She marks the area under my belly button and my bikini line, and circles whatever muffin-top she imagines is at my hips. She writes words I refuse to look down and read and inspects me with her hands, trailing and squeezing, accompanied by laughs here and there.

  “I just can’t get over the state of you,” she gripes. “Jesus, you’re an athlete. There’s no excuse.”

  A golf ball swells in my throat, stretching it so painfully I can barely hold back the tears.

  But even as the hurt grows and grows, so do the bricks inside me.

  Keep going, Clay. Please keep going.

  She rises, caps her marker, and looks me dead in the eye, an inch between us. “You should thank me,” she whispers. “Surviving me will give you all the tools you need when you leave me.”

  I look at her through the water in my own eyes, faltering. Leave her?

  “Just like your mother left you,” she says.

  Excuse me? If she thinks she knows shit about my mother…

  But she just shakes her head. “Trysta, right? Trysta Jaeger and her six kids that she left when she hung herself in her fucking bathroom.”

  I exhale hard, grinding my teeth together. I am nothing like my mother. I’m not abandoning Clay. I’ll fucking run from her.

  She backs away, tossing the marker onto the table and grabs her bag, T-shirt, and phone. “Tell Lavinia I’ll be in to pick up the dress on Tuesday.”

  And she spins around, heads offstage, and disappears.

  I wait until I hear the heavy back door slam shut, and then I let out a breath.

  A couple of tears spill to the floor as I glance down at my body. But immediately look away before I can take in everything she did to me.

  I pick up the sweats and pull them on as quickly as I can, followed by the T-shirt. I look around, finding my shoes, but…

  I don’t see my underwear.

  Where the hell are my underwear?

  I swing around left and again right, lifting up my wet clothes, but I don’t see them anywhere.

  My shoulders slump. She took them. What is she going to do with them?

  Goddammit. I wipe my tears before any more can fall, take my stuff, and leave the theater, shoes in hand.

  It’s still raining outside, but I don’t run to my car. My energy is gone. I walk.

  She knows where to hit, doesn’t she? She could do or say anything. She could have my brothers arrested with the slightest accusation.

  She could have Martelle fired.

  She could probably get Dartmouth to rescind my acceptance letter if she knew about it. All it would take is putting me in the path of scandal or arrest, and Dartmouth would wash their hands of me.

  She didn’t go for those kills, though. Putting herself in my house, at my table, in one of my brothers’ beds… Home wouldn’t even be safe for me anymore.

  I drive through town, speeding because I’m anxious, but I don’t want to go home.

  Looking over, I see the dress shop ahead, the Closed sign hanging on the door. Without thinking, I swing right and pull into a parking space.

  Leaving my shoes in the car, I grab my keys out of my backpack on the passenger seat and climb out of the car. I run to the shop, unlocking the door and diving inside.

  Miss Lavinia must’ve decided to stay closed today with the weather, but I know she has calls forwarded in case someone has an emergency.

  I twist the lock again, leaving the lights off as I trail to the workroom.

  She offered to take me on as an apprentice last year, maybe run the shop together someday. While I guess I’m good at sewing, and I kind of enjoy designing, I only learned it as part of being as useful as I can be at the theater. It’s not what I want to do forever.

  I’m thankful for this job, though. At least it’s not a drive-thru.

  I step inside the large room, keeping the lights off, but light streams through the windows, rain pummeling the panes. There’s a couch I want to crash on below the bulletin boards on the left wall, but I spot a dress laying on the table, pins stuck in the hem. Clay had wanted the length shortened.

  Walking over, I pick up the dress, looking down at the Collins’ heirloom that I knew Clay’s grandmother and mother had both worn. I’d seen the pictures.

  Once in a while, after Lavinia is gone for the night, I try on some of the dresses I’ve altered. Sometimes I wonder if I’d have turned out more girly, if my mother had stuck around. By the time makeup and clothes started to interest me, she was gone and we were even poorer than when my parents were alive. A lot of what I owned before I could start making my own money was whatever no longer fit Trace.

  I fist the neckline in both hands, bringing it to my nose and smell the fabric.

  Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be up on that riser as just a girl, excited for something special to happen to me, with my mom arguing with me about what to do with my hair.

  Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to not be me. To live a life where every single step didn’t have to be so hard.

  I tighten my fists around the dress, breathing hard and shallow as my gaze grows hotter on the fabric. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be Clay.

  And before I can stop myself, I stretch my arms wide, hard and fast, the ancient silk screaming as it tears in two.

  “MISS CLAY?” BERNIE calls out. “Your mother—”

  “Can call me if she needs me,” I snap, racing up the stairs of my house.

  I jog quickly past the housekeeper, carrying my duffel bag. I dive into my room, slamming and locking the door.

  Ugh, that bitch. I hate her. So calm. So smooth. So patient.

  I gulp, running my hands through my hair. So beautiful with those tears in her eyes.

  Keeping the lights off, I drop the bag to the floor and fall into the door.

  Why did I do that? Tears immediately spill down my face as I squeeze my eyes shut. Too far. You went too far. I’ve never laid my hands on her. Ever. I just…

  I just…

  It feels like there are hands on me instead. On my back and on my neck, pushing me down. Pushing my head down and keeping it down. The earth piles over my head, the dirt in my mouth and my nose, more and more every day, and I can’t see me anymore. I’m small. I don’t know who I am. I’m always mad. Bitter. Afraid.

  That’s all I am anymore.

  I turn, pressing my forehead into the door and sob. Why did I do that to her? What does she matter anyway?

  But even now, I still feel it. She’s bigger than me. She glows, and I don’t, and it’s not like I even want to push her down and make her shrink. It’s like…

  It’s like being in her orbit, I can feel the shine, too. I feel bigger with her close.

  Stripping off my clothes, I head into my bathroom, unable to turn on the water and climb in fast enough. I’m supposed to help Mrs. Gates at the funeral home today, and I should go, because it’s the only thing that puts my shit into perspective, but I just can’t. I can’t talk to anyone right now.

  Wetting my hair and letting the hot water course down over my body, I can’t make my muscles ease, everything still as tight as a rubber band.

  But the peace feels good, and my breathing starts to even out.

  I sit down in the bathtub, hugging my knees to my body.

  I miss my dad. I miss Angsty Teen Tuesdays where my mom and I would alternate every week—her showing me teen movies from her day, and then me showing her some of mine—complete with Melted Milk Dud Popcorn and Mountain Dew.

  I miss the pills when I try not to take them. It scares me how I miss them.

  I notice an ache in my hand and realize my fingers are curled into a fist. I look down, slowly opening it and find Liv’s underwear in my hand.

  I took them. I knew I took them, but I forgot they were there. My stomach flips, the shower wetting the black lace. Does she normally wear pretty things like this every day?

  My knees still bent, I hold up the underwear with both hands, my head going places I don’t understand. Does she sleep in them? Does she sleep in only these? How many people have seen her in them? Has Megan Martelle?

  A picture forms in my head of Liv wearing these, and I hear my voice again.

  I can’t believe the state of you.

  My eyes burn, thinking of all the insane shit I wrote all over her today. How I violated her.

  She’s not ugly. I hated that I couldn’t find anything wrong with her, and I shouldn’t have touched her. It hurt her.

  I touched her skin, and she never said it was okay. My fingertips tingle, still feeling her smooth stomach and arms.

  I grind the fabric between my fingers, the tornado inside my body raging again like it did when the shame and heartache of having her naked before me raged in the theater.

  She’ll hate me forever now. That’s what I want, right?

  I’d gone too far. I had to.

  I lie back in the tub, the spray showering down on me. Leaning my head on my hand, I fist the underwear again and again, my gaze falling into a void in my head where I only see her.

  In here with me.

  Quiet with me.

  Close with me.

  Her head between my thighs.

  I moan, my head falling back as I rub my pussy and roll my clit under my fingers through her panties.

  “Fuck,” I groan, the friction of her lacy fabric a little scratchy, but it feels so good.

  Yes.

  But then I open my eyes and stop, my body aching with need as horror sets in at what I’m doing.

  A need I’ve never felt with Callum.

  No. Tears well. Fuck no.

  I squeeze the panties in my hand and fly to my feet, slamming my palm into the shower wall and see Alli on that slab and what the world did to her for wanting something people didn’t think she should.

  I’ll fuck him. I’ll fuck him a dozen different ways, slow and fast, hard and gentle. And if that doesn’t prove anything, I’ll find someone else to give it to me.

  Someone who’s good. Someone who knows what to do with me.

  Someone not her.

  • • •

  By the next day, I’ve convinced myself, as always, that she deserved it. Olivia acted like a bitch. Saying that shit about how I could use a brother now that I was down one? What a fucking pig.

  When her mom went and hung herself two months after her father’s death, have I ever brought that up? Did I ever use it against her? What I do to her doesn’t even come close to how nasty that comment was yesterday.

  And then she had the fucking gall to cry.

  Grabbing the parking ticket that I got a year ago out of the glove box, I climb out of my car, carrying my purse, and slide the ticket under the windshield wiper before slamming the door.

  I jump up onto the sidewalk, ignoring the sign that says no parking after four. My phone rings, and I pull it out of my purse, seeing Callum’s name on the screen.

  “Where are you?” he asks without a hello.

  “Picking up my debutante monstrosity.”

  “Aw, you’ll be beautiful.”

  I laugh under my breath. “Maybe underneath.”

  “Is that a taunt?”

  “A dare,” I retort, stopping at the door to Lavinia’s. “A box of Cuban cigars that you can’t get it off of me on ball night.”

  He falls silent, and I wait, my hand on the door. Was that too bold?

  Then, he finally asks, “Real Cubans?”

  I smile. Despite my feelings for Callum being complicated, he knows how to play. “They’re only illegal to poor people,” I tell him.

  I open the door, stepping inside.

  “And if you win, what do you want?” he asks.

  “A box of Cuban cigars.”

  A snort escapes him.

  I walk into the shop, the crystal chandeliers glowing overhead, and I immediately cast a glance around, not seeing her. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

  “Can’t wait to see you in the dress,” he says.

  “Well, you’re gonna have to, unfortunately.” I sigh, seeing no one at the counter. “See you at school tomorrow.”

  “Bye.”

  I hang up, slipping my phone into my bag, and I’m about to call out for Lavinia, but she appears from the back room, her lipstick looking eggplant against her purple dress.

  “Morning,” I chirp.

  “Clay!” She holds up her hand as if to stop me. “I want you to try on your dress before you take it, okay? Just to make sure.”

  Do I have to? I was hoping to only have the wear that damn thing one more time. On ball night.

  “It’s in the dressing room,” she says. “Do you have time?”

  “I…” But I can’t think fast enough. “Sure.”

  I follow her to the dressing room, dropping my purse and closing the curtain after she leaves.

  I don’t have my underthings—the right bra or anything—so this shit won’t fit like it’s supposed to.

  Which could work in my favor if Lavinia doesn’t realize it and the dress isn’t ready in time. I could borrow my mom’s spaghetti strap, silver Balenciaga instead. In a crunch, she won’t make me cry by saying no.

  I strip down, unzip the dress bag, but then Lavinia flips something over the drapes, a strapless bra with a quick, “Here you go, honey!”

  I hold in my groan. “Thank you!”

  Snatching the undergarment, I wrap it around my front, fitting my breasts into the cups, and reach behind me with both hands to try to fasten the hooks.

  But there’s no way I’m going to get them connected by just feeling. “Help,” I call out.

  I struggle with the clasps, sucking in my stomach and turning around so I can look behind me in the mirror to see what I’m doing.

  But then the curtain suddenly opens, and I see Liv standing there in the mirror.

  Where’s Lavinia?

  I stop breathing for a split-second as she stares at me and I stare at her, and I don’t know what she’s going to do. I look for a Sharpie on her but don’t see one.

  Her black jeans hug her body like a second skin and her black T-shirt is cut off mid-way, her stomach tight and smooth as it peeks out. The white baseball cap she has on backward is almost blue from how many times it’s been bleached, and I gaze at that dark tunnel between the hair that spills around her and her neck, an urge to just want to bury myself in…

  I swallow, noticing the faint remnants of the Sharpie on her stomach.

  “Where’s Lavinia?” I ask, steeling my voice.

  She cocks her head a little and her eyes instantly drop to my panties.

  The black lace ones.

  Hers.

  She meets my eyes again, and then she steps in, closes the curtain, and yanks me around, fastening the corset.

  “A little pent up frustration over the separate shower stalls after freshman year?” I say. “Seizing your last chance to see me naked?”

  “Nothing to see,” she mumbles. “You still look the same as you did when we were fourteen.”

  I snarl a little. I do not. Bitch.

  I adjust my breasts inside the cups, my skin tingling at the touch of her fingers.

  I clear my throat. “So, what happens if my father and Callum’s father push your family out of Sanoa Bay?”

  “What do you care?”

  She jerks the corset tighter, and I dig my toes into the carpet to keep myself from falling.

  “I care.” I put my hands on my hips as she works. “You’re my fun.”

  I like you around.

  She doesn’t look up, and I can tell she won’t. She’s not giving an inch.

  “You’ll split up,” I tell her, already knowing, but my chest hurts hearing myself say the words. “Macon will stay close to St. Carmen. He’s rooted here with the businesses, right?”

  She presses her lips together.

  “Dallas, and maybe Trace, will join the military.” I throw guesses out there, because what else do men who have zero direction or education do but go somewhere with job training and a guaranteed paycheck and housing? “The rest will scatter.”

  Army Jaeger, I think, has a kid, and Iron has too many priors. The military won’t take him.

  “And you?” I press. “What will happen to you?”

  “My plans won’t change,” she finally mumbles, finishing my hooks. “I’ll still get the hell out of this shithole.”

  “And far away from me,” I say.

  She stands up straight, still behind me, and meets my eyes in the mirror. “You think you’re a factor in any of my decisions? Dartmouth was always the plan. You don’t matter.”

  Dartmouth?

  New England? Has she ever been out of Florida?

  I stare at her longer than I should, the wheels in my head racing, and I know she can tell I’m taken off guard.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and drop my eyes, twisting the corset to make sure it’s sitting straight.

  You don’t matter. That’s what she said. She’s just going to leave. She’s already got plans. Like she’s been waiting for the day to run and… How can…

  I try to swallow again, but my mouth is dry.

  Snapping out my hands, I unzip the dress bag and peel it away, a dress I don’t recognize coming into view.

  Huh?

  Distracted from her news, I flip the bag back down to check the name, see that it’s mine, and inspect the dress again.

  This isn’t my dress. It’s even more hideous, if that’s possible.

  But then…I notice the silk. The same shade of chiffon that made up my dress, and I study it some more, taking in the lace and flowers, all mine but repositioned.

  A halter-top neckline of bushy white flowers has been added, and sequins stick to the bodice like pinstriping, ending at the waist and giving way to the feathers adorning the skirt in a spiral formation.

  A laugh bubbles up in my chest, but I hold it in. It’s awful, and I absolutely adore it. She did this.

  I contain my smile and look over my shoulder, seeing her watch me with a calm but amused expression. She’s waiting for me to react.

  She did this on purpose. She risked getting fired—hell, risked the wrath of my mother and grandmother—to get me back for the Sharpie incident.