Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Skylar
It’s been four weeks of fucking silence. Twenty-Eight days since Zane kissed me— almost a full month.
Not that I’m counting.
Except I fucking am.
Every day. Every breath. It’s carved deep into me, ticking like a goddamn clock I can’t shut off.
Every fucking second, it loops in my head.
His mouth crashing into mine. It tore through the rules about never letting anyone too close.
And now… Now he’s keeping his distance. As if it meant nothing. As if I’m the idiot still carrying the scorch of it across my mouth.
I haven’t seen him around the house. He’s become a ghost, vanished into shadows that don’t leave footprints.
Truth is, I can’t even tell if he’s still there. For all I know, he’s already packed up and disappeared, left nothing behind but silence and the taste of that kiss still burning through me.
At school, he avoids me.
Eyes fixed on the wall, the floor, the fucking clouds—anywhere but me. Most days he doesn’t even show, and no one asks why.
Not the students. Not the teachers.
That’s what happens when you’re a foster kid—your absence isn’t noticed, it’s expected.
Fucked if I know where he disappears to.
But every time I walk in and see that empty seat, something sharp twists deeper under my skin.
It pisses me off more than I’ll ever admit, because boys aren’t supposed to haunt me.
They’re supposed to pass through, be forgettable.
But Zane?
He lingers.
What… if he thinks I’m just another girl to keep him company?
Fuck that and fuck him.
I’m not some name he forgets by morning, not some throwaway moment he files with all the others.
Still, I do the one thing I swore I wouldn’t. I wait.
I drag myself up to the rooftop after Cassie dumps me back at that hellhole, and sit on the cold tin until my legs go numb, pretending the view is enough. But I always find myself listening. Waiting for footsteps, waiting for him.
But he never comes.
Guess he’s too busy getting off with Sam or whoever was easy enough that day.
And yet, on the rare days he actually shows up at school, Cassie swears he watches me. Says she catches him staring when I’m not looking.
But she could be full of shit. Cassie wants there to be something between Zane and I. She wants it to be messy, dramatic, fucked up in all the ways that make sense in her head.
I never told her about the kiss because Cassie would ask the kind of questions I’m not ready to answer. So I keep my mouth shut. Pretend it didn’t happen. That I don’t care. Even though I do. Too fucking much.
Today, I’m stuck in the counselor’s office again.
My fortnightly dose of bullshit. Some caseworker decided I need regular check-ins, as if thirty minutes of soft voices and generic advice is going to stitch me back together. Like I’m a school project someone’s trying to salvage with dollar store glue and fake empathy.
She sits across from me, her face stretched into that practiced expression, concern just warm enough to be patronizing. Thin-framed glasses slipping down her nose. Hands folded in some fake display of calm, the kind meant to trick me into trusting her.
She blinks slowly, dragging it out, convinced the silence will make me crack wide open and I’ll spill everything.
“Skylar,” she says, all gentle and rehearsed, “do you want to talk about your outburst last week?”
Fuck no.
I want to slam the door so hard the frame cracks and never step foot in this office again.
But instead, I sit here.
Arms folded tight across my chest. Chewing the inside of my cheek until I catch the tang of blood.
The woman across from me doesn’t get that. She never will.
To her, I’m another case file with a temper problem. Another foster kid with bruises no one bothers to ask about. A red folder stamped with “trauma” and shoved to the bottom of the stack. She doesn’t see me, she only sees a warning label.
“Why don’t you just go find something else to fix?” I mutter. “There’s enough broken shit in this place more fucked up than me.”
Her lips twitch in some half-assed attempt at patience. It lands somewhere between awkward and pathetic.
“You’re not in trouble, Skylar. This is a safe space,” she says, all soft and soothing.
Safe.
That word tastes like ash.
What a fucking joke.
What she really wants is to poke around, peel back the layers until she’s sure I’m not seconds away from burning the place down. But she’s looking in the wrong direction.
The thing chewing me alive isn’t school. It’s not Dolores. It’s not the mountain of bullshit stacked on top of me every damn day.
She tries again. Switches tactics, voice soft like that’ll make a difference.
“I understand Zane lives in the same foster home. Skylar, if he’s bullying you—”
There it is.
Straight to the assumption. Of course she assumes it’s him. The boy with bruises for knuckles and a record of fights behind him. They always blame him. Never the bastards who put us there.
“Seriously,” I snap. “Don’t.”
If she says one more thing about him, I’ll lose it. I’ll tell her to fuck off, take the suspension, whatever. Anything to get her to shut her mouth.
“Then tell me what’s going on,” she presses.
“Maybe this meeting is what’s getting me down,” I say, picking at a frayed thread on my jumper, eyes locked on the floor.
She sighs. Patient. Pretending again.
“Skylar, you’re supposed to open up here. Next time, I can invite Dolores if that makes you more comfortable.”
I let out a laugh.
Fucking stupid bitch. She doesn’t have a clue.
“If you do that, I won’t be here.”
The clock ticks.
Five minutes down.
Twenty-five more of this suffocating silence. Her eyes on me, her fake concern while she waits for me to snap.
I force a smile. All teeth, no warmth.
A trick. Two can play this game.
“I’ve just got a lot of work due,” I say, voice tight with fake worry. “I’m stressing about getting it done.”
Her face softens, eyes going all gentle. She thinks she’s cracked something open.
“Would you like me to ask your teachers for an extension?”
“No.” I cut in too fast. “I can handle it. I just need somewhere quiet. Somewhere now. Dolores’s place isn’t exactly built for peace and focus.”
She nods, all knowing and smug. “With all the kids there.”
“Exactly.” I let the smile stretch, feed her the version of me she wants. Let her believe I’m opening up. “Even the next twenty minutes could help me get something done.”
She hesitates.
Just for a second.
But she’s already hooked. And every part of me screams I’ve won.
She studies me, trying to decide if I’m full of shit.
Perhaps I’m wrong and she can see straight through it. But I keep my face steady, let the fake smile sit just soft enough to pass.
That’s all adults ever want. The illusion of effort. The lie that you’re trying.
She sighs, then leans back in her chair.
“All right, Skylar. Go on, get some work done. I’ll write it down as time used productively.”
Bingo.
I fake a grateful smile, throw my bag over my shoulder, and get the hell out before she changes her mind.
The door clicks shut behind me, her stale office air traded for the noise and stink of the hallway.
I don’t head for the library. Screw that.
I take the long corridor, cut down the stairs, slip out the back until I’m behind the building, tucked against the brick wall by the old incinerator.
No one comes here. Not teachers. Not kids.
I sink down against the wall, put my knees up, and lock my arms around them. The bricks dig into my back and I don’t care.
My birthday is coming and I don’t want it.
Eighteen.
Every time the thought surfaces, it stings.
What happens when my birthday hits. It comes off more like a death sentence than freedom. Do they throw me out the second the clock hits midnight? Dump my clothes in a trash bag, hand it to me and call it a fresh start?
No one has said a word.
Not Dolores. Not the ghost of a social worker who only shows up when a form needs signing.
Cassie still has six months before this becomes her problem. She still believes someone will catch her when she falls.
I already know the truth. No one will.
I have an uncle somewhere across the state. Or there was. He might have moved or changed his number. Might not even remember I exist.
The truth is, no one comes for girls like me. No one stays.
You turn eighteen and the world stops pretending to care. There’s no warning, no goodbye, not even a door left open behind you. One day you exist on their clipboard.
The next, you’re gone.
I close my eyes and let my head fall against the brick. It’s rough, but the scrape feels real.
For a breath, I slip somewhere else.
A place where birthdays mean cake instead of dread. Where someone notices if you don’t make it home. But reality’s a cruel bitch.
The bell rings, cutting through my thoughts. The sound snaps me back into my body.
Lunch.
I push off the wall, getting up onto my feet. Dirt clings to the back of my skirt, and I brush it away with my hands. I grab my bag and move back towards the noise.
When I step through the doors, it hits all at once.
The sharp tang of burnt oil from the cafeteria clings to everything. Bodies press past one another in slow waves, the scent of cheap deodorant choking out whatever oxygen’s left.
The fluorescent lights hum above, too bright, too unforgiving.
Then I see him.
Zane.
He leans against the lockers with that lazy kind of confidence that dares you to look twice.
Loose black hoodie, hood half-up, shadows falling across his jaw and throat. That mouth pulls into a slow smirk while he talks to some girl I don’t recognize. Every movement is practiced, effortless, but there’s still this tension under it, the kind that says he could explode at any moment.
Behind me, two girls dissolve into breathless giggles, voices syrup-thick with want.
“If he so much as blinked in my direction, I’d crawl into his lap and beg him to wreck me.”
“He could spit in my mouth and I’d moan a thank you.”
They laugh louder, drunk on the idea of him.
I hear it all the time.