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“Move,” he commands.
The Frey from a few days ago would listen. Not anymore.Grow a backbone,Hale told me. So, I crane my head back and perform the first action that comes to mind.
I spit, right in his face.
Shock travels through his entire body, and my gaze is drawn like a magnet down the length of him, tracking the reaction. His shoulders tense beneath a gray sweatshirt speckled with stains. Dark stains.
Fresh. My nostrils flare, catching the stench of copper…
As he swipes at his mouth, the substance on his hands is easier to make out—a bright, glistening red. Not dirt.
Blood?
Judging from the lack of open wounds on his knuckles, it isn’t his.
TWO
I feel dizzy.The world dangerously begins to tilt, and I tighten my grip over the rail, fighting to stay upright. I’ve never seen blood like that.
Not so much of it.
“Hey.” Aware of where my gaze is, he tucks the hand behind him. Then he advances, grabbing my arm again. Guttural, his voice overpowers the scream I choke out. “You wanna jump? Why?”
I blink. A threat should have come next, not a deceptively simple question.
“Why?” I counter breathlessly.
“That’s what I said.” He spits on the pavement and makes a “hurry up” motion with his finger. Grime caked under the nail draws my eye. It matches the muck slathered all over his jeans and scuffed-up black boots.
More blood?
Or perhaps just dirt. He’s filthy.
“Come on, and fucking say it,” he goads. “Impress me, sweetheart.”
I bristle at his tone. He’s serious.
“Get thefuckaway from me,” I hiss, copying his coarse language. My cheeks sear as if to betray me. I’m not this person, and years of etiquette kick in, making me tack on, “Please—”
“And why should I do that?” He puffs up, impossibly large. A bear of a figure goading me on. It’s like he’s feeding off the anger. Mine especially.
All I can do to counter him is ask, “Why does it even matter to you?”
“I’m curious. What’s your bullshit reason?” he demands. “Boyfriend dump your ass? The kiddies on the playground being mean to you?”
I flinch. If only those stupid problems were all I had to contend with.
“My brother killed himself because of me,” I croak. “How is that for a reason?”
It’s the first time I’ve said those words out loud, and they sting like hell. For months, we’ve pretended that Hale had an accident. An illness. A heart attack at twenty-six.
Even his obituary omitted the truth. I wanted to believe Father did so out of concern forHale’s legacy—not his own. Looking back, I hate myself for trying to rationalize it. Of course, his motives were selfish. He didn’t want the stigma to ruin his image as the perfect political candidate with the perfect family.
Or he couldn’t face the guilt.
“That it?” the stranger demands.
Confused, I look up to find him raising an eyebrow. It’s overgrown, stretching across his forehead, almost meeting the other one.
