Page 46 of Before We Break

The awestruck wonder on her face holds me captive, and I can’t seem to catch a full breath.

I catalog every detail, down to the highlights on her skin to the slight glow of her hair as the sunlight kisses the strands. I want to sketch her just like this.

After a few heartbeats, I blink myself out of the trance. “You didn’t see it last year?”

“I wish, but I was staying with Callie in Oak Ridge that weekend.” She weaves us through a set of picnic tables, pausing on the other side. “Who’s that?” She points to the parking lot behind the Grove where a slow-moving line has formed around a white tent. Inside is a long table, and behind it is a man signing hockey pucks and photographs.

“Graham Sinclair. Head coach for the Lexington Stallions hockey team.”

“Sinclair. Is he related to Teddy?”

“His dad, and he never lets anyone forget it. If you look up nepo baby in the dictionary, you’ll find Teddy fucking Sinclair’s picture.”

“Isn’t he dating your sister? Why do you hate him so much?”

“I don’t hate him. I just don’t get what she sees in him.”

“Spoken like a true big brother.”

A gasp escapes her, and she rushes forward, dragging me along. A few feet away from where we started, she lets go of my hand, bending to pick something off the pavement. Her lips purse as she blows the dirt off an old copper penny. Closing her fist around the coin, she holds it to her chest, her eyes pinched shut as she tilts her head to the sky.

She tucks it into her pocket and takes my hand once more. There’s a subtle but potent shift in the mood, and neither of us speaks for a while.

We meander past the gazebo where a local band is playing the opening chords of “Wonderwall” by Oasis.

“Wait. I love this song!” She drags me to the edge of the crowd, stopping to wrap her arms around my neck. “Dance with me, Weston.”

I slide my hands around her waist, ignoring how goddamn good it feels to have her in my arms again. She pulls me closer, resting her temple against my chin.

I breathe her in, letting her scent wash over me like it might erase the last hour of my life and the memory of Jonah’s phone call. The pain is still there, lingering in the periphery the way it always does.

“You’re quiet,” she says. “Not a single sarcastic remark all afternoon.”

Do I tell her? How much does she know about my situation? I feel like I’m walking a tightrope without a net—one wrong move and I’ll fall to my death. But there’s a small part of me that wants to confide in someone in hopes that it might fix some broken thing inside of me. If anyone could fix me, it might just be Clio.

I inhale a fortifying breath and blow it out. “Auggie’s dad called.”

Her fingers travel into the hair at the nape of my neck, causing me to shiver beneath her touch. Her discerning gaze pierces through me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Disappointment flashes across her face, but she schools herself and gives me a jerky nod.

“It’s not you. I just…”

“You’re not ready. I get it.”

Her fingers toy with my hair while the other hand slides lower, resting over my heart. Can she feel how hard it’s beating?

“For what it’s worth, when you are ready to talk about it, I’m a really good listener. I can be a good friend, too.”

Our eyes meet for a long moment, and neither of us rushes to fill the silence. Our noses brush as I draw her closer, her soft body pressing into mine, her lips a hair’s breadth away from full collision. I don’t know what compels me to say it; I only know it in my bones to be true.

“I don’t want to be your friend, Clio,” I whisper.

The song comes to an end, and the crowd around us cheers, interrupting what might’ve been a monumental mistake, or some sort of peaceful oblivion.

She pulls away, and I’m left wishing it could go on just a while longer.