Page 29

“You look like shit,” Kiara says the second I wake up.

I grunt and roll so my head is crammed under the jacket I used as a pillow. “Wow, thanks.”

“I thought you’d want to talk last night.” When that doesn’t get a reaction, she adds, “After our fight?”

I raise my head, aware that the fleece has made my hair all staticky.

I blow a clump of straggly bedhead out of my face.

“If you wanted pillow talk, maybe you shouldn’t have pretended to be asleep when I came in.

You even sighed a little and snored to sell it.

If anyone was avoiding anyone, it wasn’t me. ”

Her brows snap together as she scowls. “I wasn’t pret—Okay, fine, I was, but you were supposed to tap me awake so we didn’t go to bed mad.”

“You just said you weren’t asleep. And we’re not an old married couple.” I match her scowl.

Maybe making up before bed is how Kiara’s parents handle arguments, but I remember Mom and Dad whisper-fighting behind closed doors long after bedtime. She’d never liked him leading tours in the forest with Austin’s dad, liked him going alone even less, and she was right, in the end.

Kiara’s mouth opens and closes, a wild strawberry flush climbing up her cheeks.

How does she look this human first thing in the morning?

Meanwhile I have eye crusties, noxious morning breath, a tangle of hair around my face, greasy roots, and if that wasn’t bad enough, I spent the whole night wondering what would be worse: if intruders invaded our camp or if I accidentally farted in my sleep after all those beans.

I shift inside my sleeping bag, unable to get comfortable.

Every muscle rebels as I twist around. At least I was warm enough.

My discarded outer layers are balled up next to me, whereas Kiara’s are folded and on top of her rolled-up sleeping bag.

She’s been up for at least a few minutes longer than me, then.

I wet my dry lips, running my tongue over fuzzy, unbrushed teeth. Major ew. “Look, I’ll just say it first because I don’t want this to be a thing. I’m sorry for—”

“Yelling,” says Kiara. Her mouth mutinously twists. “You yelled.”

After instinctively gritting my teeth, I force my jaw to relax.

“I didn’t yell . But I am sorry for snapping.

You were trying to tell me that you were worried about everyone, and I should have been more sensitive.

” Her teeth dig into her bottom lip. Waiting.

“I’m sorry for being a jerk. It wasn’t my inten—”

But it had been my intention. Shame sours in my stomach. The memory of her stricken face is still fresh, maybe even more so in the light of day. I don’t want to argue with her. It’s not like I enjoy it. But sometimes, I can’t stop myself. I clear my throat, swallow. “You hit a nerve, is all.”

I glance to the mouth of our tent, blinking back the last remnants of sleep.

She must have already slipped out to take care of business because the zip is open a few inches, just enough to see the anemic hints of what passes for sunrise in here.

Another day of graying pallor hanging over us.

Lovely. I catch the wafting aroma of coffee, a little on the burned side, and something sweet and cloying.

“It’s a little past 7:30 a.m.,” says Kiara. “Tayla took charge of breakfast.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” I say under my breath.

She makes a sound that could be a laugh, but when my eyes dart to her, Kiara is suspiciously smooth-faced.

And against my will, I observe more useless, inconsequential facts about her: she doesn’t wear a bra to sleep, her unbrushed hair is still artfully tousled and fluffy except for the face-framing apricot locks that she’s tucked behind her ears, and her cheeks still bloom with color, like she’s as embarrassed to see me first thing in the morning as I am to be seen.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Kiara asks, fiddling with her earring even though it’s perfectly secure.

I prop myself up on my elbows. “About what?”

She stares like it’s obvious. “Why you look so…” She seems to search for the right word. “Rattled.”

I tear my gaze away. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nova.”

“Kiara.”

She makes a sound of frustration that mimics a growling baby bear and is exactly that adorable.

With a crooked smile, I ask, “Is it honestly that hard to guess why being here is weird and difficult?”

Sympathy softens her. “Then I won’t ask if you’re okay because I don’t want to hear you lie to me.”

“What makes you so sure I’d lie?”

“I mean, does anyone ever answer that question honestly?”

I tear my gaze away and sit up all the way.

My head feels heavy. There’s a dull, persistent throbbing between my eyes and all over my forehead.

Thankfully not a migraine, but the tension headaches I’ve been getting the last couple of years suck, too.

The specialist Mom took me to said he’s seen it often in people with trauma, stress, and anxiety. I mean, tick, tick, tick.

Closing my eyes, I bring my hands to the sides of my head and squeeze, but the relief only lasts a couple of seconds before the pressure is back with a vengeance.

“Are you okay?”

Prying one eye open, I give her a look. “Didn’t we just have this conversation?”

She regards me with a furrowed brow. “What are you looking for?”

I pause in scrounging through my backpack for the amber vial I bought from Mortar & Thistle. I’ll remember to put it in my bear bag in the future. “Didn’t sleep well,” I mumble.

Every nighttime sound was a possible threat, making my brain overthink and fret.

Even when I did manage to nod off, a hoot or a chirp or the hiss of the wind forced me awake.

Whenever I’m sleep deprived, physically overexerted, or stressed, my body decides to be extra vicious.

I feel like a zombie. A zombie that’s been mowed down by a Hummer, a Ford F-450, and a succession of military trucks.

“Radhika has headache relief if you need Advil, Tylenol, or whatever,” Kiara says.

“I brought my own ‘whatever.’?” I dangle the vial between two fingers. “Petra’s essential oils are more effective for me than medication.”

“Okay. Come here.” She holds out a hand, palm up.

I stare at her life and love lines, curling my fingers around the vial. “Um, why?”

Before I can even finish the question, she tucks herself behind me and tugs at my shoulders until my head is in her lap. “So suspicious,” she says, voice light with teasing.

Is this a dream? Is this a nightmare? Has to be a nightmare. I look and feel too gross for this to be anything but. Then again, my head is between her thighs, so…

I’m not exactly sure what’s appropriate here, so I lie stiff, staring up at the ceiling of our juniper polyester tent. When Kiara’s fingers fight mine for the bottle, I relinquish it purely because of the bewildered shock of assuming—incorrectly, as it turns out—that she was trying to hold my hand.

“Um.” My tongue feels thick and gross in my mouth. “Why are you…um.” My cheeks burn at my lack of coherence. But if I ask her why she’s touching me, maybe she’ll take that as a cue to stop.

“Because we have a long day of walking ahead of us, and I don’t want you hurting. So I am going to massage every bad thing out of that head of yours, Nova Marwood.”

Coming from her lips, my name sounds like a caress. I repress a shiver as she readjusts me exactly how she wants me. “Can I keep going?” Kiara asks.

Half my brain acknowledges the question and appreciates her asking for consent. The other half literally cannot think straight when she’s this close to me, warm and soft and smelling like strawberries.

I blink. “I…yes?”

“Good,” she whispers, brushing her knuckles down my temples. I inhale sharply, keeping my eyes focused on the tent, the way I can see just a smudge of light at the top from a gap in the trees. It’s the only sign that there’s a world outside of our bubble.

Her hands touch me like they know me. Each brush feels like a reminder. She does that a couple of times, either to get me used to her or to gather her own courage. The idea of gorgeous, confident Kiara being nervous around a girl, even if that girl is me, makes me laugh.

“Does that tickle?” she asks.

“No, it just feels different when someone else does it.”

She hums and unstoppers the vial. “Good different?”

The familiar blend of lavender, sweet orange, and lemongrass fills the tent and suffuses my senses. I jerk my head in a nod, still not looking at her. Kiara takes a moment to warm a couple drops between her fingers and then glides her oil-slicked fingers over my skin.

If the oil is sunshine in a bottle, she’s the sunbeam who delivers the immediate soothing relief.

Citrus bursts all around me, tickling my nose as her fingertips massage slow circles all over my hairline, her thumb working out the tension between my eyes and above my brows.

It should be no surprise that she’s as adept at this as she is at everything else.

“Good different,” I murmur. “Definitely good different.”

Kiara laughs, and this time it doesn’t bother me. Her fingers keep working their magic, lulling me into a pleasantly drowsy state. “Gonna tell me now?” she asks.

Opening my eyes is too much work. “Hmm?”

“What’s got you all squirrelly, Nova?”

Denial is on the tip of my tongue. I lean into her touch, eyelids fluttering. It feels so good to be taken care of, to know I’m safe in someone else’s hands. It makes me wonder what else could be safe, too…

Maybe my guard is down because I answer before thinking it through. “Do you think something good can come from a bad beginning?”

The pads of her fingertips graze my cheekbones before returning to my temples and resuming gentle circles across my hairline and browbone. “What are we talking about here?”