Clarke
Helping Avalon off the floor was easier with Ethan’s steady hands, and soon enough she was upright—wobbly, but no longer collapsing in on herself.
“Why is she so drunk, Ethan? She wasn’t like this when I left.”
I looked over the top of her dark head at him. He flushed, ducking his gaze.
“We had to celebrate,” he said with a sheepish shrug. “It’s not every day you get to see Arabella Finch finally get put in her place. It was about time someone did something. She’s too coddled.”
I snorted. That wasn’t wrong.
The Finch family were among the earliest founders of Opal Springs, and their descendants never let anyone forget it. Arabella came from money, too, which only inflated her ego further.
But she’d never leave this place. She’d die here, surrounded by her own bitterness. Even her father was tired of her antics—the whining, the entitlement. I didn’t know how he tolerated both her and her mother, considering Arabella was practically a carbon copy of the woman who raised her.
We rounded the corner into the small bathroom. I gave Ethan a grateful smile; he tipped his hat before slipping out the door.
“Okay,” I said, easing Avalon onto the toilet seat and pressing her back against the tank. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”
She mumbled something incoherent, eyes fluttering in a slow blink. When they opened again, a sloppy smile spread across her face.
“Have I ever told you how… hiccup… beautiful…are you—hiccup?” Her face fell. “No, that’s not right.”
I laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s okay, Avalon, I understa—”
A warm finger pressed to my lips.
Avalon shook her head, placing a finger to her own mouth. “Ssh, ssh, ssh… no. I think you’re beautiful, Clarke. I’ve never met anyone as beautiful as you. And it’s not just your outward appearance…”
She sighed, brows knitting. “There’s something… something more to you.”
Heat flooded my face. I was no doubt redder than a tomato.
She didn’t mean it—she was drunk. Nothing a drunk person said should be taken seriously.
But God, I wanted to believe her.
Did that make me selfish? Or just a fool?
“My, you sure do have a lot to say while drunk off your ass, Avalon.”
I pulled off her boots and set them aside. “I never thought you’d be a high-functioning drunk.”
Her lips curved into a slow smile that sent a flutter through my stomach.
“You thought of me?”
“Shut up,” I coughed, turning away to hide my blush. “You need to shower.”
Avalon sighed, staring down at her knees. She looked like she wanted to say something—something about what I’d seen at Rorie’s—but I wasn’t going there. Not while she was still intoxicated. I wanted her to hear me. To remember.
I stood and pointed to the towels and body wash on the rack. I’d stocked up on extras, even though they were nowhere near as nice as what she was used to.
“You wash up, and I’ll get you some clothes. Just tell me where they are.”
She nodded distractedly, already peeling off her clothes. “You can grab anything tossed on the bed.”
I slipped out, closing the door behind me. The air felt stiff again—like sun-dried sheets left out too long. Whatever moment we’d shared—the laughing, the teasing—was gone. Replaced by the same stagnant tension that had followed us for weeks.
Were we slipping backward? I didn’t want that. I wanted to talk to her.
So why couldn’t I?
Crossing the barn toward her side of our shared space felt like stepping into enemy territory. The atmosphere shifted—a clear divide between her world and mine.
Avalon hadn’t been here long, and she hadn’t decorated much, but everything already felt like her.
Her open suitcases.
Clothes strewn everywhere.
Silver jewelry scattered across the dresser.
Boots and sneakers lined up beside a guitar case and sound equipment.
An unmade bed with pillows shoved toward the headboard, like she’d tried — and failed — to make it.
A small mountain of clothes sat on the covers. I stepped over an open notebook and sifted through the pile, searching for something comfortable.
Most of her clothes were black or gray, barely covering anything, or made entirely of lace.
“Goodness, Avalon,” I muttered. “How am I supposed to find anything?”
Eventually, I found an oversized band tee and a pair of shorts. As I turned to leave, the notebook on the floor caught my eye.
She’d come here to work on music with me, so of course she’d been writing. Curiosity tugged at me. I bent down, skimming the page.
It felt wrong — like reading someone’s diary — but I wanted to know.
Had she written songs about me the way I’d written about her?
The page was chaos — scribbles, crossed-out lines, highlighted phrases, tiny notes in the margins. Rough, but raw. Emotional. Full of potential.
Avalon didn’t believe in herself, but she had talent. She just needed someone to believe in her when she couldn’t. Someone she’d never had.
Her parents hadn’t been there for her — not when it mattered. Not when she’d been hurt. That kind of absence carved wounds that never fully healed.
Her words proved it.
I turned the page— and froze.
A strip of photos was tucked between the sheets.
Two people smiling at the camera.
Then at each other.
Making silly faces.
Kissing in the last frame.
My breath caught.
She had told me the machine ate these.
But she’d kept them.
All this time.
With trembling fingers, I lifted the strip. My heart pounded against my ribs. She’d kept these — tucked inside her notebook, her most precious possession besides her guitar.
“I’m not the one with a quarter around my neck.”
But she’d kept this.
I flipped the strip over.
A date.
A note.
March 18th.
Clarke King’s eyes are like shiny diamonds and when she kissed me, I felt okay. Better than before.