ELARA
I lifted my head. Our eyes met.
His were red-rimmed. Not from tears—Kieran didn't cry. From exhaustion, maybe. Or the whiskey I could still smell on him from across the room, sharp and medicinal against the hospital's antiseptic air.
He was angry. But not at me.
You have to care about someone to be angry at them.
My wrist ached where the IV was taped. I wanted to scratch at it, peel back the medical tape, feel something other than this hollow abdomen.
"Elara." His voice cut through. "Are you listening to me?"
I wasn't.
I was fifteen the first time I saw them together.
The school hallway smelled like floor wax and someone's vanilla perfume. Third period had just ended. I'd been walking with my head down, arms wrapped around my textbooks like armor.
Then I'd heard her laugh.
