Page 8 of When the Smoke Clears
Taller than rumors, broader than whispers. Hood up, hands shoved into his sweatshirt pocket, shoulders heavy like he’s dragging something behind him.
For a moment, I think I’m imagining him—the boy too bright, too unreachable.
Then he lifts his eyes.
And he sees me. Not the girl with the absentee mother. Not the hallway shadow.
Just…me.
It hits with a force I’m not ready for.
He steps closer, the dock groaning under his weight. “Hey…you okay?”
His voice is low, unexpectedly gentle. Something inside me cracks right down the center.
“I’d rather not get into it,” I manage.
“Fair enough.” He nods to the space beside me. “Mind if I sit?”
I should say no. Protect what’s left of me. But I nod.
He drops down two planks away, close enough that warmth radiates from him and pushes back some of the cold sinking into my skin. My heart flutters wildly.
“You been crying?” he whispers.
I tense, prepared for mockery, but it never comes.
Nerves surge, and my brain betrays me. “Did you know a horde of rabbits once attacked Napoleon? Like—aggressively.”
He blinks. Then laughs—bright and surprised. “You’re kidding. That’s not why you’re upset, right? Or are you a huge Napoleon fan?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I tend to blurt out random history facts when I’m nervous.”
A slow, warm smile. “You like history?”
“I love it. How can we know where we’re going if we don’t understand where we’ve been?”
He doesn’t laugh. He offers a thoughtful nod.
I look out over the water until my heartbeat settles. “Why are you out here?”
He hesitates. “Why are you?”
“I asked first.”
“Technically, I asked first.”
I almost laugh. Instead, I surprise myself. “My mom said she wished she had another life. One without me.”
His jaw flexes. His fingers curl tight around the dock’s edge. He goes so still it feels like the night holds its breath.
“People say shit they don’t mean,” he murmurs. “Especially when they’re hurting.”
“How do you know?”
His voice roughens. “Because my dad says things too. Things he can’t take back.”
My heart twists. The Wilds always looked perfect—money, status, matching smiles.
