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“Both is good dot gif.”

“Is it weird that I hate everyone in your life?”

I snort. “I hope not, because so do I.”Except you.The thought spirals until a question occurs to me, and I hate myself for how much I’m about to sound like Lucas Burke, except that I’m going to keep it neutral—Salem’s answer is up to Salem. “Did you tell Jenna what really happened?”

He laughs dryly. “I didn’t have to. She broke up with me. Literally on my way here.”

“What?God, Salem, I’m sorry.” I mean, selfishly, I’m not remotely sorry, but Salem deserves better than to be unceremoniously dumped because he happens to have befriended a freak. “What happened? Is it real, or is this, like, a silly miscommunication that will resolve over dinner? Because if shethinks anythinguntowardwas happening in your room last night—”

“She doesn’t,” he assures me. “She doesn’t even know for sure that you were in my room, and she’s mad anyway.”

“What’s she madabout?”

He shrugs. “She thinks I’m into you.”

Oh, Jenna, you sweet summer child. “Aaaand did you correct her?”

“What’s the point?” he asks, rolling his eyes. “It was gonna end soon anyway. I’m tired of being a secret fuck-buddy to someone I barely even like.”

I hadn’t realized how tightly wound every muscle and organ of my body was until I feel my chest loosen at that proclamation, and a laugh bursts from my throat. “Oh, thank God you just said that. The world finally makes sense to me again. I still haveso many questions.”

“Yeah, well, I have no great answers. Ido,however, have your bag”—he pats the familiar backpack sitting on the floor next to him—“which has your phone, deck of cards, a book, and some clothes. Not gonna lie, it was fun choosing your underwear. I went with the heart print. It just said ‘healing’ to me.”

“Have I mentioned how much I hate you?”

“Not in the last ten minutes, which feels like a new record,” he says with a grin. “I gotta run again—they told me I can only stay for a couple of minutes, and then you need to eat lunch. I’ll come back with some visitors tonight, see if we can’t get a poker game going.”

“Sounds perfect.” We say our goodbyes, and the nursewheels in a tray of some kind of pasta and obviously canned vegetables. Somehow, I don’t think the infirmary fare is the same stuff they’re serving at the Beast, but the convenience of being able to eat in bed is pretty great.

I’m just finishing separating out the lima beans when my brain flashes back to Salem telling me that Jenna broke up with him. I still can’t believe he let her dump him over something that isn’t even true. Okay, so he wasn’t exactly in love with her, but he must’ve been enjoying himself enough to stay with her until now, to sing that song to her. So whydidhe let her, instead of denying it? Why didn’t he just say she was being ridiculous?

Unless… she wasn’t?

“As if that’s how things work out in my life,” I mutter as I stab my spork into a noodle. “He told me exactly why he didn’t tell her the truth, and it didn’t leave a lot of room for interpretation.” These pain drugs are good, but clearly, they inspire way too much wishful thinking.

Unless…

Oh, shut up,I tell myself, and I pull out the deck of cards and shut my brain off completely.

Chapter Sixteen

EVENING COMES AND GOES. Iread Sabrina’s and my GSA book, and text her all my thoughts. Heather does show up—we play spit, which keeps conversation to a minimum—and then she leaves for dinner. True to his word, Salem returns with Matt and Jason, and the four of us play poker until a nurse catches wind of what we’re doing and kicks them out. Then it’s just me and my thoughts again, and I pick up my phone to see if any more info about Sierra has been posted anywhere.

Still no, but Claire has a new set of pictures—displays of her work at the Greentree High Autumn Art Show. It’s mixed media, but primarily beading, which is something she’d been working on forever. The art is incredible—vivid and textured and unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Half of them are landscapes: beaches using actual sand, sea glass, shells, and seaweed; a cityscape of stones and coins for windows, cotton clouds. The other half are portraits, using tiger’s-eye and slivers of ebony and mahogany for her parents, her favorite cousin.

And then, at the end, a solitary work that doesn’t fit in with the rest—a two of spades crafted of a combination of cards and photographs. Only when I zoom in do I realize each spade is actually two hands, joined in prayer. Or… apology, maybe.

My heart leaps into my throat and I don’t allow myself a second thought before I leave a comment:This is incredible, ClaireBear. You should be so proud.

I look at it for a minute before deleting “Bear,” then hit the button to post.

Her reply comes in the form of a text thirty seconds later.I wasn’t sure you’d ever see it.

So she knew she was blocked. I wonder if she knew when she was unblocked.I’m glad I did,I write back.

The chat goes silent then, and I’m tempted to leave it. But my eye catches on that two of spades again, and I think about how hard Claire must have worked on it, how difficult it must’ve been to push herself to finish it without ever knowing if I’d even see it, let alone respond, especially when she had no way to tag me or text or call and tell me to look. It was a leap of faith, which has always been more Claire’s specialty than mine—she’d certainly be in chapel every Sunday, same as she always went to church right after our Dunkin’ trips—and maybe it’s time I take one.

I open up my contact list—Claire no longer resides in Favorites—and make the call.