Chapter 9: The distance.

She hadn't seen Devane for a week.

Not at breakfast. Not in the hallways of the too-big house. Only once at a compulsory family dinner.

The days blurred together—grey light through the windows, the distant roar of the motorcycle at odd hours, the creak of floorboards that might have been Devane or might have been the house settling. Clarisse couldn't tell anymore.

The morning after the garage, she'd woken to an empty kitchen. The coffee she'd made sat cold in the pot. The apple was still on the table, brown and withered. Devane's water bottle was gone too.

Clarisse had stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway where Devane had stood, where Devane had held her hand, where Devane had whispered okay like it was a promise. Then she'd walked to school on autopilot, her feet bandaged, her chest hollow.

She didn't see Devane that day. Or the next. Or the next.

Aunt Helena asked about the bruises on Devane's face at dinner one night—"What happened, darling? Were you in an accident?"—and Devane had said "Riding" and nothing else. Clarisse had stared at her plate, pushing rice around with her fork, waiting for Devane to look at her. She didn't.

By the third day, Clarisse stopped waiting.

By the fifth day, she started to wonder if she'd imagined it all—the garage, the fight, the handhold. Maybe it hadn't meant anything. Maybe Devane touched everyone like that. Maybe Clarisse was just another girl to save, another body to guard, another problem to solve. Maybe she'd been stupid to think she was special.

By the seventh day, she believed it.

°°°°°

The new semester started with a lie.

Clarisse stood in front of her locker, fingers wrapped around the cold metal handle, and told herself she was fine. The hallway buzzed around her—voices, laughter, the slam of locker doors, the squeak of sneakers on freshly waxed floors. It was the first day back after winter break, and everyone was performing the same ritual: comparing schedules, showing off new clothes, pretending the break had changed them.

Clarisse hadn't changed. She'd gotten worse.

She slammed her locker shut. The sound echoed. A few heads turned and whispers circulated. She ignored them.

°°°°°

Her first class was AP English. She sat in the back, near the window, and watched the clouds crawl across the grey January sky. Her notebook was open. Her pen was uncapped, but she wrote nothing.

The teacher droned on about syllabus changes and reading lists. Clarisse heard none of it. Her mind was elsewhere—in a garage, in a kitchen, in the space between Devane's hand and hers.

When the bell rang, she gathered her books and walked to second period like a sleepwalker.

That's when she saw Ella.

Ella was a friend. Sort of. They'd known each other since freshman year—danced together, studied together, shared secrets in the locker room after grueling rehearsals. Ella was everything Clarisse wasn't: loud, confident, unapologetic.

She had a laugh that turned heads and a way of filling any room she entered. She was beautiful in an effortless way—tall, athletic, with dark skin and braids that swung when she moved. Boys wanted her. Girls wanted to be her. Ella wanted everyone.

"Clarisse!" Ella's voice cut through the hallway. She was leaning against a row of lockers, phone in hand, grinning like she'd won something. "There you are. Girl, you look like death. What happened to your winter break?"

Clarisse forced a smile. "Nothing. Just family stuff."

"Family stuff. Sounds boring." Ella fell into step beside her. "Mine was insane. I met someone."

Clarisse's stomach tightened. "That's nice."

"Nice? Babe, it's more than nice. She's—" Ella lowered her voice, glancing around dramatically. "She's older. Like, college age. Has her own motorcycle. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Totally badass."

Clarisse's blood went cold.

"Wait." She stopped walking. The hallway streamed around them. "What did you say?"

Ella beamed. "I know, right? I met her at this party last week. She was just standing in the corner, looking all mysterious, and I was like, 'I have to know who that is.' We talked all night. She gave me a ride home on her bike. Clarisse, I swear, I've never felt anything like it."

Clarisse's mouth was dry. Her heart was a stone in her chest. "What's her name?"

"Devane."

The hallway tilted. Clarisse grabbed the strap of her backpack to steady herself. The name hit her like a punch to the sternum. She'd known it was coming—of course she'd known—but hearing it spoken out loud, so casually, so happily, from Ella's grinning mouth, was a different kind of pain.

"Devane," she repeated. Her voice sounded distant. Hollow.

"You know her?" Ella's eyes lit up. "She said she lived around here. Did you meet her at some party?"

"Something like that." Clarisse forced her face into something neutral. Something that didn't look like her heart was cracking. "She's... my cousin. Sort of. By marriage."

Ella's jaw dropped. "Shut up. You're joking."

"I'm not."

"Oh my God. This is perfect. You can tell me everything about her. What's she like? Is she always that intense? Does she have a girlfriend? Please tell me she doesn't have a girlfriend."

Clarisse felt sick. The hallway was too hot. The noise was too loud. Ella's voice was a blade, twisting in her gut.

"I don't know," she managed. "We're not that close."

"Well, you have to introduce us. Like, officially. We've been texting all week. She's kind of hard to read, you know? One minute she's all intense and present, the next she's totally distant. But I think she likes me. She keeps replying, so that's something, right?"

Clarisse nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak.