Nora blows out a breath and crosses her arms. “Where did you go this morning?” she asks, eyebrows slanted down at the edges.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Her mouth comes together in the shape of a bow, like she doesn’t believe me. “I followed your footprints around the lake,” she confesses. The wolf lifts its head from the floor and sniffs the air, like he smells something unfamiliar, before resting his chin back on his paws. “Why did you go to the cemetery?”
I divert my eyes away from her for the first time, away from what she wants to know. I don’t know how to explain what I remember, what I felt. They are only shards of memory that slice and sting when I try to focus on them. “I think I was there that night,” I say—the only thing I can be sure of.
“And you stood over Willa Walker’s grave?”
A white-hot pain begins to pulse behind my eyes. “Yeah.”
“Why hers?”
“I don’t know.” The pulse turns into a thud, slamming between my ears, an ocean spilling out from the cracks in my skull. “But I don’t think I was alone.”
“Were the others there, the boys who were at the bonfire tonight?” she asks.
I nod.
“And Max?” she asks, the question like the sharpened tip of a blade.
Max.
I feel myself wincing at the sound of his name.
“Do you remember him?” she prods.
I shake my head, and the heat from the fireplace is suddenly too hot, the air too thick, my lungs tightening in my chest. “No,” I say aloud. A lie. Quick and easy.
“He died, Oliver,” she says, shaking her head, and I want to tell her that I wasn’t there, that I had nothing to do with it. But I can’t because I don’t know for sure, and the cold look in her eyes hurts worse than anything else. It hurts because I might be the villain. Heartless stare and wicked laugh and secrets to hide—stuffed deep, deep down inside.
She’s scared of me—of who I really am, of what I might’ve done.
And maybe she should be.
“I wish—” My voice feels like a razor in my throat, the line between truth and lie slicing me into halves. “I wish I could remember,” I say at last.
But Nora presses her palms to her temples, her ring shivering in the firelight—she doesn’t know what to believe.
I shouldn’t be here. In her house. She shouldn’t trust me.
I reach for the door and pull it open, letting the wind lash against the walls, the curtains, Nora’s long, whispery hair. I don’t say goodbye.
But from behind me, I hear her say, “Wait.”
When I look back, she’s moved across the room, only a couple of paces away. “Where are you going?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
She bites her lip and looks to the floor. I don’t want her to tell me to leave, but I know that she should. She should push me outside and lock the door and ask me to never come back.
Her eyes lift, hazel dark, and even though they give away a rim of uncertainty, she says, “You can stay here. You can stay as long as you want.”
I shake my head. But she cuts me off before I can protest.
“It’s my house.” She swallows. “And I want you to stay.”
The thud of my heart is too loud—loud enough to break my chest open, loud enough for her to hear.
And when I look at her, an ache forms inside me, a nagging itch I try to ignore. I should tell her the truth: that I remember just enough from that night to know that she’s right to be afraid. That nothing good happened that night, in the cemetery, beside the lake. That there are lost memories buried inside me that frighten me—that I never want to see.
I should tell her these things, but I also want to stay—more than anything—I want to stay here with her. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want the crack inside me to widen, for the ocean of loneliness to creep in. I don’t want to drown.
And I don’t want her to drown either. To suffocate on the same thing: the hurt we both keep stuffed deep inside.
So I keep my mouth shut.
I close the door, and the curtains settle back against the wall; her hair falls back to her shoulders. My hands tremble just a little, and I step toward her. My breathing hitches, claws, scrapes against my ribs. My fingers want to reach out for her, touch the palm of her hand, the long line of her forearm, the curve of her collarbone, where her skin is pink and flushed. I want to disobey the beating of my own heart, telling me to leave.
I want to let myself feel this thing I don’t understand. The wings in my throat and the itch at my fingertips.
I don’t want to be the villain.
But then the front door swings open and someone brushes past me into the house, smelling of booze and rose perfume.
NORA
Suzy strides into the living room, coat zipped up to her chin, snowflakes dusting her shoulders and hair.
“It’s so damn cold,” she proclaims, slamming the door shut and brushing past Oliver to the woodstove. Her cheeks and nose are red, and she holds out her hands, warming them over the fire.
I look to Oliver, but his expression is slack.
“What happened?” I ask Suzy. “I thought you were staying at the camp?”
“Rhett’s a jerk,” she says, brushing the hair from her forehead with a flick of her hand, and I can tell she’s been drinking. Maybe they found another bottle of alcohol in the camp kitchen, and they’ve been taking shots back at the boys’ cabin. “He said I shouldn’t trust you.” Her eyes tick to mine, bloodshot and watery. “He said we’ll get in trouble because of you, because you know too much.”
The room feels suddenly airless, vibrating along my periphery. I glance at Oliver again, but he’s taken a step back. He barely even looks my way—like his own thoughts are clouding his vision.
“I don’t know anything,” I tell Suzy, facing her again.
But she continues talking, like she doesn’t even hear me. “I told him he’s an asshole and he can sleep alone tonight.” She waves a hand dismissively in the air, her head rolling to one side, like she can barely keep herself upright. I’m surprised she stood up for me—surprised and grateful. Maybe she does think we’re friends. And for a moment I want to reach out and hug her.
“Men are jerks,” she blurts out, and her eyes swivel around the room, blinking on Oliver. I wonder if she’s going to say something to him—call him a jerk too, say that he’s just like all the rest. But then her gaze wheels back to the woodstove, like she’s going to be sick.
“Maybe you should sit down,” I say, touching her shoulder.
She flinches away and swivels herself toward the couch, plops onto the cushions, and pulls the blankets up to her throat in one swift motion. She closes her eyes and mutters, “Sing me a song, Nora.” Like she’s a little kid who wants a bedtime story. Tea and cookies and a kiss to the forehead.
“Suzy?” I ask softly, but a soft snore escapes her mouth. She’s already asleep.
Her hair lies draped across her cheekbone, her mouth slack, and I wonder if she’ll remember any of this by morning. If she’ll remember what the boys said.
“I’m sorry,” Oliver says behind me. He moves closer, and just his proximity makes my stomach ache. Deep and strange. Sailor’s knots inside my belly.