All Chapters of Fragile bones, iron hearts.: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The wedding was beige. Not the color—though there was plenty of that, champagne tablecloths and blush roses drooping in the August heat. No, the whole affair was beige in spirit. Polite and performative. The kind of event where everyone gave a smile that didn't reach their eyes. Devane arrived late on purpose. But she cringe still sighting the event becoming even more vibrant than it should for something that was 30minutes to coming to an end. The motorcycle's growl cut through the string quartet like a blade through silk. She killed the engine at the venue's iron gates and took her time walking up the gravel drive, helmet tucked under one arm, boots crunching with deliberate slowness. Heads turned. Conversations stuttered and whispers spread throughout the decorated yard. She felt their stares and met none of them. Let them look. She'd worn black. Not for mourning—she wasn't that sentimental—but because it required zero thought and less effort. Black jeans, black boots,

Clarisse spent the whole time awake. She fought the sheets for hours—twisting, kicking, yanking the covers up to her chin and then hurling them off again. The ceiling blurred. The pillow went hot, then cold, then hot again. At three a.m. she gave up and pressed both palms against her stomach, feeling the hollow ache there, the familiar gnawing emptiness she'd cultivated like a secret garden. Her wrist throbbed with memory. Devane's thumb had traced a circle there, slow and deliberate, and the ghost of it still burned. Clarisse pressed her own thumb over the spot, trying to recreate the pressure. But It wasn't the same. Yes you do, Devane had said. Yes you do. Clarisse had replayed it so many times the words had worn grooves in her brain. By seven a.m., she smelled pancakes. The scent crawled under her door like an intruder—sweet batter, sizzling butter, warm syrup. Her stomach clenched with dread. She swung her legs off the bed and her feet hit the cold floor with a slap.

The sun poured through the windows —golden and warm and obscenely cheerful. Clarisse dragged herself out of bed at ten, her body a sack of broken glass. Her eyes were sandpaper. Her jaw ached from clenching all night. Her hair hung in greasy ropes around her face, and she didn't care. She couldn't care. Caring required energy she didn't have.She shuffled to the bathroom and gripped the sink with both hands. The mirror was a traitor. It showed her everything—the purple smudges under her eyes, the chapped lips, the hollows in her cheeks that still weren't hollow enough. She stared at her reflection until it blurred, then she turned the faucet to cold and splashed water on her face. The shock hit her skin like a slap. She gasped. Did it again. Harder.Pretending is the only thing keeping my hands off you.The words surfaced in her mind and she shoved them down. Down, down, down. She had to. Marcus was coming at noon. Marcus always came on Saturdays.She pressed her forehead to the mirro

The neighborhood was quiet. Manicured lawns. Sprinklers hissing. A dog barking somewhere in the distance. Devane walked with her hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched, pace slow. Clarisse walked beside her, biting inside her cheeks and glanced at her through her side eye. The silence between them was heavy but not hostile. Like a bruise that hadn't decided whether to heal or spread.They reached a small park at the end of the street. It was empty. A swing set. A rusted slide. Devane sat on one of the swings and pulled out a cigaretteand lit it. The smoke curled upward and vanished into the grey sky.Clarisse sat on the swing next to her. The chains creaked."I don't know why I stay with him," Clarisse said quietly. The confession came out of nowhere. She hadn't planned it. Hadn't even known it was true until the words left her mouth. "He's—everyone thinks he's perfect. Basketball captain. Good grades. My aunt loves him. The school loves him. We're supposed to be the 'it' couple."

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 a