Page 16 of Holding Hope

It felt like waking up alone all over again. Like rolling over and finding cold sheets. Like crying in the shower, begging myself to stop thinking about her.

And then the aftermath—the videos of that night plastered everywhere, the comments, the speculation, the questions. Everyone loved us. Everyone wanted more of us. Except her. She never called. Never texted. Never reached out. Not once. At first, I thought she’d forgotten me—that I was just another night in a long list of nights she’d never think about again. But then she released the song. Our song. And for a moment—a stupid, fleeting moment—I thought it meant something.

But she still never called. And now she was here, inches away, and every word I’d rehearsed, every accusation I’d written in my diary, every question I’d wanted to scream at her… vanished.

My mind was a wiped-clean whiteboard. One thing remained clear: I did not want her here. Not in my Daddy’s office. Not on our property. Not in my state.

She was rich—she could call a private jet and be back in Los Angeles by morning. I inhaled deeply and forced a smile. Avalon’s face flickered with confusion at my sudden shift.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” I said lightly. “The property is lovely.”

She blinked, surprised, before following me out the door. I could’ve sworn I heard her mutter “What the fuck” under her breath.

I almost smiled. As we descended the stairs, I took in her outfit—impractical, expensive, and wildly out of place. The mothers in Opal Springs would devour her alive. Which didn’t matter. She wasn’t staying.

“So, how many acres does your family own?” she asked, trying to make conversation. “Two hundred and six,” I replied, pride slipping into my voice. My parents had worked for every inch of this land. Nothing had been handed to them.

Avalon whistled. “That’s really fucking impressive, Clarke. I wouldn’t know what to do with that much land. Probably build several nightclubs or something.”

I snorted. Of course she would.

We walked around the barn, past the stables, the gardens, the birdhouses, the bee nests. She asked questions like we were friends. Like she hadn’t broken me. Like she wasn’t still breaking me.

Finally, I led her to the short winding road.

“So, if I’m not mistaken,” she said, crossing her arms, “this is just a road.”

I nodded. “This road leads to the main road, which leads to town. It’s walkable. If you leave now, you’ll make it before sunset—that’s when the mosquitoes and snakes come out.” Her face drained of color. “That is not fucking funny, Clarke!”

I thought it was hilarious.

“I want to make this work, Clarke⁠—”

“And that’s the thing,” I cut in. “I don’t.”

“But why not?!” she demanded, throwing her hands up like a toddler denied ice cream. “Because I hate you!”

The words ripped out of me—the same ones I’d written in my diary night after night. Dear Diary, today I still hate Avalon Kennedy. I’ve tried getting over what she did, but a part of me really thought she was different. That’s on me. I set my expectations too high. Is this heartbreak? Does it count if I never got the chance to know her? It was one night and she still managed to seep into every crevice of my thoughts. I hate her. And I hate myself because I think I might be lying.

Avalon’s eyes widened. She stepped back, hurt flickering across her face.

“Well, there it is,” she whispered, brushing her hand under her nose. Tears clung to her lashes.

For a moment—a brief, traitorous moment—I felt bad. But then I remembered waking up alone. And the sympathy evaporated.

“There it is,” I echoed. “Like I said—this road leads straight into town. You’ll find a bus station. You’ll be in L.A. before anyone even notices you’re gone.”

Avalon’s jaw tightened. “I’m not going back to California without this album. What do I have to do to make you dislike me a little less? At least until this is done. Then we never have to speak again, and you can hate me as much as you want.”

She looked desperate. Lips swollen. Eyes glassy. She wanted this badly enough to endure my hatred.

Who was the pathetic one now?

“The answer is still no, Melly.”

I raked my hands through my hair for what felt like the hundredth time. Melody flopped onto my sofa, giving me her best puppy-dog eyes.

“She stole your song,” she said. “So what? I think it’s time you got over that.” Of course, she thought this was about the song. I’d told her a sanitized version of that night—because she didn’t need to know the rest. Because I was embarrassed. Because I was supposed to be an example.