Chapter 30 Sedona #2
“Why?” Joey laughs again. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? I can smell it on you. I can smell her on you. You reek of her.”
My face burns. I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
“In the whole fucking town,” Joey says, shaking his head. “In the whole goddamn state of Texas, you couldn’t have found someone else to fuck? You had to bring back the one person who ripped our hearts out?”
“It’s not like that,” Billy says. His voice is even, but his hands are clenching into fists.
“It’s exactly like that,” Joey counters. “You’re weak, Billy. You’ve always been weak for her. She doesn’t love you. She loves the attention. She loves that she can make you crawl back every time.”
“That’s enough!” Clara shouts.
She steps forward. She draws her hand back.
And she punches Joey square in the face.
The sound is a sharp crack. Joey’s head snaps to the side. He stumbles back a step, clutching his face.
“What the—”
Clara stands her ground. “I told you to stop talking.”
Joey’s eyes widen. He looks at Clara, then at his hand, which comes away red with blood.
“You bitch,” he snarls.
He shoves her.
Hard.
Clara stumbles backward, her heels catching on the uneven ground. She falls, landing on her hip in the dirt.
“Hey!”
Tex is there in a second. He slams into Joey, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and shoving him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Tex roars. “You don’t put your hands on a woman!”
“She hit me!” Joey yells back, struggling against Tex’s grip. “She broke my fucking nose!”
“You were asking for it!” Tex shouts.
The yard dissolves into chaos. The reporters are shouting, cameras flashing wildly. The mayor is screaming for order.
Seth is running over, trying to pull Tex off Joey.
I stand there. Frozen.
I look at Billy.
He’s standing still, watching his brothers fight, watching Clara get up from the dirt and dust off her jeans.
He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t said a word.
He didn’t stop Joey when he insulted me. He didn’t defend me when Joey accused me of being a plague. He didn’t acknowledge the intimacy Joey threw in his face.
He just stood there.
The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water.
He isn’t going to choose me. Not in front of them. Not in front of the world.
He’s going to let them tear me apart to keep the peace.
My chest cracks open. The hope I felt last night, the warmth of his arms, the sweetness of his whispered words—it all evaporates.
“Sedona?” Clara asks, limping over to me. “Are you okay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t breathe.
“Sedona, look at me.”
Billy finally meets my eyes. He looks pained. He looks conflicted.
But he doesn’t come to me.
He stays there, letting Tex and Seth handle Joey. He’s choosing his brothers. He’s choosing his pride.
I take a step back. Then another.
The reporters turn their cameras toward me, lenses zooming in on my tear-streaked face.
I turn and run. My boots pound against the hard earth as I sprint toward the bunkhouse. Behind me, Clara’s voice calls my name, but I don’t stop.
I can’t be out there. I won’t be the source of their fighting.
Reaching the door, I yank it open, then slam and lock it behind me. I lean against the wood, my body sliding down until I hit the floor.
With my face buried in my knees, the weight of it all hits.
I was stupid to think anything had changed. How could I let him touch me? How could I tell him I loved him?
He didn’t stand up for me.
He let his brother call me a plague. He let his brother push my friend.
And he did nothing.
I’m back in the same place I was five years ago. Alone. On the outside looking in.
The Carson brothers are a pack. And I’m just the girl who broke it.
I stay on the floor. The noise outside continues, muffled by the thin walls.
I don’t cry. I’m done crying.
I just sit there, staring at the ugly rug, feeling the last of my warmth turn to ice.
I lose track of time.
It could be minutes. It could be hours.
The light filtering through the window shifts from the harsh white of midday to the softer, golden hue of late afternoon. I stay on the floor, my back against the door, my knees pulled to my chest.
I don’t move. I don’t think. I just exist in the hollow space where my heart used to be.
The silence in the bunkhouse is heavy. It presses down on me, amplifying the noise in my head. The replay of the fight loops over and over.
Joey’s face twisted in disgust. The crack of Clara’s fist. The thud of her body hitting the dirt.
And Billy.
Billy, standing there like a statue. Watching. Silent.
He didn’t defend me. He didn’t even look at me.
A knock breaks the silence.
It’s impatient, and I jump.
“Sedona?”
Clara’s voice, tight with tension, filters through the wood. Even muffled, the strain in her tone is unmistakable.
Getting up feels impossible. Facing her means seeing the bruise on her hip and the scratch on her palm—reminders I’m not ready for—but leaving her outside isn’t an option.
On shaky legs, I force myself up. A quick swipe clears the dust from my jeans. After a deep breath, I try to rearrange my features, desperate to hide the mask of misery underneath.
The lock clicks, and the door swings open.
Clara stands on the porch. Her arms are crossed. Her face is pale, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and her messy hair is pulled back in a ponytail that’s coming loose.
She looks tired. And she looks pissed.
“The CDC guys are calling us,” she says. Her voice is flat. “They want to do another round of blood draws. Thorne is pissed that we wandered off.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll come.”
I step out onto the porch. The air outside is cool. The news vans are gone. Ruth is gone. The yard is empty, save for a few CDC workers in white suits moving like ghosts in the distance.
I look at Clara. I try to meet her eyes, but she looks away, staring at the horizon.
“Clara…”
“Don’t,” she snaps.
“I just want to talk.”
“Not now, Sedona. Not when you’re sick. Let’s just go.”
She turns and starts walking toward the main tent. Her stride is long, aggressive. She’s limping slightly. I see the way she favors her left side, the hip she landed on.
I hurry to catch up with her.
“Please,” I say. “I’m sorry. About earlier. I shouldn’t have run off. I should have checked on you.”
Clara stops and turns so fast I almost collide with her.
Her eyes are blazing. A spark of anger I haven’t seen in years.
“You think this is about you running off?” she asks. “You think this is about a bruised hip?”
“I—”
“You didn’t even look at me,” Clara says. Her voice trembles. “I punched a guy for you, Sedona. I hit a man twice my size because he was talking trash about you. And when he shoved me into the dirt, you know what you did?”
I flinch. “I—”
“You ran,” she says. “You looked at Billy, realized he wasn’t going to save you, and you ran away. You didn’t ask if I was okay. You didn’t help me up. You just left me there.”
The guilt is a physical weight, crushing my chest.
“I was scared,” I whisper. “I was embarrassed.”
“You were selfish,” Clara corrects. She takes a breath, her chest heaving. “I have been here for you every step of the way. I put my whole life on hold to come to this town with you.”
“Clara, I know you did—”
“Do you?” She steps closer. “I left my job. I left my apartment. I packed up my life in New York to come to the middle of nowhere, Texas, because you were going through something hard. You lost your father so tragically, and you needed me.”
She pauses. Her eyes fill with water.
“It wasn’t an inconvenience,” she says, her voice cracking.
“I wanted to be here. You’re my best friend.
But I’ve been sleeping on a cot in a quarantine zone, watching you fall apart over a guy who treats you like a yo-yo.
I have been watching you get sick, watching you cry, watching you throw yourself at a man who can’t even be bothered to defend your honor in front of his brother.
I spent the night sleeping on a sofa just so he could spend the night with you.
I was worried sick, do you know that? Tex had to stay up with me because I couldn’t stop pacing. That’s fucked up.”
She wipes her face with the back of her hand.
“I just punched a guy for you,” she repeats. “And you didn’t even check if I was okay.”
I stand there, stunned.
I see it now. The exhaustion in her bones. The frustration. The feeling of being in second place.
She’s right. I have been selfish. I’ve been so consumed by my own drama, by my own heartbreak, that I forgot she is a person with feelings. I forgot that she’s grieving too. I forgot that she’s the one holding me up while I crumble.
“I’m sorry,” I say. The words feel inadequate. “I’m so sorry, Clara.”
Clara looks away. She sniffles. “Whatever. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” I say. “You’re right. I was a shitty friend.”
“Yeah, well.” She shrugs. “Let’s just go. The doctors are waiting.”
She starts walking again.
I stand there for a second. I can’t let it end like this. I can’t let her walk away thinking she doesn’t matter.
“Wait,” I call out. “Please.”
Clara stops. She doesn’t turn around.
I walk up to her. I reach out and touch her elbow. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.
“I know I’ve been a shitty friend,” I say. My voice is steady now. “I’ve been so wrapped up in Billy, and the heat, and the parasite, and my own mess, that I stopped seeing you. I took you for granted.”
I step around her so I can see her face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t check on you,” I say. “I was a coward. I saw Joey shove you, and I froze. I should have been the one to shove him back. I should have been the one helping you up. That’s on me.”
Clara’s lip trembles.
“You’re my best friend,” I say. “You’re my family. You matter more to me than Billy Carson ever will. And I’m going to do better. I promise. But right now, I need you to tell me how I can fix this.”
Clara stares at me. A tear spills over, tracing a clean line through the dirt on her cheek. She lets out a long, shuddering breath.
“You can start by telling me if you’re actually okay,” she says. “Because you look like death.”
I let out a wet laugh. “I feel like death. But the meds are working. The heat is… muted. For now.”
“And Billy?”
The name stings.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “He didn’t stand up for me. He let Joey tear me apart. So… I guess I have my answer.”
Clara reaches out and pulls me into a hug.
It’s a fierce, crushing hug. She smells like dirt and sweat and the vanilla perfume she always wears. I bury my face in her shoulder and hold on.
“I’m sorry I called you selfish,” she mumbles into my hair.
“You were right,” I say. “I needed to hear it.”
She pulls back. She wipes her eyes again. She gives me a wobbly smile.
“Okay,” she says. “Truce. But you owe me a spa day when we get out of this. A real one. With expensive wine.”
“Deal,” I say. “And I’ll pay for the manicure you probably ruined punching Joey.”
Clara looks at her knuckles and winces. They are red and swollen. “Yeah, that was stupid,” she says. “But worth it. He has a face like a brick.”
I smile. It’s a real smile. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go get poked by the doctors.”
We walk toward the tent together. The anger has dissipated, replaced by a fragile truce.
But as we get closer to the command center, I see a figure standing by the entrance.
It’s Joey. He’s smoking a cigarette, leaning against a fence post. He has an ice pack pressed to his nose. His face is swollen.
He sees us coming. He takes a drag of his cigarette, his eyes narrowing.
I tense up. I feel Clara stiffen beside me.
“Just keep walking,” Clara mutters. “Don’t engage.”
I nod and keep my eyes forward, forcing myself to focus on the white tent.
But as we pass him, Joey speaks.
“Running back to the doctors, princess?” he asks. His voice is muffled by the swelling. “Better get used to the needles.”
I ignore him. I don’t stop.
“You know,” he calls out. “Billy might be stupid enough to let you crawl back into his bed, but this town isn’t. You’re not one of us anymore, Sedona.”
I flinch. The words hit their mark.
Clara squeezes my arm. “Keep walking.”
We step inside the tent. Dr. Thorne is waiting for us. He looks annoyed.
“Finally,” he says. “Sit down. We have to monitor the hormone levels.”
I sit on the cot. Clara sits next to me.
I roll up my sleeve for the blood draw.
I try to focus on the doctor. I try to focus on Clara’s breathing.
But Joey’s words echo in my head.
You’re not one of us anymore.
I look at the needle sliding into my vein.
He’s right. I’m not one of them.
I’m a mess.
But as Clara grabs my hand, squeezing tight as the needle slides in, I realize something else.
I might not be a Carson.
But I’m not alone.