Broken Knight (All Saints High, #2)(44)

“What did you do to get it?”

“Told him if he didn’t give it to me, I’d kick his ass.” She puffed her chest, smiling.

I snorted, raising an eyebrow. “That did the trick?”

“Well, no. I kneed his balls when he refused. We were about the same height back then. I grabbed the bike and ran. That did the trick.”

“You kneed Vaughn in the balls for me?”

“Honestly, I would knee Vaughn in the balls for sugar-free froyo, and you know I think that’s the work of the devil. But, yeah, you were upset. I stepped up. That’s what we did for each other, you know?”

“Did?” I bit down on my tongue ring.

She looked down at her thighs. “Do?”

“Do,” I said with conviction. “No matter how hard or stupid shit gets, Moonshine. Ride or die, remember?”

She nodded.

Fuck it. She deserved to know.

“Mom’s not getting a lung transplant.”

I didn’t know what to expect. Probably a bullshit, long-ass speech about how it was going to be okay—even though it clearly wasn’t—followed by an even more embarrassing attempt to find a silver lining.

Instead, Luna’s face twisted with agony I knew took hold of every inch of her body.

“Fuck.”

She never cursed. Even in sign language. It felt good to hear her say that.

“Thanks,” came my equally unlikely response.

“I’m looking for Val.” She changed the subject.

“Fuck.”

It was my turn to curse. Honestly, though, I could count the number of times I hadn’t said that word in a sentence on one finger. It’d be the middle one, by the way.

She nodded again.

“You feel guilty,” I guessed.

“Don’t I always?”

“You do.” Unless there are other guys involved, of course.

Apparently, I wasn’t done being Bitter Betty. Swear to God it felt like my balls had been surgically removed from the rest of my body.

There was silence, the type I’d grown accustomed to since I’d realized Luna Rexroth wasn’t gross after all. I laced my fingers through hers. Closed my eyes.

“We can do this,” she mumbled, trying to convince herself more than me. “We can be friends. We just need to remember we’re not together, and therefore don’t owe each other anything.”

She squeezed my hand, sticking to her eyes-on-the-ceiling strategy, speaking as if her words were written there.

“Poppy is nice.”

I didn’t want to talk about Poppy. Or about how the one thing Luna had said about Val changed my mind about something—something I was going to do tomorrow, something I’d decided on a whim and wouldn’t tell anyone about.

Right now I wanted to just be here in silence with my best friend. And somehow, I don’t know how, but Luna sensed it. So we sat there for what felt like two hours but was probably a lot less, until I opened my eyes again. Her eyes were closed, too. I watched her for a while.

When she opened her eyes, it felt like she took something away from me.

“Let’s jump,” she said.

“I’m quite fond of my limbs, Moonshine.”

“Stop being such a big baby.”

“Big, quarterback baby who just finished a football season in one piece and would like to keep all his body parts intact.”

She crawled out of the treehouse and settled on the branch. It was thick, but I doubted it could carry my muscular ass for more than a few seconds before snapping. I rolled my eyes and settled next to her. She slipped her hand in mine.

“Three, two, one.”

It was a short, sweet way down.





The next day, I sat on a bench, watching the sun slink into the ocean like a wounded animal disappearing into the woods to die alone.

I knew the woman sitting beside me had made one hell of a journey to come here, that she’d been waiting for days, weeks, months—who knew? who cared?—for me to pick up the phone and tell her to come here. Then she’d hopped on the first available flight to do just that.

And still. And still. And still. I was barely able to look at her face, gold-rimmed by the sun.

Pretty.

Young.

Lost.

Found. Maybe.

That was her version of the story, anyway.

She smoothed her summer dress over her thighs in my periphery, sniffing the sea brine in the air. The action was compulsive. And annoying. And too close to the way I chewed on my tongue ring whenever I was nervous.

“I was sixteen.” She still spoke to the hands in her lap.

Sixteen when she gave up on me.

Sixteen when she handed me to my parents.

Sixteen when they asked her if she wanted them to send her updates and pictures.

Sixteen when she replied no.

She’d said so herself, in her letter to me, apologizing and assuring me she knew what I looked like now. I didn’t ask how, because I didn’t care.

“Boo-fucking-hoo.” I flicked my joint between my fingers, throwing it to the ocean and tucking my fists into my jacket.

“I didn’t have a choice.” She shook her head, again, looking at her lap.

“Bullshit. Choices are all we have.” I felt like our conversation had started from the middle. We’d hardly exchanged any pleasantries before we dove headfirst into the real mess.