Page 67 of Holding Hope

You could kiss me. You could try. You could stop pretending you don’t feel it too.

When she looked at me again, there was a half-smile on her lips.

“And before you say anything,” she added, “we’ve already tried. And clearly, it seems like you’ve already given up.”

I sat back, incredulous. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Clarke’s eyes widened like saucers before narrowing into sharp slits.

“What the hell am I talking about? Avalon, I saw you. All night you were—were flirting with everyone but me. And that girl you were with, the one in the orange dress and those ridiculous tape-ins—they were awful, by the way⁠—”

“Were they?” I cut in, trying to retrace the night. I hadn’t noticed her hair. I hadn’t noticed anything except the burning ache in my stomach—the one I’d been trying so hard to drown or fill with meaningless sex. “I hadn’t noticed.”

She scoffed, laughing out of the side of her mouth. “Seriously? They were hard to miss. I’m surprised you⁠—”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t really focused on her hair when she was kissing me,” I snapped.

Clarke snorted and rolled her eyes. “What did you notice about her then?”

Her tone wasn’t mocking—it was curious.

Like she was trying to understand why I’d chosen someone else.

Why it hadn’t been her.

She must’ve realized I caught the subtext, because she quickly added, dripping sarcasm, “Was it her eyes? Or were you dazzled by her smile?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t remember anything about that girl — not her name, not her eyes, not her smile, and definitely not her terrible tape-ins.

The whole time I’d been with her, something felt wrong. Off. Like I was in the wrong place with the wrong person.

“No. None of that.”

I lifted my gaze to Clarke’s. Her lips parted slightly.

“The only thing I remember about her… was that she wasn’t you.”

Silence fell — thick, heavy, suffocating.

For a moment, I regretted saying it out loud.

Clarke’s face twisted into disbelief, then darkened. Her brows pinched together.

“Don’t you dare,” she whispered, shaking her head and dragging her hands over her face. “God, why did you have to do that?”

She pushed away from her stool so abruptly it nearly toppled.

“I can’t believe you just⁠—”

She turned, heading for her room — away from me.

I followed. “I just what, Clarke? Admitted what we’ve both been denying for weeks?”

I caught her wrist. She jumped at the contact.

“The entire time I was with that girl — hell, I don’t even remember her name — the entire time, I could only think about you. About what you were doing⁠—”

“Stop,” she pleaded, pressing her back to the wall as if she could melt into it. “Stop.”