Chapter Six: How's That Your problem?

"Marcus— "

"What?"

"I don't—I'm not in the mood." She whispered her eyes avoiding his all the while.p

He stared at her for a long moment. His eyes flickered—annoyance, confusion, then a practiced patience that was somehow worse than anger. "Okay. Fine. No problem." He held up his hands like she'd accused him of something. "We don't have to do anything. I'm not a monster."

"I didn't say you were."

"You're acting like I am." He stood up, brushing crumbs from his jacket. "Look, I'm gonna go. I've got practice in an hour anyway. We'll talk later when you're not so..." He gestured vaguely at her. "You know."

When you're not so crazy. When you're not so difficult. When you're not so you.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. It was the kind of kiss you gave a child. Or a pet. Or a possession you were done playing with.

"Text me later," he said. "And eat something, alright? You're starting to look sick."

He was gone before she could respond. The front door clicked shut. The house fell silent.

Clarisse sat on the couch and stared at the wall. Her hands were shaking. Her jaw was clenched so tight her teeth ached. She could still feel his fingers on her hip, squeezing, testing, judging. Tighter. She pressed her own hand over the spot, digging her nails in, trying to replace his touch with hers.

She bit her lip so hard she drew blood from it. She fighting back the tears threatening to fall.

One moment she was alone on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, eyes fixed on nothing. The next moment, a shadow fell across her. The scent of leather and gasoline and cold air.

"Heard him leave."

Devane's voice. Flat. Hard. Clarisse looked up. Devane stood in the doorway, still in her riding jacket, helmet tucked under one arm. Her hair was wind-tossed. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold. Her eyes were ice.

"How long have you been home?" Clarisse asked. Her voice cracked on the last word. She sniffed and quickly wiped her eyes.

Devane set her helmet on the floor with a thud. Unzipped her jacket. Draped it over a chair. Each movement was slow. Measured. Like she was calibrating the exact amount of force required not to put her fist through a wall.

"Your boyfriend," she said. The word came out like a curse. "He always talk to you like that?"

Clarisse's stomach dropped. "You heard— " she cut herself short"How's that your problem."

"I heard him tell you to eat something. I heard him say you looked sick." Devane's jaw flexed. A muscle twitched below her ear. "I was outside the window. Smoking. He didn't see me."

Clarisse's hands curled into fists on her knees. She stared at the floor. The hardwood. The dust motes floating in the afternoon light. Anything but Devane's face.

"It's not what it sounded like."

"Then what was it?"

"He's just—he worries about me. He doesn't know how to say it right."

Devane scoffed. She crossed the room and leaned against the back of the couch—close enough that Clarisse could feel the cold still clinging to her clothes.

"You believe that?" Devane asked. "Or you just saying it?"

Clarisse's teeth found the inside of her cheek. She bit down. Hard. The pain was sharp and clarifying. She shook her head. Once. Barely a movement at all.

"Didn't think so."

Devane pushed off the couch and walked toward the stairs. Her footsteps were heavy. Final. Like she'd said everything she came to say and wasn't going to waste another breath.

"He grabbed my hip." Clarisse blurted out.

Devane froze. Her back was still turned. Her hand was on the banister. She didn't move.

"When he kissed me," Clarisse continued. Her voice was strange—flat, detached, like she was describing something that had happened to someone else. "He squeezed my hip and said I felt tighter. Like it was a compliment. Like I should be grateful he noticed."

The silence stretched. Devane's shoulders ros and fell. Her hand tightened on the banister until her knuckles went white.

Then she let go.

"Take a walk with me."

Clarisse blinked. "What?"

"A walk." Devane turned around. Her face was unreadable. The mask was firmly in place—no crack, no flicker, nothing. Just ice. "Get your shoes. I need air that doesn't smell like him."

Clarisse hesitated. Then she stood up. Her legs were unsteady. Her hands were still shaking. But she found her sneakers by the door and pulled them on. Devane watched her in silence.

Then headed out before Clarisse could tie the final knot.