Zara
The next morning, I wake up thinking about Locke Tanner’s hands.
Not the almost-kiss. Not the way his mouth was close enough to ruin every decent thought I still possessed, before my father chose that exact moment to become the least welcome man in America. His hands.
I lie still for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, thinking that I’ll be seeing Locke in less than an hour, and my stomach flips. Then immediately protests.
I press one hand to my side and exhale slowly until the ache settles into something manageable. The bruise from last night is there beneath my skin, deep and angry, layered over places that are still healing in ways no one can see unless I let them close enough.
Locke saw, and that might be the part I can’t stop thinking about, the seeing. It’s been a long,
