“There’snothingworse than dealing with my father,” I said, because it wanted out and because saying it to someone who didn’t belong to our house felt like smuggling oxygen.
“Disagree,” he said, shaking his head.
“Head of a crime ring,” I reminded. “Pretty sure I win.”
“Head of thepolice,” he said. “He’s inmyhouse,myhead,myplans. He forgets to sleep and tells me to be reasonable while he’s making the town his second spine.”
That surprised me into honesty. “So we’re doing comparative trauma? Because I’ll win the gold medal in that.”
He finally looked at me, his eyes dark and daring. The cold made his eyes a color you only see once and then spend the rest of your life trying to name. “We’re not the same,” he said quietly, “but I get it.”
“I don’t want you to get it,” I snapped, annoyed.
“Same,” he said, and the corner of his mouth did a thing that would’ve been a smile if it wasn’t this cold.
“Why are you out here?” I asked.
“Coach says I’m ‘edgy.’” He didn’t move his hands to make air quotes. “I told my father I want to be afirefighterafter graduation. He told me to stop adding jobs to the list of things I do for other people.”
“You’re a jock with a savior complex,” I said. “Adorable.”
“You’re a black cat who hangs out with kids doing the wrong thing and pretends it doesn’t scratch,” he said back, not mean, just accurate.
We let that sit between us. A flock of birds shifted in the trees.
“I told Nico we’re done,” I said.
“Good, I already told you it was a smart move,” he said again, like it cost him nothing to mean it.
The silence between us held. The metal hummed under our feet. We weren’t friends, we didn’t trade secrets, we were two seniors who stepped outside because the air inside felt too used. Maybe that was enough. He finally looked at me, steady and direct.Backward capwith ourschool logo, ears a little red from the cold. He hada hockey player’s shoulders and a solid chest, strong legs. It was the kind of build that said he knew how to hold the line and drive through it. For a second, I saw what everyone else saw when he laced up—power under control. I also knew what the town saw when they looked at me, theBellerose girl. The daughter of the problem. The one you didn’t bring home.
“So it’s been a bad morning?” he asked with a lopsided grin that made my heart stutter, which didn’t make sense because Eric wasn’t my type. At least I didn’t think he was.
“Long night,” I replied, “and I’m tired of pretending it’s normal.”
He nodded like that made sense. “Same.”
It was strange, talking like this withPierre Thorne’sson. If the town drew a map,his familylived on the side labeled safe, andmineon the side that was morally corrupt and dysfunctional. Standing here with him bothered me in a way that had nothing to do with rules. It made me want to be better than the box I’d been put in.
The bell rang for a second time.
He stood, hands still in his pockets like he didn’t trust them. “You should go in. It’s too cold to think straight.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “The cold helps.”
He made a small sound that could’ve been a laugh. He started down a step, then paused and glanced back, as if to mark the moment.
“Harmony,” he said, testing it.
“Eric,” I said.
He nodded once and headed for the door. No promise. No truce. Just a look that said he’d heard me and, for a heartbeat, something else. Maybe that impossible spark where thepolice director’s sonlooks at thecriminal’s daughterlike he sees more than the headline. I stayed until my fingers hurt in a way that proved I was still here.
By lunch, the halls had their stories. By last bell,Nicowore the face of someone waiting for the world to choose for him.Olivieridled at the curb in the school parking lot with the window down and the music up. The mansion would be warm in theory and empty in fact. My father would call my decision a mistake.
That night I slidMom’s recipe cardback into the cookbook behind the flour, realizing there was nothing that could be hidden from my father. He would control every facet of my life. I couldn’t even keep mom’s cookbook from him which I tried to do because I felt like he was unworthy of anything she had created. I locked my bedroom door, and set adried thistleon the sill, a reminder of her, of me, and the need to be strong. On Main, the bad alley light buzzed and went out. Somewhere across town, ahockey playerdropped into his stride and took a hit he’d feel in the morning. We didn’t run with the same people. We weren’t anything. We just told the truth for a minute in the cold and left it there. I didn’t know it then, but that was the start. . . of a clear line. And for the first time in a long time, I wanted to cross it the right way.
CHAPTER 1
