She snaps her head in my direction, her green eyes blazing. “What do you think, genius?”
Yeah, she’s definitely fine. I’m definitely screwed
“I’m sorry, Bronwyn.”
“What exactly are you sorry for?” She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, the gesture as aggressive as her tone. “About coming to this hellhole? About the car dying? Or about us”—even where the lamps’ glow doesn’t quite reach, I see her cheeks reddening—“being”—she stomps her foot—“stuck in this town!”
Footsteps echo behind me, more than one set. I don’t greet or even acknowledge them. Bronwyn’s my priority, especially when she’s seconds from losing it.
“I’m sorry.” I move closer, reaching, hoping to hold her hand and appease her. “I’m so sorry.”
“Miss, there’s no need to fuss,” a woman scolds. Her voice is soft. Motherly. And chilling.
What is it with this place? How come every word, every look, feels like it means two things at once?
“No need?” At the sound of Bronwyn’s sharpened tone, I flinch. “No need?!”
“No, miss,” a man who isn’t Jett says in a heavy drawl.
I’m about to finally turn toward them when I remember the green charm.
Hide it. They can never know I gave it to you, a voice whispers in my ear.
Why should it be a secret? One of the Colberts gave it to me. I don’t feel his presence behind me, but it was someone who lives here. I’m sure about that.
It can’t be wrong if he’s part of their family.
Hide it, Skylar.
Fuck. Okay. I listen to the voice and tuck the charm into my bra, in the left cup, closer to my heart.
The movement is as subtle as I hope it is. Neither Bronwyn nor Easton notices.
Only then do I spin to look atthem.
Jett’s there, and beside him stands a woman in a washed-out blue prairie-style dress that’s buttoned to her throat. Next to her is a man dressed just like Jett. Must be his parents.
Their serious expressions melt into soft smiles. Their postures are casual in a way that makes my gut twist uncomfortably.
Something about this whole thing feels… I don’t know. Rehearsed.
As if they’ve been waiting for this scene to unfold exactly as it has.
Bronwyn, though, is nowhere near calm. She’s a volcano seconds from erupting.
Her rage is in every breath. Each one is loud, shaky, wheezing.
My face goes a little numb as I remember our last Christmas together. She made the same growly sounds when our parents told her to be less selfish. Less difficult.
She was justified in being upset at the time.
Now she’s just as justified. I really am to blame for us getting stuck here.
“No. Need. To. Fucking. Fuss?” she screeches louder than before.
No one breathes a word.
I hold her hand tight. This time, not to shut her up, but to plead with her to forgive me.
