“Sorry about that,” I joke. “I’ll try to tone it down.”

“You do that,” she answers with a grin. “See you after practice.”

“See you.”

I shoot her a little wave before heading back toward the locker room. No one bothers me as I change, but no one talks to me, either. And I gave up trying to talk to people somewhere around lunchtime. I can only take so many cold shoulders before I get the message.

I get dressed in record time, then grab my backpack and head out. I probably should go back to my room and get started on my homework, but I’m not used to being cooped up in one room all the time.

Back home, I was always outside—in the pool, at the beach, running through the park. I even did my homework on the front porch swing, watching the sun set over the water.

Going from that to being stuck inside almost all the time is more than a little rough.

I think about heading to my room and changing into all those outdoor clothes so I can go for a walk. But nothing about me is particularly thrilled at the idea of putting on half my closet just to brave the subfreezing temperatures, either, so in the end, I decide on a compromise. I’ll wander around the castle, getting to know it better, since there are huge portions I haven’t set foot in yet, even with my classes taking me all over the place today.

For a second, Jaxon’s warning from the first night flits through my head, but that was for late at night. Just because the sun outside the castle has been down for a couple of hours already doesn’t mean the halls aren’t safe now, while everyone is awake and going from one activity to another. Also, I’m not going to spend the next year and a half afraid of the people I go to school with. Those guys the other night were assholes, no doubt about it, but they caught me unprepared. No way am I going to let it happen again. And no way am I going to become a prisoner in my own school.

Thoughts of Jaxon have me pulling out my phone and opening my message app. There are six text messages waiting for me from Jaxon—all sent during the earthquake. I haven’t opened them yet because at first I was too mad to want to know what he had to say. Then I didn’t want to be around anyone when I opened them. I tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve, and the last thing I want is for someone watching me to see how I feel about Jaxon—especially when I currently have no idea what, if anything, is going to happen between us.

The first message came in a few minutes after Brit Lit got out.

Jaxon: Hey, thought I’d catch you at art, but you aren’t here. Are you lost? ;)

A few more minutes had passed before the second message came in.

Jaxon: Need a search and rescue? o_O

The third message came in pretty fast after the second one, followed in quick succession by the next three.

Jaxon: Sorry to bug you, just want to make sure you aren’t in any trouble. Quinn and Marc aren’t bothering you, are they?

Jaxon: Hey, you okay?

Jaxon: Getting worried over here. Just looking for a heads-up that those jerks haven’t found you again. You good?

Jaxon: Grace?

I remember the messages coming in during the earthquake and not paying any attention to them. But now that I’ve read them, I feel like a total jerk. Not for not answering them right away, because—earthquake!

And yeah, I definitely don’t have to answer him just because he wants me to. But I do feel guilty for laying into him the way I did in the art studio when he was obviously just worried about me. And for not answering him for so long when he actually apologized in his texts—something—like please—I’m pretty sure the great Jaxon Vega almost never does.

All I was thinking about in that art closet was how embarrassed I was that he was there, arguing with Flint and making a spectacle of me. I didn’t think about the fact that he was there because he was concerned about me and that the fight with Flint happened because he was so on edge.

In my old school, it would be absurd, and probably even a little freaky, to have a guy get so worried about me. But I can’t really blame Jaxon for being legitimately concerned, not when he’s already had to rescue me twice. And not when his last texts came in the middle of a freaking earthquake, which got people so worked up that every teacher I had for the rest of the day took ten minutes out of class time to go over earthquake safety.

If everyone else is freaked out by the quake, it’s hard to be upset at Jaxon for feeling the same way.

Because I feel bad for making him wait so long for a response, I fire off a couple of texts in quick succession.

Me: Sorry, been busy and haven’t checked my phone

Me: You busy? Want to explore the castle with me?

Me: And hey, you never told me the punch line to the joke

When he doesn’t answer right away, I shove my phone in my blazer pocket and wander into one of the side hallways with no real destination in mind for my exploration.

I pass a room where two people are fencing, complete with white uniforms and head masks, and pause to watch for a little while. Then I wander down to the music hall, where a curly-haired boy is playing the saxophone. I recognize the tune as “Autumn Leaves,” and just the sound of it nearly brings me to my knees.

Cannonball Adderley cut an album in 1958 called Somethin’ Else. Miles Davis and Art Blakey played on it, and it was my father’s favorite—especially the song “Autumn Leaves.” He used to play it over and over when he was working around the house, and he made me listen to it with him at least a hundred times, where he described every single note, explaining over and over how and why Adderley was such a genius.

The last month since my parents died is probably the longest I’ve gone without hearing that song in my entire life, and to run across it here, now, feels like a sign. Not to mention a punch to the gut.

Tears flood my eyes, and all I can think about is getting away. I turn and run, not caring where I’m going, knowing only that I need to escape.

I take the back stairs and climb up and up and up, until I arrive at the highest tower. Most of it is taken up by whatever room lies behind the closed door, but there’s a tiny alcove right off the stairs with a huge window—the first one in the castle that I’ve actually seen with the curtains open—that looks out over the front of the school. It’s dark out right now, but the view is still gorgeous: the snow lit up by lampposts and the midnight-blue sky filled with stars as far as the eye can see.

The room itself has built-in bookshelves that go all the way around it and a couple of comfy, overstuffed chairs to lounge in. It’s obviously a reading nook—everything from the classics to modern-day Stephen King fill up the shelves—but I’m not here to read, no matter how much I usually love it.

Instead, I sink down on one of the chairs and finally, finally let the tears come.

There are a lot of them—I haven’t cried, really cried, since the funeral, and now that I’ve started, I’m not sure I’ll ever stop. Grief is a wild thing within me, a rabid animal tearing at my insides and making everything hurt.

I’m trying to be quiet—the last thing I want is to draw more attention to myself—but it’s hard when it hurts this much. In self-defense, I wrap my arms around myself and start to rock, desperate to ease the pain. Even more desperate to find a way to hold myself together when everything inside me feels like it’s falling apart.

It doesn’t work. Nothing does, and the tears just keep coming, as do the harsh, wrenching sobs tearing from my chest.

I don’t know how long I stay here, battling the pain and loneliness that comes from losing my parents in the blink of an eye and then everything familiar in my life less than a month later, but it’s long enough for the sky to turn from the dark blue of civil twilight to pitch black.

Long enough for my chest to hurt.

More than long enough for the tears to run dry.

Somehow, running out of tears only makes everything hurt worse.

But sitting here isn’t going to change that. Nothing is, which means I might as well get up. Macy should be done with dance practice soon, and the last thing I want is for her to come looking for me.

Having her see me like this—having anyone see me like this—is the threat that finally galvanizes me. Except that when I climb to my feet and turn around, it’s to find that someone already has.

Jaxon.

32

It’s Not a

Coincidence that

Denali and Denial

Use All the Same Letters

Jaxon’s standing at the head of the stairs, face blank but eyes searching as he stares at me.

Embarrassment slams through me, makes my face hot and my breath stutter. I start to ask him how long he’s been there, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s been there long enough.

I wait for him to say something, to ask if I’m okay again or to tell me to stop whining or to say one of the million and three things that fall somewhere in between those two reactions.

He doesn’t, though.

Instead, he just stands there, watching me with those black-magic eyes of his until I lose my breath again…this time for a whole different reason.

“I-I’m sorry,” I finally stumble out. “I should go.”

He doesn’t respond, so I move toward the stairs, but he keeps blocking them. And keeps watching me, head tilted just a little, like he’s trying to figure something out while I pray for the ground to open up and swallow me.

Now would be a perfect time for another one of those earthquakes, is all I’m saying.

When he finally speaks, his voice sounds a little rusty. “Why?”

“Why should I leave? Or why was I crying?”

“Neither.”

“I…have no idea what I’m supposed to say to that.” I blow out a long breath. “Look, I’m sorry I threatened to hit you in the art studio today. You’re just…a lot sometimes.”

He lifts a brow, but other than that, his blank expression doesn’t change. “So are you.”

“Yeah.” I give a watery laugh, gesture to my still-wet cheeks. “Yeah, I can see why you might think that.”