Clarke
For the first time in a long time, I wished I were drunk—drunk enough to scrub the image of Avalon and that girl from my mind. Drunk enough to erase the moment entirely.
She had seen me.
She had looked at me.
And still, she’d gone through with it.
I didn’t know what they’d done in that room, and I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to imagine their mouths, their hands, their whispered words. I didn’t want to think about her with someone else.
I wished I were drunk enough to stop thinking about it.
About them.
About her.
“I’m sorry,” Delia whispered beside me in the back of Colton’s truck. When I looked up, her orange brows were pulled together in sympathy.
“No, don’t be.” I laced my fingers through hers and leaned into her shoulder. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. And I have nothing to be mad about.”
Delia sighed, rubbing her thumb over mine. “But you didn’t have to see that—”
“Avalon isn’t mine,” I cut in quickly. “She’s not mine, Delia. So, there’s nothing for me to be upset over.”
“But—”
“I’m not even sure how I feel about her,” I said, forcing the words out. “But I know I can’t control who she chooses to make out with.”
Even if I wished it was me, I added silently.
I sat up and moved toward the window, rolling it down and sticking my head out into the night air. I hadn’t had a single drink, but the urge to vomit churned in my stomach.
The lights of Opal Springs blurred behind us, replaced by the soft glow of lightning bugs—fairy flies, as Melody had called them when she was six.
Trees whipped past, swallowed by the growing darkness.
No matter how long I spent in the city, nothing compared to the clean, open air of the country.
It cleared my lungs. Sometimes it cleared my mind.
Not tonight.
When we reached the ranch, I practically leapt from the truck. I needed a shower. I needed sleep. I needed to stop feeling everything I was feeling.
I didn’t wait to say goodbye. They understood.
Delia knew my feelings for Avalon were complicated—a tangle of resentment and longing, anger and attraction. And I knew she and Colton needed privacy. He would ask her the question soon, and neither of them wanted me hovering.
“Shouldn’t we—”
“Just let her go,” Delia murmured. “She’ll be alright.”
I sniffled, forcing back tears as I pushed open the Big Barn doors.
Yeah. I’d be alright.
The barn had been built for ranch hands, so it had a bathroom and kitchenette on the main floor, with sleeping rooms on both levels. I rarely used the shower or kitchen—I preferred Mama’s bathroom and Mama’s cooking—but tonight, I wanted privacy they couldn’t give.
I grabbed pajamas and stepped into the bathroom. It wasn’t as big as the one in my parents’ house, but it was enough.
As I scrubbed my skin clean, my mind replayed that moment at Rorie’s—the way the lighting shifted, turning Avalon’s eyes almost orange. The way she’d looked at me like she wanted to understand me. Like there was something worth seeing beneath the facade I’d spent years perfecting.
Why look at me like that if she was just going to go kiss someone else?
A loud slam jolted me. Followed by grunting. Laughter.
What the hell?
Had Avalon brought her bar hookup home?
That was low—even for her.
Kissing someone in front of me was one thing. Bringing her home—into my safe space—was another. This was my sanctuary. My comfort zone. I wasn’t about to let it be tainted with images of Avalon and some blonde from the bar.
Anger surged. I stormed out of my room, ready to unleash hell.
But the words died in my throat.
Ethan was trying—and failing— to lift a very drunk Avalon off the floor.
“What is going on?” I asked, staring between the two of them. Avalon was a mess—hair falling in her face, eyes unfocused—while Ethan looked like he needed a drink himself.
“Clarke,” he breathed in relief. “I know you said to bring her straight home, but there was an incident with Arabella—”
“Fucking bitch!” Avalon slurred from the floor, hair falling over her face no matter how many times she tried to tuck it behind her ear. “I really, really hate her. Did you know that?”
Arabella?
Arabella Finch?
That’s when I saw it—the red staining Avalon’s knuckles.
Blood.
Not hers.
“Don’t tell me you punched her,” I said, kneeling beside her.
Avalon turned to me, smiling wide—for a moment, she was there, looking right at me, through me. And then it vanished.
She folded over and retched onto the hardwood floor. I quickly pulled her hair back, tucking the strands behind her ear as she leaned into me. Then I looked up at Ethan.
“What the hell happened?”
Ethan wiped his neck with his bandana, sheepish. “Things were fine. We were heading to the door and Arabella… well, you know how she is. Something snapped in Avalon. I don’t know—she got angry, and before I knew it, Arabella was on the floor holding a bloody nose.”
There was pride in his voice.
And, embarrassingly, in my chest.
“It was really fucking cool to see,” he added.
Avalon retched again, holding up a hand to stop me from helping. “She deserved it,” she muttered between heaves.
I looked at Ethan, confused. He shrugged.
“She was saying nasty things, Clarke. Don’t be mad at Avalon. She did it for you.”
Me?
Avalon punched Arabella for me?
Why?
I’d been nothing but downright awful to her since she arrived.
“I think we need to get her into the bath and into clean clothes,” I said quickly, steering the conversation away from dangerous territory. For me.
Avalon did this for me.
And maybe Ethan wasn’t the only one proud of her.