Fine, then. It’salmostas comfy as my oversized jumper.
Cavin stands beside me, his hands jammed into his pockets. He doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he stares through the large arch-shaped window that overlooks the ocean cliffs. Wind howls somewhere below, ripping through the trees like teeth.
I want to walk through those cliffs. Barefoot, maybe. Stand rightat the edge, where the sea spits salt into your face and the rocks disappear into foam.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, honestly. It’s really stunning.
“Thank you.” Cavin gives the barest nod. He accepts the compliment with quiet gratitude, no smile. I might think it a peace offering if I were the kind of fool who believed in those.
“Is that Holy Family?” I ask, leaning just enough to see the tall steeple rising beyond the far edge of the garden.
“Aye.”
“Oh.” Interesting. Near Holy Family is the graveyard I’ve walked alone, time and time again, despite my mother’s warnings.
I don’t mean to laugh. It just bubbles up, bright, stupid, ill-timed. The kind of laugh my mother would slap clean out of my mouth.
Cavin whips his head toward me. His expression cuts like wire. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s just that…” My cheeks flush, and I hate the heat of it. “Well, nothing.”
Why do I laugh when I shouldn’t? Why do I always choke in the moment and spit out something inappropriate?
“Say it,” he growls. His eyes narrow. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s just… ironic that a house like this backs right up toHoly Family. And… well, your family,and mine,to be clear, are anythingbut… holy.”
He studies me for a second too long, then huffs a bitter laugh and shakes his head. Mutters something I can’t make out—just enough to drag me back to childhood.
Back to that familiar sting. The kind where people laugh and you don’t know why. You laugh too late, too loud—you’re the butt of a joke you didn’t hear.
My fingernails scrape my palms when my hands fist. I’mnotthe little Goody Two-Shoes I was back then, cowered by the likes of him.
“Stop it,” I tell him. “We’re not at St. Albert’s anymore, Cavin.”
His eyes dart to mine, alert and cautious. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You can’t bully me like you did back then. Okay?”
He blinks as if surprised. Was it my words or my willingness to talk back to him that took him off guard?
“I didn’t fuckingbullyyou,” he says quickly. “Don’t say that.”
The air goes too bright and too loud. The sound of my own breathing starts to grate.
I can’t look at him without my pulse kicking out of rhythm, and I hate that. So I start counting because I know how this works.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Seven light fixtures down this hallway.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
Ten stairs to the landing.
One, two, threeportraits on the wall.
Tap pocket.
