“Yes,” she says, firm. “Down on the beach. You need to get out of your head. Move your body. Screaming into the ocean is free therapy.”
“It’s been a while since soccer,” I admit quietly.
“Then it’s overdue.”
I inhale.
Slow.
Uneven.
But solid enough to stand on.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll try.”
“Good girl,” Irene says, kissing my forehead.
Susan squeezes my shoulder.
I’m still vibrating with anger when Mason appears in the doorway, cheeks red from the cold, hair tousled, eyes wide like he just walked into a war zone.
“Whoa—uh—what’s all the yelling?” he asks.
I point at him. “You’ve been nice to me, Mason, so don’t take this personally, but you’re a guy. You wouldn’t understand.”
He throws his hands up instantly. “Hey—HEY—what didIdo?”
“My ex,” I snap, grabbing my shattered phone off the floor. “He lit up my voicemail telling me he loves me, and then lastnight he was at a party with girls all over him. Some girl’s mouth was on his neck. I HATE boys.”
Irene cackles.
Susan mutters “preach.”
Mason just grins like he’s watching a live sitcom.
“That’s dramatic,” he says, “but honestly? Fair.”
I stalk past him, and he follows me down the hall.
“You know what you need?” he says. “The ice.”
I stop. “The what?”
“ICE,” he repeats. “Hockey. I bet you’d be sick on the rink.”
I snort. “I’m from Ohio. I know how to skate.”
Irene claps her hands. “Perfect! Give her a stick and a puck. Let her whack something. Take her to the hockey lair with the boys.”
I freeze. “I JUST said no boys!”
“Fine, fine,” Irene laughs. “Ice later. Rage now.”
I slam my bedroom door shut—not at them, just at everything—and peel off my clothes. Throw on leggings, thermal gear, hoodie, sneakers.
Then I stomp downstairs without another word.
The second I hit the beach, the wind slaps me across the face.
