Chapter Seventeen
But her finger only hovered, useless, until the screen dimmed to black.
Blowing out a breath, she poured herself a fresh mug and dropped into a chair facing the window.
Outside, the ridge sat quiet under a washed-out sky, a hazy summer afternoon that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to burn into sunshine or split into storm.
The air clung thick and humid, like even the weather was holding its breath, waiting to see which way things broke.
Her eyes squeezed shut. She already knew which way she’d broken.
Her whole damn body kept reminding her—every stretch of sore muscle, every scrape of bruised skin, and the ache between her thighs that refused to shut up and mind its business.
God-fucking-dammit.
She couldn’t stop thinking about it. About Nash. About the hours they’d spent devouring each other. About that brutally honest confession she hadn’t even realized she still needed.
Because once it was out—once he finally admitted everything—something in her had unlatched. Something she hadn’t even known was clenched just…released. And everything else—the shouting, the fury, the spite—fell away with it.
So she’d turned around and walked out.
And kept walking—down Nash’s drive and onto the road, past the bend where the kudzu had swallowed the guardrail and the shoulder dipped, sliding straight into the creek below.
She climbed down, mud on her hands, rocks slipping under her feet, following the creek bed in the dark, then hauling herself up the ridge behind Margie’s place.
By the time she reached the porch, it was nearly morning. She’d tiptoed inside, peeled off her filthy clothes, and collapsed into bed, sinking straight into a heavy, dreamless sleep she didn’t claw her way out of until well past noon.
Her gaze slid back to her phone. Just because she wasn’t angry anymore didn’t mean she was okay. She absolutely was not okay.
With a low curse, she swiped out of the airline app and tapped Jordan’s name. She pictured her friend tucked into a café corner, laptop open, empty mugs and dishes scattered across the table, her don’t-fuck-with-me face scaring off anyone dumb enough to interrupt.
Her thumb hovered between Message and FaceTime. A text wasn’t enough. A video call felt like too much. She was too raw for either—but her finger betrayed her anyway.
Her own reflection flashed up on the screen—messy hair, bare face, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. She almost hung up before Jordan’s face filled the frame: bleached pixie perfectly mussed, silver glinting from her nose and lip, the muted bustle of a café blurring behind her.
“Hey, babydoll,” she said, her expression soft—the kind of soft her usually sharp-tongued friend only reserved for only a very small handful of people. “How’re you holding up?”
Cassie shrugged. “I’m—ugh.” Slouching in her chair, she dragged a hand over her face. “I don’t know.”
Jordan nodded. “Totally normal.” Then her eyes narrowed. “Wait. Is that a hickey?”
“No,” she ground out. “It’s absolutely not a hickey, because I absolutely have not spent the last twenty-four hours getting dicked down to the point where I can barely walk.”
Jordan’s brows shot up. “Oh. So this is the post-walk of shame call. Okay—give me a second to get my faces straight.”
She visibly rearranged her expression, comically cycling from concern to judgment before settling on a pointed stare.
“All right. How ugly was he, and how big was his dick? Because you know those cancel each other out. So whatever shame you’re feeling, dial it down a notch for every inch he had…”
She tilted her head.
“…unless he didn’t have any. In which case, I suppose I’ll have to give you the whole motion of the ocean speech again.”
Jordan sighed hard.
“And you know how tedious it is for me to have to lie—”
“It was Nash,” Cassie blurted.
“Nash?” Jordan repeated, blinking. “As in first-love Nash? As in cheated-on-you-with-your-best-friend Nash? As in—”
“Yes!” Cassie snapped. “That Nash—what other Nash would it be?”
Jordan didn’t respond right away, and the café noise briefly swelled behind her. Then, almost carefully, she continued, “You know, they say grief-fueled sex is extremely normal. Happens way more than you’d think. And it doesn’t have to mean anything—”
“I punched him,” Cassie cut in.
Jordan didn’t miss a beat. “Before the sex, or after…or—wait—during?”
“Never mind,” Cassie continued quickly. “That part’s not important.”
Jordan waved a hand. “So you slept with your ex and then you punched him. Honestly, Cas, that’s just—what? A Tuesday for half the women on the planet.”
Cassie barked a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.
“I’m being serious,” Jordan added. “It’s not like you’re the first person to do something messy while grieving. Remember when Marta lost her mom and went off the deep end with—”
“Oh god,” Cassie groaned. “That podcaster from Jersey. The one with the face tattoos.”
Jordan mock-shuddered. “Yes. That. So give yourself some grace, because no matter how messy this was, at least it wasn’t podcaster-from-Jersey messy. And at least it was good-messy.”
Cassie muttered, “I never said it was good.”
“Oh, please. You look like you survived the F train at rush hour, and you’ve got a whole-ass constellation on your neck—I think we can safely rule out ‘terrible sex.’”
And just like that, the memory of Nash’s mouth at her neck—his hips between her thighs—had her breath stuttering and heat crawling up her throat.
Groaning, Cassie leaned back in her chair. “I don’t want to talk about the logistics.”
Jordan’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, I absolutely think you do.”
“No,” Cassie said, already shaking her head. “Because if I start, I’m not going to stop. And then I’ll hate myself even more than I already do.”
Her voice dropped, sharper now. “God, Jo. Why him? Why the fuck did it have to be him?”
Jordan was quiet for a moment. Then, “Okay. So maybe it’s not the sex you’re regretting. Maybe you’re regretting what it’s woken up. Because sleeping with your ex is never just sex—at least not this particular ex.” Jordan paused, letting the thought hang there, the silence stretching.
Cassie swallowed hard. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Something like that.”
“So why don’t we cut out all the dancing around, completely skip the logistics, and tell me the only thing that actually matters here—do you still have feelings for him?”
Do you still have feelings for him?
Cassie cursed as she shoved through Margie’s front door and kept cursing as she marched down the road, until it finally spit her out at the edge of the ridge, where the pavement broke to gravel and the gravel gave way to ruts the county hadn’t cared enough to fill in years.
She followed it until the hollow split, one road climbing toward the cemetery hill while the other sagged downhill into the trees. She took the lower road, winding deeper into the hollow, hemmed in by woods and trailers clinging crooked to the slope.
From a porch nearby, an old woman sat in a plastic chair, cats piled across her lap, humming off-key. She lifted a hand in a vague wave as Cassie passed.
Cassie nodded back without slowing, the tune slipping under her breath as she went.
The road bent and widened, the trees pulling back just enough to make a clearing where trash and brush had gathered in heaps.
A pack of kids had claimed it. Barefoot and dirty, one little boy wore a Spider-Man suit with the mask shoved up on his forehead while another swung a stick like a sword.
They shouted and laughed as they squared off, while two girls nearby sat on sheets of plywood balanced over tractor tires, chanting and clapping through the familiar Down-Down-Baby rhythm.
Cassie’s mouth tugged into a smile that faded just as quickly. It was scavenged joy she knew firsthand—pieced together from cast-offs and trash.
The sun finally broke through the clouds just as the road dipped past the old water tower—rust streaking down its legs, bullet holes pocking the tank.
On one of the lower beams, faint scratches caught her eye: initials and crude hearts carved into the metal where generations of Clifton Ridge kids had left their marks.
The sharp sound of Nash dragging his blade across that beam echoed in her ears. She could almost see the sparks of silver scoring the rust. Hear their laughter among the cicadas. Feel the kisses that followed—soft at first, then rougher, as they tangled in the grass.
She tore her eyes away and quickened her pace, practically jogging down the switchback path, past the drainage pipe that used to flood every spring, past a half-collapsed deer blind sinking into the brush. Then the trees broke open, and there it was—
Circling around the back of her childhood home, she gazed up at her old bedroom window, already angling toward the gutter pipe.
It groaned under her grip—rusted, quivering, but still holding.
Foot braced on the porch rail, fingers hooked in the damaged siding, she climbed, less sure than she once had been.
Teetering at the window, she pressed the weak spot in the frame and blew out a breath of relief when the lock gave.
Shoving it open, she slid inside and landed on the hardwood with a soft thump.
The floor creaked beneath her weight. Torn curtains fluttered against the window frame, stirring dust across faded green walls where moisture had bubbled the paint and split the plaster beneath. The room felt smaller than she remembered.
She dragged a fingertip along one shelf, leaving a streak in the dust. Her bow case had lived there once. Her books, too—everything lined up neat and just so, as if order might somehow hold the rest of her broken world together.
With a sigh, her gaze shifted to the wall beneath the window. Dropping to her knees, she worked her fingers along the rough edge of the baseboard until it gave. The wood creaked as she pried it loose, revealing the hidey-hole she’d carved behind it years ago.
Her hand closed around a small box, an old, half-empty pack of cigarettes. Her mouth twitched. Connor had smoked like a chimney but refused to let her—so she’d swipe his packs and hide them here.
Setting it aside, she reached back in and her fingers brushed a cassette. She drew it out slowly, old memories stirring. Dust coated the plastic, the paper label curled and discolored, but Connor’s crooked scrawl remained clear: WHEN YOU MISS HER.
He’d given it to her after their mama died. She didn’t know what was on it—she’d never listened. Couldn’t. She’d been too hurt, too broken. Even now, just looking at it made her chest tighten painfully.
Reaching in again, she patted around the small dusty space, her fingertips snagging a folded sheet of paper. Drawing it out, she was startled to see a familiar blocky handwriting across the front: Strawberry.
Blinking, she slowly unfolded it, the creases yellowed and soft with age.
Cas,
Tried calling you again today, but your number's disconnected.
Guess you changed it.
Don't figure I got the guts to ask Con for the new one.
Don't think he'd give it anyway.
Shit here ain't the same without you.
Keep thinking about the last time I saw you.
Didn't know it'd be the last,
and I said all that stupid shit instead of just holding you like you wanted.
Probably do a lot of shit different if I could—
A crash split the house.
Cassie jerked upright, head whipping toward the door.
Her pulse spiking, she shoved the note into her pocket and eased into the narrow hall.
Another sound carried up—low and uneven, like something pounding against the floor.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Maybe an animal. A raccoon trapped and scrabbling.
On the stairs, the thumping continued.
She crossed the living room, weaving through unfamiliar wreckage—splintered chairs, beer cans, walls scrawled in marker and spray paint—the air thickening as she neared the kitchen, sweet-rot and ammonia burning at the back of her throat.
And then she stopped cold.
A woman lay sprawled beneath a shattered window, glass glittering around her like ice. Her body jerked, fists clenched, heels thudding against the cabinets. Foam streaked her mouth. Each ragged gasp came wet and uneven, her head smacking the filthy linoleum again and again.
Dropping to her knees, Cassie rolled the woman onto her side just as vomit spilled across the floor, acrid and choking.
The woman’s skin was clammy, slick with sweat, her pulse hammering too fast beneath Cassie’s fingers.
Her breaths stayed shallow and wet, each rise of her chest shuddering beneath Cassie’s grip.
Then, just as suddenly, the spasms slowed. Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.
Cassie leaned closer—something about her face feeling familiar—
“Con…ner?” the woman rasped.
Cassie’s stomach clenched. “Connor—you knew him?”
The words had barely left her mouth when the woman seized again, her body snapping rigid and thrashing so hard her arm cracked across Cassie’s jaw, knocking her sideways. With Cassie’s grip broken, her skull struck the floor—thud after thud—blood flecking into the foam at her lips.
“Shit—no, no—” Cassie shoved her hand beneath the woman’s head, feeling each jolt slam through her palm.
Trembling, she dug for her phone. It slipped once, clattering. Snatching it back up, she fumbled at the screen.
“Come on, come on,” she begged, voice breaking.
The line clicked.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”