Twenty-Three
Freya couldn’t blame Max for the ashen hue overrunning his cheeks, his pupils wide like he absorbed every word but struggled to believe any of it. She wasn’t the kind to wear her heart on her sleeve—had built her life around fun and quirkiness—on being the epitome of lavish femininity and independence with nothing dry or serious to drag her down. So of course, her grim confession didn’t fit with the woman he knew.
The rustle of leaves rushed from outside the tent, the tall and spindly mountain ash gumtrees emitting their dark scent, while cicadas chirped in all directions.
She gave a shrug and recalled her mother sitting across from her in that kitchen, her hard stare cold, unmoving, and demanding an answer—Freya could keep the pills and her guaranteed sickness a secret, or
