Page 28 of Holding Hope

We were tucked into a small corner near the entrance, shielded by shelves of thread and yarn. Not truly private, but private enough.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” she said. “I have things to buy and⁠—”

I reached across the table and took her hand. We both froze. She gasped, a small, startled sound and I dropped her fingers far sooner than I wanted to.

“Then don’t talk,” I said quietly. “Just listen.”

Memories crashed over me—running through the alley with our fingers intertwined, tracing her face as she slept in my arms.

Get it together, Avalon. Please.

“I can’t control how you feel about me. And rightfully so—I did a shitty, fucked-up thing, and you have every reason to hate me. To never want to see me again. But the fact that you didn’t—even if it was for your sister—proves there’s still a chance at forgiveness.”

Clarke scoffed, arms tightening across her chest. “That proves nothing except that I’m smart enough to secure a business deal.”

Her words stung, but I pushed on.

“I’ll wait as long as you need before you can forgive me. And if you can’t do that… then maybe you could hate me a little less.”

“I don’t…” Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. She looked genuinely lost for words. A first.

“Excuse me.” She brushed past me, rounding the corner and leaving our tiny pocket of privacy behind.

I won’t lie—I had expected something. A snarky reply, a sharp insult, anything. Half a confession was worse. I stood there, rubbing the fabric between my fingers. I could run back to California, pretend none of this ever happened. But I’d already invested too much time and energy into getting this far.

I had no choice but to stay. To stand my ground. To show her every apology was real. I had always been a pathological liar—it was a survival skill in my family.

But I couldn’t lie to her. Not to Clarke. So, I followed her—the way I knew I’d be doing for the rest of the summer.

After about ten minutes of trailing behind Clarke and pretending to be utterly fascinated by every fabric texture whenever she glanced my way, she finally headed toward the front of the store. An older woman stood behind the register, gently preening the flowers in a vase beside the till.

As we approached, the woman’s eyes slid right past me as if I were invisible and landed on Clarke. Her entire face brightened, cheeks turning a rosy pink. Her movements softened, her voice warmed.

Correction: she greeted Clarke warmly.

“Well, I’ll be—Clarke King, did they finally get you out of your little episode? I told your mama to get you outside. Glad to see she’s finally taken my advice.” Her tone was friendly, but the weight beneath her words was unmistakable.

Episode?

How long had it lasted?

And why did the entire town seem to know about it?

Clarke nodded enthusiastically, setting her basket on the counter. “Why yes, Mrs. Finch! Mama took your advice and got me out as soon as she could get through to me!”

She was laying it on thick — voice higher, sweeter, hand brushing the older woman’s arm.

Oh, she was good.

Mrs. Finch snorted, scanning a bundle of yarn. “She must not have been trying all too hard, considering no one’s seen your face in almost three months!”

Three months.

My stomach dropped.

Clarke’s smile stretched so far it looked painful. A faint silver sheen glossed her eyes, and her fingers curled into her palms. When she released her fists, tiny crescent-shaped indentations remained.

She was about to crack. Or at least fracture.