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A fracturing wooden leg, glowing red in the heat of an inferno: the same that supported his weight the first time that Aster stole a barely there kiss from the woman he’d one day wed.

A stretch of cushion, disintegrating in a blaze: the backdrop for the first time he tasted her, head buried between thighs, cautiously straddling the narrow span between lust and love.

A thread of stitching, holding nothing together after disassembly by force of ignition: the same thread Molly pulled at after the fight that broke Aster’s family apart.

A chunk of cotton stuffing, alight and drifting in the smoky haze of a settling eruption: the exact cushioning Molly Graham sank into after realizing she’d fallen hopelessly, irrevocably in love.

Shards of a life.

Echoes and memories.

Blown apart.

Before

Molly was going to be sick. Her resolve wavered every second she sat loitering at the far end of the student parking lot. She didn’t want to do this during a class, or in the hallways, or the dining hall. She would have preferred not to do it altogether. Unfortunately, being the bigger person required effort.

But it didn’t require witnesses.

This all would have been much easier if she had any clue when Bishop was returning to campus. All she knew was he’d left a couple of hours ago and his assigned parking spot still sat empty. This was her best opportunity to catch him, so she sat, trying not to vomit on her postcolonial literature textbook.

After another twenty minutes spent accomplishing absolutely nothing in the way of Edward Said’s Orientalism, Bishop’s expensive car came rolling into view across the parking lot. Deep navy blue, the shiniest silver hardware Molly had ever seen, and so classically old money that it circled around to boring. It did nothing to help Molly’s rising nausea.

She waited, attempting to breathe evenly as she watched Bishop pull into his parking spot, distinct blond hair and sharp profile easily visible from her bench. She closed her book, stuffing it into her bag, expecting Bishop to cut the engine and get out.

Instead, he sat there. Car idling, grip tight on his steering wheel.

Molly sucked in a breath when he exploded with a shout—muffled inside the car and dampened by the running engine—and thumped the wheel four or five times with the heel of his palm. His shoulders fell, then his head, hanging in defeat.

A cold dread erupted in the pit of Molly’s stomach. She wasn’t supposed to be seeing this; she had no interest in seeing this. Bearing witness to Bishop upset about something—more than upset, it seemed—made her chest squeeze uncomfortably.

As she stood, abandoning her good intentions in favor of escape, a car door slammed behind her. She froze, deeply regretting every decision that had led her here. With a long breath for bravery, she turned to find Bishop frozen too, standing a few feet from his car, staring at her.

Molly hated how obvious it was that he’d been crying. All those pale-to-the-point-of-transparent genetics betrayed him with pink-splotched skin and red, bloodshot eyes.

“The fuck are you looking at, Charity Case?”

Molly chewed her lip. She had no better options than to get this over with now that she’d been caught.

“I just wanted to . . . thank you, for rescinding your plagiarism complaint.” She cleared her throat, wilting under Bishop’s immobile stare. “And let you know that I’ve done the same with mine. About you cheating, I mean. I should never have lodged it in the first place.”

Bishop’s mouth twisted, a snarl in the making. He kept staring, red-rimmed eyes boring into hers. After what felt like eons pinned by that icy blue stare, Bishop finally looked away, heaving a sigh.

“Whatever, Graham. The damage has already been fucking done, hasn’t it?”

And with that, he brushed by her without another word.

Chapter 12

Roy Waters

Bright lights.

Muddy, mired thoughts.

Molly woke with her eyes closed in another unfamiliar place.

Her head ached: a vise grip choking her neurons, mind wrung dry.