, let me make one thing very clear: I will always love you, no matter what you do. However, it doesn’t diminish my anger or resentment at the moment . . . your dad’s, either.”

We’re both silent while we sip from our cups, using the coffee as an excuse not to speak. “How’s Dad?” I ask.

She shifts her weight around in her chair, appearing as uncomfortable and awkward as I feel right now. “Not good. Aunt Laney is driving him nuts and he spends most of the day yelling at
the insurance company, trying to get things resolved quickly. He’s frustrated. I guess taking his anger out on people makes him feel better, although I’m not sure how.” I nod, because I truly understand this. I won’t bother asking if he wants to see me. I can assume her response based on his absence.

“How was the funeral?” I ask hesitantly, keeping my eyes locked on the miserable rods puncturing through my skin.

She pulls in a rigid breath. “It was a beautiful ceremony. The church was full with family and friends, and people we didn’t even know. Tanner was kind enough to do the eulogy. He did such a wonderful job.”

Tanner. I haven’t heard his name in years. He was Blake’s
childhood
best friend. They met at the bus stop on their first day of
kindergarten
and became inseparable. I remember being jealous of their
friendship; it
was around that time when Blake lost interest in playing with his
stupid
little sister. They did everything together—sports, overnight
camp. They even went to the same college. But Blake moved home to save money after graduation, and Tanner moved away for an executive
position at a hotel in Vegas. Even though it’s only six hours from here, they didn’t speak much after that. It happens, I guess. I lost
touch with my close high school friends when we all went off to college, and the
few friends I made at Northeastern University weren’t worthy of
keeping
in touch with after graduation. I never had a true best friend. Not
like Blake had with Tanner.

“It was nice of him to do that,” I say, knowing if I weren’t
immobile
in this bed, I would have insisted on giving the eulogy. I assume
most people wouldn’t have wanted to hear from me, though.

“Tanner is a saint.” Mom clutches her hand around the crucifix dangling from her neck. “Would you believe he took a month
sabbatical just to help your Dad and me with whatever we need?”

“Wow. That’s—that’s very sweet of him.”

“That boy has always been such a good friend to our family. God bless him.” She looks up toward the ceiling as her eyes film over with tears. She grinds her jaw back and forth and looks back at
me. “As a
matter of fact, he asked if he could come visit you. I told him I
needed to speak with you first.”