perfect together,” Yolanda sighed, a happy little drunk.
“Julia!” Hannah shrieked. Her insides felt wild. In this whole summer of being ignored, the only good thing had been Wyatt, and now Julia was taking that away too. She took away Brackenhill; she took away the magic; she took away everything she touched. And the worst part was Hannah had no idea why. She had no idea why her sister had changed, why they couldn’t stay kids at Brackenhill forever. They had forests and basements and passageways and secret doors to explore, and now she was alone, and if Julia took Wyatt, Hannah was really alone, just like at home in Plymouth, and she put her fist in her mouth and screamed into it, not caring who saw her or heard her and not caring that Dana and Yolanda watched with glee, sitting at attention, feet swinging against the concrete. She didn’t care about any of it anymore. She hated them all. She wanted to go home.
Julia broke out of Wyatt’s embrace—Wyatt’s embrace! Oh my GOD!—and turned to her sister, bewildered. Only Wyatt knew, and his face was unreadable. He did look sorry. He looked a little confused. And something else unknown to Hannah.
“Hannah, wait!” he said but then stopped, not knowing what to say next. Not knowing where to go, how to make things better.
Julia ran across the green between them, closing the short distance in a few seconds, and stood before Hannah, who was shaking with rage. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess; she knew she was careening, likely making a fool of herself, and couldn’t stop. She felt like everything was so wrong that it would never be right again.
“Why! Why do you have to ruin everything! Why!” Hannah shoved Julia’s shoulders, and Julia stumbled, her mouth open in shock. They’d never touched each other like that before—not in anger. Never, not even as children. They protected each other—from Wes when he was drunk and raging, from Trina’s neglect—but they did not hit each other.
“Hannah! What’s wrong with you?” Julia gripped Hannah’s wrists and held them out so their faces were inches apart and Hannah couldn’t hit or push her again.
“I hate you! Wyatt was the only good thing I had.” Hannah felt the tears in her eyes, dramatic and childish, and knew she was ruining it for herself at this point but was unable to stop. “He was the only thing in my life that I liked. You’ve ruined everything.”
“Hannah.” Julia’s voice was gentle, placating, and Hannah fought against her sister’s strength, tried to hit her again, but Julia stopped her. “Hannah. Please, honey, stop.”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” Hannah sagged back, losing the strength, and stole a glance at Wyatt, who stood, paralyzed, ten feet away, watching the scuffle with his hands fisted in his pockets and his face blank with shock.
“Hannah,” Julia said gently, “why do you think you had Wyatt?” She lowered her voice, the way you talked to someone unhinged, and Hannah realized that was what she was: unhinged.
“Because we’ve been . . . together all summer.” Hannah faltered and in the background heard Dana and Yolanda laughing.
“Hannah.” Julia looked around helplessly. “You can’t think that, can you?”
Hannah looked over at Dana and Yolanda, back to Wyatt, even to Reggie, whose mouth curled in a curious smirk, and realized they all thought she was making it up. A delusional child. A foolish idiot.
Her face burned, and she stepped back, away from Julia, who truly had no idea what she’d been doing all summer. Only Wyatt could set the record straight now.
Hannah looked at Wyatt, her hands splayed outward for help.
Wyatt turned his head, exposing the white of his neck, the neck Hannah had kissed so many times. He extended his hand, the hand that had caressed her hair, her back, all summer.
“Hannah,” he said. She wished everyone would stop saying her name like that. His face was pained, his eyes clouded.
He wasn’t going to save her.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Now
She’d escaped Wyatt’s on Sunday morning in a flurry of guilt and sickness—some from the wine but mostly with herself. She’d left him sleeping and sneaked out the front door. He’d called three times and texted even more; she’d lost count. Nothing harassing, just wondering if she was okay, and could they talk? She hadn’t answered yet. Her mind swung wildly between guilt—Huck—and snatches of the night: Wyatt’s hands on her hips, his breath on her stomach, a light, feathery tickle. The feeling of him curled against her