“Put yourself last.” I step closer, invading her space. “Like your existence is some fucking apology.”
She flinches but doesn’t back down. “I’m being practical.”
“No, you’re doing what you always do. Assuming you don’t matter.” My voice drops lower. “Because that’s what they taught you.”
“Stop.”
“Your father hits you. Your mother lets it happen.”
She blinks, fighting tears. “Please, don’t bring this up now.”
I’m pushing too hard, but I can’t stop. “And everyone always thinks about Amelia first. Even you. Like taking care of her is your only purpose.”
Her jaw tightens. “You don’t get to decide what matters to me.”
“And your father does?”
“That’s not—” She shakes her head, the flower dislodging from behind her ear.
I catch it before it falls. The purple petals brush against my palm, delicate and unreal between my calloused fingers. It’s so damn small. Fragile. I should’ve crushed it by now.
“I didn’t mean—” Words have never been my thing. Actions speak louder, and right now, I’m holding a fucking flower like it’s made of glass while she looks at me with those goddamn glassy eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” She squares her shoulders and continues the path. “Really. Let’s just get to Pine Lake and find the others.”
That fucking word again. Fine. Nothing about this is fine.
Fuck.
I’m handling this about as well as a grenade with the pin pulled.
I follow her, keeping some distance.
She’s not wrong. The cottage was always my plan for me, Cameron, Sienna, Rosa, Cole, and Arianna.
Her name was never included.
She walks ahead, shoulders rigid, hands balled into fists. She’s tougher than she looks, surviving her father, the wedding that wasn’t, zombies, and that psycho reverend.
I never really planned to include the Levines. Never planned on looking at Dakota and feeling this… whatever the fuck this is.
She slips on loose gravel. I reach out, but she’s already righting herself, not looking back at me. Still moving forward.
Always forward.
Probably better that way.
Or I will crush her like that flower.
TWENTY
DAKOTA
Julien’s right, and I hate him for it. I hate that he sees the cracks I’ve spent years plastering over with politeness and perfect grades. But he’s also wrong.
There is a hierarchy.
There’s the people you bleed for, and the people you tolerate because they’re standing next to the people you bleed for. I’m the latter.
