Page 45 of Lovefool

Her confession has made me realize that she’s so much stronger than she appears—which is already an impressive feat considering she’s the strongest person I know. Her quick wit and sharp tongue knocked me onto my ass, but getting to see this vulnerable side of her is a privilege I’ll never take for granted.

“Hey, hey.” I take my thumb and dab at some of the residual moisture on her cheek. “You don’t. You make things better.”

Her voice quiets. “No, I don’t.”

Three words that have my belly twisting and a haunting whisper of dread weaving in and out of the catacombs of my skull. If she’s adamant about giving up on herself, then I’ll work ten times harder to convince her to stay.

As one last gesture of reassurance, I cup her face in my hands, the tiniest ember of hope kindling inside of me. “You have for me, Lake. It’s barely been a month, but you’ve changed my life for the better, and I’ll do everything in my power to make you see that—no matter how long it takes.”

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I swear her eyes brighten the slightest bit, and the girl whom I’ve grown an unhealthy attachment to is back in the flesh, fighting every urge to disappear just so I can breathe easily again.

“I don’t know what I could’ve possibly done to deserve you,” she mumbles beneath her breath, leaning into my touch.

“Being you has always been enough.”

“Thank you for listening…and not running away.”

I chuckle. It’s cute that she doesn’t realize I’d move mountains for her if she simply asked to see the stars. “You’ll have to try a lot harder than that to get rid of me.”

She curls in on herself before raking her bottom lip between her teeth. “What am I going to do about Max?”

“He made a mistake, but he’ll get over it.” I gesture to her brother, who seems to be chasing a pigeon around the trunk of a tree. “See? He’s gonna be okay. And as far as the bullying situation goes, I think I can help with that.”

18

SELF-MEDIOCRITY IS SO OUT

LAKE

Ipace back and forth across the floor of the rink, a reel of thought unsnarling with each heavy-footed (and heavyhearted) step I take.

I can’t believe I lost my shit in front of Max like that. I should’ve tried to de-escalate the situation, not make it worse. Unlike me, my brother doesn’t have a bad bone in his body. He’s sweet and well-behaved and, ironically, my role model despite his age.

I’ve never told anyone all the details about Audie’s death. Hell, even Ellaria doesn’t know the full story. To think that Sutton is the first person I confided in brings me both relief and unease. He was so sweet and understanding, but the truth shouldn’t have come out like that. I wanted to confess it on my own time, with no one else around.

Yet he handled it—me—so, so well.

The memory of my sister is my Achilles’ heel. Everything I do is a distant reaction to the choices I made that night, and it still informs how I view myself as a person. My self-worth will always be tied to that singular moment.

But Max…he doesn’t have to follow in my footsteps. I need to set a better example, and that starts with me apologizing for how I act at protests. Speaking up for the voiceless is one thing—creating an environment where I go to jail is something else entirely.

When I see him toddling over to me on his skates—secured in his padded hockey uniform and looking exceptionally small beneath every layer—guilt slips its metaphorical leash.

“Hey, hi,” I say, taking my brother gently by the arm and leading him over to one of the benches.

I can feel my ribs tightening around my heart, clamping down on viscera with the intent to scar. Sutton’s voice—akin to the rolling growl of thunder—crackles in my ears, playing on repeat.

You make things better.

Come on, Lake. Just be honest with Max.

As exposed as a ship’s hull on a jagged outcrop of rocks—waterlogged wood peeling down lateral panels—I take a seat on the cold, hard surface, unintentionally examining the healing trajectory of his extensive injuries. The swelling around his eye has gone down, and after we treated his cuts with antiseptic, they’ve been on the mend. Still, it’s not an easy pill to swallow having your brother walk around looking like he was jumped by a bunch of mobsters.

Despite the clipping of skates and the whisking of ice shavings, the rink feels as silent as a mortuary. I funnel all my courage into a well-meaning apology that I should’ve jettisoned years ago.

“I’m so sorry, Max. I’m sorry for the way I blew up and made things worse with your principal. I was supposed to set a good example for you, and I failed.” My truth is the equivalent of a death knell, and white-hot agony floods my stomach.

My sweet, sweet brother tilts his head as confusion flashes across his expression. “Why are you sorry? I’m the one who got into a fight and made your life harder.”