Chapter 23: : Chapter 22

In the shower, my heart’s still racing. Not in a bad, panic-attack way but in a good, feeling-alive, soaring-over-the-ocean kind of way. I think about the way he looked at me, the way he talked about his brush with death. And even though rumor may be true, I still can’t believe the others, that the boy I know could hurt someone, hurt someone. I’m lost in thoughts about the Boy on the Verge when I open the door to Alice leaning against the frame, her arms folded, blocking my exit. All the beauty of tonight blows out with the steam.

“Where’d sneak off to?”

I want to tell her. About the cliff and the chalk poetry. How Micah’s hands on my waist tonight sent shivers down me, my body short-circuiting in the best way. Alice and I could jump into bed, pull the sheet over our heads like we used to when we’d stay up giggling and chatting and swapping secrets in the dark. But we’re not those girls anymore. Our secrets are stored, not shared.

Margot is asleep in Alice’s bed, so I whisper, “Maybe we should start with where go at night.”

Alice looks away.

“You know about that?”

“Of course I know. We share a room.”

“You don’t need to worry about it,” Alice says.

Suddenly all the hurt of having her, my louder-than-life big sister, act like a stranger sears into my chest, makes my words wobbly.

“Of course I do. You’re my sister. But I swear it’s like you hate me.”

She crumples slightly, her shoulders falling along with her face.

“I don’t hate you.” Her voice has lost its edge. “Things are just different now.”

Normally I’d let it go, just keep my mouth shut, but something about tonight—writing my words, Micah sharing his tattoo with me—propels me forward.

“Why? Why are things different?”

She stares past me at the reddish stain on the tile floor but flicks her eyes away just as fast. We’ve never actually talked about that night, like the memory of it doesn’t exist inside us.

“They just are.”

Her eyes plead with me to stuff this conversation down with all the other unsaid things.

She steps past me into the bathroom, her face twisted. She wipes a tear from her eye before it falls, and when she does, her sleeve rides up slightly, revealing thin pink lines on her wrist that intersect. A raised, dark purple scar slicing upward from her palm.

I want to wrap my arms around her, tell her I love her, tell her I’m going to make it better.

“Alice, you can talk to me,” I say. “I have no idea what’s going on with you, or what happened at Fairview or what you’re thinking—”

“You want to know what I’m thinking?” She cuts me off, her voice shaking. “What goes through my head every single time I look at you?” She points to the floor, to the spot where I found her. “I’m thinking about how you looked at me that night.”

“I—I was scared.” How can I possibly explain how it feels to find your sister with a blade to her wrist?

“Exactly. And the one who scared you.” She takes in a heavy breath and lets it out slowly. “And I saw that look again on your face—on Dad’s face, on Margot’s face—the other night when I missed curfew. I just keep hurting people. Which is why it’s best for everyone if you just stick to your life, and I’ll stick to mine.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer—just closes the door.