“He’s usually following Jo around like a lost puppy,” Sloane says, grinning.
Margot’s gaze snaps to me. I can see the dozens of questions gathering behind her teeth and squirm uncomfortably.
“Finn?” Margot asks, and I realize her mistake a second too late.
“Wait—” I say. Finn materializes in front of the TV, smiling but clearly a little unsure about being summoned. We haven’t spoken much since Margot’s brush with death. He’s been avoiding me, but I’ve been avoiding him, too.
“You rang?” he asks.
“Jesus Christ,” Margot says, jumping to her feet. She whips around, like she’s surprised no one else is surprised.
“Speak of the devil,” Sloane says.
Finn frowns, gaze flicking to Margot. When she holds his eyes, he looks at me, confused.
“Uh, hi,” he says. He keeps looking at me like I’m a life raft, but I can’t hold his gaze.
“Oh,” Margot says, like she’s discovered something. “You’re the boy from the creek.”
“Guilty,” Finn says. He drops onto the couch beside me, and his shoulder passes through mine. Margot notices, catching my eyes, but I avert them and lean away from Finn.
“Wait, so you must be the beginner pianist,” Margot says. “Thank god. I thought my sister was just that rusty.”
I flip her the middle finger, and she grins.
“It’s a little difficult without solid fingers,” Finn says, making jazz hands, “but Jo’s a damn good teacher.”
Warmth spreads from my belly into my limbs. I know my cheeks are bright red. It’s been so long since I felt this, I almost forget what it is. And when I remember, I feel even worse.
He is temporary, I remind myself.
This is what I want to avoid. The gut-wrenching, venomous feeling that comes with knowing—relying on, caring about—people. The fear that the ground you’re standing on might give beneath your feet, and when it returns, you’re standing alone.
For a moment, all I can see when I look at my sister is an image of her face tacked up on the corkboard alongside the others.
There’s very little I wouldn’t do to keep that from happening.
Twenty-Four
I made a mistake.
When Nora invited me to her birthday party a few days ago at the store, Paige was right at the counter with us. The look she gave me was a clear threat:Say yes or face the consequences.It isn’t the first time Nora has asked me to hang out. Her tone is a little less hopeful every time. But she still asks.
I’d thought a yes in the moment could avoid that sad, pitying look from my aunt, but only now, as I dig through my closet for something somewhat presentable, I realize I should have taken the pity.
I’ve only been to a few parties, and I went with Harper. She was usually the one invited, and I was the sidekick. Each time was the same. A dark, crowded house. The thrumming bass shaking the foundation. Sticky floors and badly mixed drinks and thundering music.
I try to channel Harper’s courage as I riffle through my clothes. A pair of combat boots she always insisted I wear when we wentout, to avoid getting my toes stepped on. A pair of tight black jeans with holes in the knees. A dark green crop top.
Once I’m dressed, I move to the mirror hanging on my closet door to inspect myself. I’m not much for doing my hair, haven’t so much as glanced at a curling iron or straightener in years, so it falls down my chest in loose, dark waves.
Harper would be pleased, I think.
“Time to find this girl a catwalk,” she’d say, with that big grin of hers.
With no warning, the grief expands into my chest, filling me up like a balloon.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
