Page 39

“Isn’t it?” She looks straight at me, challenging now. “I’m the complication here. The outsider. You and Flint have a past. You understand each other. I’m just the sick rich girl who dragged you both into her mess.”

“That’s not how I see you.”

“No? How do you see me then?”

The question hangs between us. How do I see her? As a responsibility? A burden? Something else?

“I see someone who survived,” I say, after a beat. “Someone stronger than they look.”

She blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. “I’m not strong. I’m just stubborn.”

“Same thing, most days.”

She picks up the mug, takes another sip. “This is really disgusting.”

“Told you.”

“But I do feel... something. Lighter, maybe.”

“It hits fast.”

She nods, suppressing a yawn. “I should go back to the house before I can’t walk straight.”

“You can stay here,” I offer, surprising myself. “It’s safer than walking back through the grounds.”

“Here? Where would I sleep? That?” She points to my narrow cot.

“I’ll find somewhere else.”

She studies me for a long moment, then shakes her head. “No. I’ll be fine. The house isn’t far.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“Not necessary.”

“Wasn’t asking.”

She sighs but doesn’t argue further. Smart. The herbs are definitely kicking in now. Her eyelids are getting heavy, her movements slower.

“Finish that first.” I nod at the mug. “Then we’ll go.”

She drains the rest of the liquid, grimacing. “There. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

I take the empty mug, rinse it in the sink, trying to give the herbs more time to work. When I turn back, she’s swaying slightly on her feet.

“Whoa,” she says, reaching for the workbench to steady herself. “That’s... strong.”

“Told you.” I move closer, ready to catch her if needed.

She leans against the workbench, her fingers curled around the edge. In the yellow lamp light, her skin looks almost normal, flushed with warmth instead of its usual pallor. The sleeves ofmy flannel shirt have fallen down again, covering her hands, making her seem younger, vulnerable.

“Thanks,” she says softly. “For the tea. And not treating me like I’m made of glass.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Most people do that when they find out I’m sick. Walk on eggshells. Or talk about me behind my back. I know everyone at my party knew about me and why I came back to Heathens Hollow already. Orthinkthey know about me. It gets old.” She sighs. “I even heard someone say they were told I had cancer. And someone else said I had less than a month to live. And if it’s not pity, then it’s people saying I’m faking it to get attention. Some doctors have said as much. It’s all in my head.” She pauses, glances down at her feet. “The rumors… I guess it’s better than the truth. That the doctors don’t have a fucking clue what I have. Everyone has a different opinion. Chronic. That’s what I call it. Chronically fucked up.”