Some of those nights, however, the sketchbook stayed closed. Some mornings we woke to each other, and I wouldn’t get home until late afternoon, where I’d have to scramble through homework and chores while dodging Grey’s surly glares and muttered asides regarding my nonexistent curfew. And not that I’d been qualified to recite chastity pledges alongside Sadie, but before Connor I’d never actually spent the night with a boy. And he, at nineteen, had already cohabitated—with this Sabine, who for all I knew was in the warehouse that very moment, laughing and twirling through the rooms they’d shared. Catching the specter of her lingering scent on my side of his bed.
“My” side. As if I had a claim on Connor, or his space, or any of his stuff. Not fucking likely.
“That’s weird, though, isn’t it?” Sadie said, swiping the bottle from my absent hand. “Falling in love, sharing your life, and then—nothing? How does that even work?”
“Well, it didn’t work. She’s gone. If they really loved each other, she’d still be around.”
“I suppose. Or maybe it was real, but they couldn’t make it stick.” She took another swig of Fireball and held it in her mouth, savoring it before swallowing. “I like you with my brother, Lane. He needs a sweet girl—someone stable, to settle him down.”
That one was worth a raised eyebrow at the very least, but she wasn’t grinning or giggling, or even looking my way. She stared into the darkness beyond the floodlights, tapping the bottle rim against her teeth.
“And I’m the best option for that? Sadie. Please.”
“Compared to the others? You’re the first girl he’s been with who lives in a house. His situation didn’t exactly allow for normal relationships.”
A flicker of guilt stung in my throat as I pictured Connor, rewound him to the kid he’d been—pictured his trusting eyes and the soft, needy underbelly he’d doubtless revealed to all the wrong people. That kid, seeking love and solace in any sideways smile.
And Sadie wanted me to strike that balance for him. Me, who couldn’t regulate my own post-nightmare pulse, let alone soothe the blare of Connor Hall.
It made no sense. Was that the end goal of love, when it all came down to it—to shred your feet over the crushed-glass misery of another’s chosen path? Did a person only become his or her best self on the back of someone else?
God. Whoever ended up with me was well and truly fucked.
“He might want to look elsewhere,” I muttered. The front door opened directly beneath us, ejecting a gaggle of Paul’s friends. They stumbled away in a swirl of laughter and unimportance. “I’m known for being neither sweet nor stable.”
“Well, I think you work together—always thought you would. Connor has his baggage, but he’s got a good heart. And he’s definitely into you. And … not otherwise spoken for.”
Her words froze the air between us, settled and solidified and turned my lungs to ice. I couldn’t look at her.
She looked at me, though—deliberately turned her head and stared, waiting for my cracks to show. Waiting to prod until they ripped wide open.
“You’re my friend,” she continued, as if an eon hadn’t passed, “but he’s my blood. So if this is a passing phase, all I ask is that you tell him now, before it goes too far.”
“Sadie.” My words were low and even, steadier by far than my quaking insides. “I know you mean well, but you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know he’s worth more than just a fling, Lane. I do know that.”
“That’s not how it is,” I began. “Connor and I—”
“And as for Sabine,” she continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, “it can’t have been real, or how could they stand it? Being that close to someone you love, knowing you couldn’t be together. It must be devastating.”
“It’s not an issue. He’s not in love with me.”
“Not yet, no. But soon.” The words came out flat and weary, anything but a question, and for a single breathless beat, I had no idea which “he” she meant. “How could anyone help but love you.”
20
HIS HANDS CAUGHT ME RIGHT before the worst of it, dragged me, shrieking, from a bloodbath of skin and veins and splintered bone.
“Lane? Lane, look at me.”
I blinked through bleary eyes, taking in the brick walls and blocks of wood, the blown-glass art, Paul’s empty bed. Connor shifted his hold on me as I sagged, easing me back onto the pillows. The party had been far from over when I’d collapsed beside his unconscious form; now the warehouse loomed around us, a cavern of shadows and stillness. His drafting table OttLite was on, his work scattered across the surface, abandoned in his haste to wake me.
I’d known it was a risk, dreaming in a strange place—knew she’d always find me, wherever I closed my eyes. Still, some tiny, optimistic part of me had hoped for a reprieve. Hoped that Connor’s presence would act as a barrier between sleep and sorrow. Guess not.
I drew a rasping breath, gathering the shards of my voice.
“Sorry. Sorry, sorry. I’m okay. I am.”
“I know. It was just a dream.” He crawled up beside me anyway and leaned against the wall, wrapped me in the blanket, then in his arms. “Go back to sleep.”
“Oh. No, that’s not happening anytime soon. You can keep working—I’m fine.”
“I know you are.” But he didn’t move. “Is this a regular thing?”
“Since I was five.”
He fell silent, catching the meaning in the timeline. His breath moved slow and warm against my temple; his heart beat strong against my back, twisted its way into my lungs. Triggered a confusing, too-familiar ache that didn’t belong anywhere near the moment. My head turned and tipped toward him, forehead pressing against his cheek, and it wasn’t so bad at all, letting someone hold me up.
“How long was I asleep, Connor?”
“No idea.” I felt his smile against the bridge of my nose. “I woke up, and everyone was gone but you. Did Sadie get home okay?”
“Grey picked her up. She left me her keys. … I can get going if you need me to. I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”
“Stay. If you want.”
My bones ached with the weight of his words. I looked up and met his eyes, found my reflection, and so much more. He was so close to that edge—less than a step between safe and sorry. I couldn’t unsee it. I didn’t want to.
“I will. A little longer, anyway.”
“As long as you like. Lane.” He tucked my hair behind my ear, tipped forward slowly until our foreheads met. “You look so sad.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not you. I don’t know what it is, really. It’s—”
“It’s everything,” he whispered, “and nothing. All at once.”
He caught the tear before it reached my cheek, smoothing it beneath my eye. He wasn’t quick enough to catch the one that followed, though; after that, he stopped trying. Too many words trembled on my tongue, all far beyond our boundaries. All aching to finally be said.
Instead, the dream snuck past them and fell into the world—how the bathroom itself changes slightly, from night to night—how the mirror breaks, sometimes a webbed crack, sometimes a single line. Maybe the light bulbs are gone, or the linens askew on the racks; maybe they’re in the sink or hung on the tub’s edge, so the ends brush the floor. How my mother sprawls on the tiles, mirroring reality, legs crooked at the knee, arms open. Veins open. Head to one side, staring up at me through sightless eyes—except, some nights, she’s different, too.
Sometimes she walks.
Sometimes she stands in the tub, partially hidden by the shower curtain. Sometimes she hangs from the rod, spins in slow circles, arms twisting around each other like the chains of a swing until they run out of length and reverse, unspooling faster and faster, and her bones break the other way, with a squeal like rusty hinges. Sometimes she’s smiling, sometimes she’s crying. Sometimes her mouth parts and unleashes a sorrowful banshee wail, sends it riding out on a wash of blood.
; Sometimes she opens her eyes and they look like mine.
I poured all that into the air between us—every hideous detail, every bit of anguish. Every drop of fear and horror. And when those words ran out, Connor was still there, one hand gripped in both of mine, the other cupping the back of my head.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “No one should have to dream those things.”
“Bad as they are, the reality was worse. I’d take bad dreams forever if it meant I could truly forget that day.”
I shuddered and leaned into him, my cheek finding the hollow between his shoulder and collarbone as he hunched around me, holding his arm in front of us. Pushing up his sleeve as he spoke, revealing his cuff.
“This is the very first piece I made when I moved in here. And this”—he unsnapped it, tossed it aside, turned his hand palm up—“is why I made it.”
His wrist was a nocturnal thing, soft and pallid from lack of sun. Smooth from rubbing raw and healing over countless times until it learned to love the constant slide of leather. Bisected from the palm on down—three inches of raised, pale scar tissue, flanked by the starburst ghosts of stitches.
“Oh my God. What is this?”
“Rock bottom. I was in a bad place, for a long time. I’d been sick for a month, couldn’t keep a job. I was out of money, out of food. No place to stay. No one would help me.”
“Not even Sadie?”
“Sadie was fourteen when they kicked me out. I didn’t see her again until she learned to drive and tracked me down here. So yeah, when I say I was alone … well, even she doesn’t know about this scar.” His arm tightened around me; his chin tucked itself against my shoulder. His voice was calm and unperturbed, so casual it cut my heart.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bring all this back for you, Connor. I shouldn’t have—”
“Stop. I want you to know. If I can come back from my worst, Lane, you can get through this. You’re stronger than I ever was. And when everything falls apart, know at least one person would be devastated if you let it take you down too.”
I know he felt my breath catch, felt it restart again, shudder from my body in a wash of chills. I pulled away, just enough to slide around and see him. His eyes were raw, his face ragged along the seams of his usual blasé mask. This boy, who wore so many, and wore them all so well; who hadn’t hesitated to reach for me, even as he risked himself against my jagged edges.
He’s going to fall in love with you someday.
Sadie’s words, slurred and swoony, wrapped in cinnamon. Seething with truth.
This was bad.
Too many boys had gotten attached and proclaimed their love—a Whitman’s Sampler of Jeremys, trying in vain to coax reciprocations from my reluctant throat. But they didn’t really love me—they loved my face, sure. They loved my body, my long hair, my lips and arms and legs wrapped around them—they loved that plenty, until they realized it was all they got, and then came the pouts and the glares. Then came the tears. As if they hadn’t been plenty enthusiastic at the idea of no-strings sex before they found themselves entangled in it. As if they’d ever come within a country mile of the girl I really was.
What I had with Connor, though, was an intricate thing—a tapestry of chemistry and affection, friendship and respect. An unfamiliar sort of string, wound tight around my heart. It wasn’t that dreamy, unmistakable certainty. It wasn’t love.
But it was something. And what was wrong with me, that I stood so ready to snuff it out? It damn sure was more than could be cobbled together from the scraps of hopefuls past. It was more than an imagined touch through a literal wall.
It was inexplicable. The words knotted around my thoughts and each other and the unaccustomed twists of my tongue as I closed the distance between us, reached for his hands, pressed my lips against his scars—first the one I gave him, then the one he gave himself. Covered his mouth with my own to block any hint of reply.
The breath left his body as I let mine speak for us both. Let my skin whisper everything I couldn’t say.
21
I FOUND MY FATHER IN the kitchen, standing very close to his new bride. Her hands were lost in his, wrapped around the wooden spoon they dragged in slow circles through a simmering pot. She was wreathed in steamy swirls of lavender and rosemary, focused beyond what the task required. He watched her furrowed face like it was the green light on the end of a goddamn dock, his mouth stretched into a grin that conjured all the eye rolls in my inventory.
“Lotion?” I chirped.
“Infusion.” Dad took a step back, moving the pot to a cool burner. “An infusion that, yes, will be blended into lotion, bottled, and delivered by night’s end.”
He turned to me, taking in my boots and infinity scarf, the hurried way I moved around the kitchen, grabbing granola bars and packs of raw almonds, dried fruit, and my Brita bottle. The water at the warehouse was potable, but just barely—I’d asked Paul if they had a filtration system, and he’d given me a look that was less an answer than a dismissal. Better safe than sorry.
“Heading out, Elaine?”
“Sadie’s on her way over. We’ll be at the warehouse, barring a change of plans.”
“Don’t leave the county without telling me. That’s all I ask.” He glanced at Skye, whose eyebrows had achieved flight over eyes loaded with intention. “Can we sit for a moment before you go? It’s been a while since our last chat.”
Fuck. They stood there wearing matching smiles, both emanating guilt-tinged camaraderie. Both perfectly aware that “chats” with Elaine had taken a back seat to everything else eons before their wedding day. My father, reaching for me through too many years. Long past the point where I could consider reaching back.
“Sure, we can chat.” I sat at the table, eyes fixed warily on their earnest, hopeful faces as they followed suit. “What’s up?”
“Nothing is ‘up,’ per se. That is to say, there’s nothing untoward looming, to my limited knowledge. You’ve never given me a reason to mistrust you, and at this point, my feelings are incidental—‘you have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist.’ ”
“Nietzsche, Dad? Really?” Fucking philosophy majors.
“It works for my purpose, okay? What I’m saying is, you’re legally an adult now, Elaine, and I respect that. I’m quite aware you grew up long ago.” He was quiet for a moment, composure betrayed by the up-and-down scurry of his Adam’s apple. “What I mean to say is—”
“Rob. May I?” Skye squeezed Dad’s hand, and he nodded, choked by his own unsaid words. He looked at the table, eyes fluttering, mouth working. Jee. Zus. “Elaine, honey, we wanted to talk to you about Connor Hall.”
“Okay.”
They waited expectantly. I waited, silent and stone cold, not about to give them a single goddamn detail not preceded by a question. Skye picked up on that fast enough.
“We don’t want to overstep, sweetheart. This is your home—you’ll always be safe and respected in this space, and can tell us as much or as little as you feel comfortable sharing. Healthy boundaries and open communication are essential in any relationship, familial or romantic, committed or not. If you and Connor are getting serious, we should probably discuss—”
“He’s not trying to convert you, is he?” Dad’s outburst startled even Skye. “That church his father runs—it’s a complete warping of the New Testament, crafted to benefit the patriarchal agenda of its leaders and utterly devoid of the true message of the man they call their Christ. It’s disgusting, and if I find out he’s trying to brainwash you, I’ll—”
“Holy living—Dad, stop. Believe me, that is not the case.”
“Are you absolutely sure? They have a very subtle, very insidious recruitment method. Your brother has seen it firsthand in his relationship, and I firmly believe he’s only held strong in his own faith so far because that same inherent misogyny doesn’t allow poor Sadie to make demands of him.”
“Huh. Has
anyone told Sadie that, or—?”
“It’s a tragedy, really.” Skye shook her head. “That sweet girl, looking to Greyson as her ultimate authority, as if he’d ever dream of exploiting another human being. We don’t want to see you led down that same path by your own boyfriend.”
“I appreciate that, but it’s not an issue. Connor is an atheist and a feminist, and completely estranged from his parents. And he’s not my boyfriend, anyway.”
Their relief was a burst of elation. They actually fell back into their chairs.
“An atheist. That’s wonderful, Elaine,” my father sighed. “You have no clue how worried I’ve been over this.” He stood and turned back to the stove, wet a dishtowel, and started wiping down the splattered surface. “Have a good night, and don’t worry about work tomorrow. Take the day off. Have some fun.”
“And see if you can’t convince Greyson to have some fun too,” Skye said, reaching over to pat my hand. “I wish he’d take a page from your book, to tell you the truth. He seems more repressed than usual.”
I had to chomp the inside of my cheek. If only she knew.
“I’ll talk to him if the subject comes up. Or tell him to talk to you.”
“Thank you, sweetie. Robby, honey, let me do that. You get the shea butter and coconut oil, and we’ll finish up this batch.”
They were back in their bubble, and I was racing down the hall, desperate to get to my bedroom before the laughter poured out of me like rain. Conversion. Patriarchal agendas. Robby, for fuck’s fucking sake. It was all too much.
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