YARA
I don't promise Nola anything.
Yesterday afternoon, in the garden, her fingers dug into my wrist hard enough to hurt, her eyes wild enough to scare me.
Promise me you'll stay away from him.
I meant to.
At least, I thought I did.
But by the time she let me go and walked back toward the house, something colder had settled in me.
Resolve, maybe.
Or just stubbornness.
Nineteen years of being handled instead of told the truth has made me very tired of other people deciding what I can and can't know.
I'm done accepting warnings from people who refuse to explain them.
I'm tired of flinching at shadows everyone else insists I shouldn't look at.
So the next afternoon, when I find Dean alone on the back porch, I ask him to come with me before I've fully decided where we're going.
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