Clarke
Keeping my attention on the large sleeping animal in my lap, I could sense Avalon inching closer—timid, hesitant, but unwilling to leave. She didn’t like the rain, that much was obvious, but she was too stubborn to walk away before things got bad.
It felt like she was waiting for me. Putting her fear behind her just to stay a little longer. To comfort me, even if all she could offer was her presence.
I’d never admit it aloud, but it worked.
She didn’t invade my space or push me to talk.
Instead, Avalon settled onto the step stool, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.
We sat in silence for several minutes, listening to Artemis’ breathing and the low rumble of thunder rolling across the sky.
Every time the barn shook with a loud crack of thunder, Avalon ducked her head into her knees like she could hide from it. She was so much like Artemis in that way—frightened but trying her hardest to pretend not to be.
“You don’t like the rain?” I finally asked, slightly eager to keep the light conversation flowing between us. It kept me from wandering back into my own head and hiding there for the remainder of the night.
She shook her head, rubbing her hands down her bare arms to chase away the goosebumps.
“I never have. Even as a kid—especially as a kid.” Her gray eyes drifted toward the window, and a shudder ran through her. “I always thought my house would blow away or get destroyed.” She laughed weakly, combing her fingers through her hair. “Probably sounds stupid to still be afraid of.”
I frowned, picking bits of yellow hay from Artemis’ mane. “I don’t think it’s stupid. Tornadoes exist.”
“True,” she whispered. “I think I was just scared that if something happened, my parents wouldn’t be there. Or care.”
Her voice trailed off, gaze falling to the floor.
Avalon rarely talked about her parents — this was only the second time she’d mentioned them at all. I knew their relationship was strained, almost nonexistent. Something so foreign to me it felt like trying to imagine a world without gravity.
Even in our worst moments, I never doubted my parents’ love. I always knew they’d be there, arms open, ready to catch me. The idea of someone not having that… it was unimaginable.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.
She shrugged, brushing it off. “I’m used to it. Being second—if not third—place in their lives.” She exhaled softly, finally looking at me again. “I envy you, though.”
I gave her a sad smile. I didn’t want to flaunt what I had, but I couldn’t deny it either.
“I lied to them,” I blurted. “About April. About the convention. About why I came home and spent weeks in my room.”
Avalon didn’t speak at first. She just watched me—really watched me—the way she always did, like my words were something precious.
“Why?” she finally asked. “I’ve seen how you are with them. I’m sure they would’ve—”
“You wouldn’t be here if I had,” I said quietly. “My father never would’ve let you step foot on this property if I’d told him and…”
Avalon tilted her head, brows pinched. Waiting. “And what?”
I looked down at Artemis, stroking her face. “I think part of me always wanted you to come back. So, I didn’t tell them.”
Her eyes widened, stunned. “Why would you do that? You barely knew me.”
I shrugged, feeling foolish. “I don’t know. I guess I was holding out hope you’d call. Or find your way back here. And then you did.”
“And then I did,” she echoed softly.
“I’m not religious,” I continued, “but when I saw you in my father’s office, it felt like a manifestation coming true. Like the universe heard something I didn’t even realize I was asking for.”
When I looked at her again, she was already staring at me. Outside, clouds the color of her eyes rumbled and shook. Artemis stirred in her sleep, shifting her forelegs restlessly.
“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” Avalon asked. “Why tell me now?”
When she first arrived, I wanted so badly to stay angry. To pretend I hated her so I wouldn’t have to face everything else I felt. But weeks of being around her had only made one thing clear.
I never hated her.
Not even close.