Page 65 of Holding Hope

Two people smiling at the camera.

Then at each other.

Making silly faces.

Kissing in the last frame.

My breath caught.

She had told me the machine ate these.

But she’d kept them.

All this time.

With trembling fingers, I lifted the strip. My heart pounded against my ribs. She’d kept these — tucked inside her notebook, her most precious possession besides her guitar.

“I’m not the one with a quarter around my neck.”

But she’d kept this.

I flipped the strip over.

A date.

A note.

March 18th.

Clarke King’s eyes are like shiny diamonds and when she kissed me, I felt okay. Better than before.

Good news: I didn’t vomit in the shower like I thought I would.

Luckily, Clarke had already left the bathroom by the time the rest of what was in my stomach decided to make an appearance. Throwing up in the entrance was humiliating enough—I didn’t need to clog the shower drain with whatever I’d eaten.

By the time I was clean and mostly sober, Clarke had left a pair of shorts and a shirt outside the door. I slipped them on, wrapped my wet hair in a towel, and stepped out into the small kitchen.

She sat on a stool at the counter, two steaming mugs of coffee in front of her. Her fingers curled around one of them, but she hadn’t taken a sip—like she was holding it for comfort rather than warmth.

“Hey,” I said softly. “Is that for me?”

Clarke looked up, offering a small half-smile. “I wasn’t sure how you liked it, so I left it black.” She nodded toward the mini fridge. “There’s creamer in there, but it’s probably expired. And hazelnut flavored.”

I chuckled, taking the seat beside her. “Black is fine. Thank you.”

I didn’t drink coffee often — energy drinks were more my thing — but I appreciated the gesture. And I needed something to ground me.

The floor near the entrance had been cleaned. Shame crawled up my spine.

“I’m really sorry about… that.” I nodded toward the door, hiding behind the steam of my mug.

Clarke shrugged, stirring her coffee with a tiny silver spoon. “It’s nothing. I’ve cleaned enough of Colt and Ethan’s vomit for it to barely register.”

She laughed, but her eyes didn’t meet mine.

“I don’t even know what came over me,” I lied. “I haven’t been that drunk or aggressive since…”

Since the paparazzi incident.