Page 29 of Queen of Nothing

To be a rogue means to be cut out.

Serena takes another turn off-road.

Dust flies up behind the car, and the new road is more of a track than anything.

She says, “Our family spent a weekend with Isabella’s over the summer.”

My eyebrows lift, the corners of my mouth pull down, and there’s nothing nonjudgemental about that fleeting expression.

I school my face before she can catch the look.

I’m betting my family knows nothing about that little weekend. The Sinclairs, too.

I’ll bet all the cash in our bags that Serena’s father did everything in his power to keep that meeting with a rogue quiet.

“Sofía gave me her number and told me to call her if I ever needed help,” Serena goes on as though the dread isn’t settling like lead in my stomach. “Then Solstice Season came—and I found out I was pregnant.”

She shakes her head, as though in disbelief of her bad luck. Her black, inky hair catches on her shoulder, tangled, the illusion faded away.

I check my own illusion in the small mirror of the visor. And my own face reflects back at me, pale and dry skin in dire need of a facial.

I flip the visor shut. “Why did she give you her number?”

Silent, she just shrugs.

But the sorrow on her face is slack and telling.

Sofía must have sensed Serena’s misery, saw her own reflected in it, just like Serena once saw mine and wondered if our sorrow was the same kind.

It wasn’t.

It still isn’t.

We both run, but with differences.

I’m chasing a reprieve.

Serena is chasing freedom.

It’s a fundamental difference between us.

The realisation is heavy. I’m on the run with someone I have nothing in common with.

4

The barren landscape is never-ending, and there’s something uneasy about it, like it’s an abandoned place, not peaceful or remote. Abandoned.

The horizon is warping in the heat, not a home in sight, and I wonder if I should expect a mirage to come along and break up the monotony of this eternal drive.

But all I see are the occasional tumbleweeds rolling over dust.

The town and road are long behind us now, and the small hatchback rattles over the uneven terrain—not a drive this car was built for. For this type of drive, we should’ve bought a Range Rover or something like it.

Serena sits up, her spine suddenly straight. “Here.”

Her quartz eyes reflect with the sunrays cascading through the window.

And her gaze is pinned ahead, to the side.