Clarke
We sat in silence.
Not peaceful silence—the thick, humming, uncomfortable kind that fills every inch of a small space and makes the air feel too warm. Daisy’s radio was broken, the AC wheezed like it was dying, and the engine made a sound I didn’t love.
From the corner of my eye, I watched Avalon stare out the window with her boots propped on the dashboard like she owned the place.
Her big, ugly combat boots. I tried not to think about the scuff marks they were leaving behind. Daisy might’ve been old, but she still deserved respect.
“Could you please remove your feet from the dash,” I said quietly, turning onto another dirt road.
“Oh wow, she speaks,” Avalon muttered. But she did sit up, dropping her legs and stretching them out the open window.
“Thank you—”
“Save it.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?” I hit the brakes a little harder than necessary. Daisy lurched, and Avalon nearly slid off the seat.
“What’s with the attitude?” I asked.
Avalon let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “This! This is what I mean!” She gestured wildly—at the truck, at her knees, at the world.
“You didn’t even ask if I was okay,” she said, voice rising. “And now I’m like seventy-five percent sure you actually want to kill me!” Her eyes went wide. “Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not trying to kill you. I wouldn’t need to—you’ll probably end up killing yourself because you refuse to take off those ridiculous boots.” I pointed at her Dr. Martens. “They’re not suitable for Texas terrain.”
Her hand dropped from her mouth. “Don’t you dare come for my boots when you dress like you raided the reject pile of a poorly funded western movie.”
My jaw dropped. I liked my wardrobe; it was simple and functional, mainly consisting of jean shorts and breezy skirts or dresses. Everything was paired with my favorite cowboy boots—obviously, this was Texas. I even had my own boot line. How dare she?
“I am not taking fashion advice from someone who shops exclusively at Hot Topic and Spencer’s.”
Avalon’s gaze swept over me, slow and judgmental. I felt heat crawl up my neck. Then I noticed her knee. Blood trickled down her skin, a thin line of red cutting through the dirt. The cut was deeper than I’d thought—probably from Daisy’s rusted door.
Guilt pricked at me.
“I actually get all my pieces from small businesses,” Avalon said, leaning closer. “Or I thrift-flip. I’m pretty nifty with my fingers. You remember them, right?” Her voice dropped. Her eyes held mine. And for a split second, I forgot how to breathe.
Her fingers—long, slim, square-tipped—flashed through my mind. A blink, and I remembered the way they’d touched me. Another blink, and I remembered how I’d tasted her. Another blink, and I remembered waking up alone.
The cold. The emptiness. The humiliation.
I swallowed hard. “There should be a first aid kit in the glove compartment,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “I’d rather not have your blood in my car.”
Avalon rummaged through the glove box. “I’m not seeing it. It’s fine—it wasn’t even that serious.”
I glanced at her knee. It was serious. I pulled Daisy over again, shoved open my door, and stalked around to her side. Through the windshield, I saw her eyes widen.
“What are you—”
“I told you I don’t want blood in my car.”
I pushed aside the trash in the passenger foot-well until I found the first aid kit, missing most of its contents, but workable.
Then I opened her door with the trick Colton taught me at fifteen—press, push, lift.
The door popped open smoothly.
Avalon stared. “How the hell did you do that?”
“Colton taught me.” I crouched beside her, examining the cut. “You must’ve sliced it on this edge here. Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?
Avalon snorted, then winced. “Don’t tell me you have a history of forgetting to warn people about that.”
I lifted my dress to mid-thigh and placed my knee beside hers. “Nope. Just you. I do, however, have a matching scar.”
Her eyes flicked to the pale line on my skin. Something unreadable crossed her face.
I dropped my dress and opened the first aid kit. “Hold still.”
She didn’t argue. She didn’t even flinch as I cleaned the wound, wiped away the dried blood, and pressed a bandage over the cut.
“When we get to town, we’ll stop by Doc’s for a tetanus shot,” I said.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Avalon muttered. “I can put on my own Band-Aids.”
“A simple thank you would’ve sufficed,” I said, grabbing a cotton ball and sanitizer. I took her hand gently and cleaned the blood from her fingertips. “I felt bad. I wanted you to fall on your ass, not bleed to death.”
Avalon’s lips curled into a smirk. “Aha. I knew you did it for revenge.”
Revenge. Three months ago, I’d wanted revenge. I had thought about going to the papers with what she’d told me—about not writing her own music. It would’ve destroyed her. But I couldn’t do it. Because I wasn’t cruel. And because some part of me still cared.
“Something like that,” I said softly. “There. You’re right as rain.”
“Thank you,” Avalon said once we were back on the road.
“You’re welcome.”
Silence settled between us again but this time, it wasn’t sharp or heavy. It was… softer. Easier.
Maybe—just maybe—we could be friends.
Friends first.
Collaborators second.
And that was as far as I’d let Avalon Kennedy into my life.