Grace laughed at herself—one quiet, broken sound—and pressed her lips together. At first there was only static in her head. Then thoughts sharpened, turned mean with precision.
How had Oakley brought up Evelyn Luke?
If Oakley wanted distance kept from Grace's friends, why hadn't she said anything when she met Sabrina Myers—why had she smiled then, easy and bright?
Sabrina had slung an arm around Grace's shoulder, had even pressed a bite of food to her mouth, casual and close. Wasn't that more intimate?
Grace truly could not see what was so "wrong" about Evelyn. What she could see—what she could swear to—was that Ellisa Cheney was trouble.
She had grown up breathing other people's malice the way some children breathed sea air, so yes, she could smell it—both kindness and rot. Give her a handful of words and a minute of watching, and she could feel out the grain of a person. Business only honed what childhood began. She seldom misjudged. When her first instinct labeled someone "don't touch," the odds were that person burned on contact.
Call it insight if you like. Grace thought of it more as a hard-won skill purchased with too many blows.
Ellisa had wrapped herself around Oakley and shot Grace a challenging look. Later she'd hinted, sweet as a blade in sugar, that her bond with Oakley ran deeper than anything a newcomer could match.
That wasn't just "hedgehog prickle." When energies don't match, people usually go quiet. They don't declare war.
To provoke is to be ill-mannered. To provoke on purpose is a character flaw. If it was about staking a claim on Oakley, that flaw cut deeper.
Even over fried skewers, Ellisa's storylines contradicted themselves—one minute mourning years of gloom after falling out with Oakley, the next lighting up over how full and bright life had been at a new school. Which was it? A habit of speaking first and thinking later—or a split mask?
Maybe Oakley could let inconsistencies slide. Grace couldn't.
Summation: holes in every sentence.
And Ellisa's childhood? Not Grace's cross to carry. People love to hand out pardons in the name of origin stories. If broken beginnings excuse everything, then would the world forgive Grace if she chose arson and knives?
She wouldn't. She refused to weaponize pain. She would never sell her wound for loyalty.
Grace states a fact and it's called malicious conjecture; Ellisa throws down a gauntlet and it's "trauma—please be gentle." So Ellisa is the untouchable friend, and Grace—what—doesn't even qualify as one?
Where exactly had she lost to Ellisa? Oh. Right. "Emotionally numb."
Grace touched her forehead and laughed again, a little wild.
How had she forgotten—she was a cripple that way.
The laugh ran out. Her eyes fell.
Why was she even comparing herself to Ellisa? Did she secretly want to tie Oakley to her side? Was the wanting itself the crime?
If Ellisa were harmless, wouldn't Grace still be tempted to do the same—pull Oakley closer, keep her? She would. She'd tussled over toys with Hazel when they were children. The streak had a long history.
Maybe she wasn't good, not at the root.
Maybe she was greedy.
Oakley was already kind—defending her, walking beside her, smiling that soft, inexhaustible smile—and still Grace wanted more. Not gratitude. More.
Wrong, she thought. You're wrong again. Greed got its hands on you. You should be punished for that. Hands out. The ruler falls.
Why were you made this way? Are you even human?
She didn't know what she was. A person? A beast that hurts people?
Out of nowhere, her chest cinched as if air were being drawn out with a slow pump. A pain spread, vague and everywhere. She reached for the white wall and curled against it when her legs trembled. The edges of the world fuzzed; color drained; she slid down until the corner held her up.
A glossy black car turned the bend and eased closer. Grace didn't look. Her breath was thread-thin, her vision gone to powder.
Inside the car, Hazel had been nodding to a K-pop chorus when she glanced up, swore softly, and yanked one earbud free. "Is that my sister?" She jabbed a finger toward the wall. "What's wrong with her—did it hit again?"
Devin and Hannah followed her gaze.
"I thought she was better," Hannah said, frowning. "Is this for life?"
Devin sighed and pulled over. "Take Hazel home. I'll bring Grace to the hospital. She needs to get stable fast."
"There are things only she can handle," he added, too calm. "She can't keep running on empty."
They spoke as if discussing the weather—a practiced cadence, the ease of those who have stood in this room before.
"Fine," Hannah said, and got out with Hazel.
—
Oakley reached the dessert shop first, then saw Ellisa already inside, neat as a porcelain figurine in a music box. Beige dress, white tights, a brown cape tossed over her shoulders. She cradled a hot drink with both hands, face clean and bright.
Through the glass, she waved. Oakley picked up her fallen expression, put on a lighter one, and went in.
"Did I keep you long?" she asked, setting her bag aside.
"Not at all. I just sat down." Ellisa took a careful look at her. "You're so pretty today."
Pretty or not, Oakley felt wobbly inside, like her thoughts were half a step behind her.
"I could say the same," she answered easily, pulling up the QR menu and scrolling. "You been here before? What's great?"
"The baked sweet potato with soft-serve," Ellisa said, brightening. She remembered Oakley's fondness for anything soft and sweet. "You'd love it."
"Sold." Oakley didn't have the heart for options.
While she ordered, Ellisa studied her face again. "You look tired. What's wrong?"
Oakley touched her cheek, suddenly self-conscious. "That obvious?"
She was not herself. Everything tasted like cardboard.
"A little," Ellisa said gently. "Like you slept badly."
"Probably thinking about today's party," Oakley said. "I ran loops all night."
"Oh." Ellisa lifted her drink and then paused, eyes catching on the edge of Oakley's scarf—just enough silk had shifted to reveal the faint bloom of a bruise at her throat.
A kiss-mark.
So—last night, they—
Ellisa pressed her lips together. She knew they were married. Bodies have their logic. Still, something in her gaze dimmed.
The order arrived: a scarlet-gold sweet potato split open, crowned with a perfect scoop of soft-serve, a ribbon of glossy sauce pooling over the edges.
Oakley took a photo by habit, set the phone aside, carved out a bite that mingled hot and cold, salt and sweet. "Oh," she said around surprise. "That's good."
"Right?" Ellisa's fingers tightened around her cup. But her eyes kept straying to the edge of silk at Oakley's neck.
She breathed once and asked, "Are you happy… in your marriage?"
The spoon stilled. "Why would you ask me that?"
"You seemed wilted yesterday. Today too." Ellisa's mouth slanted, tender with intent. "I want the best for you."
Oakley lowered her gaze to the plate. "I'm… fine."
"Really?"
"Really."
Ellisa nodded and let it lie.
Oakley remembered Grace's complaint—that Ellisa had treated them differently—and sat up. "Can I ask something?"
"Anything," Ellisa said, tilting her head, bright as a sparrow.
"What was your first impression of Grace?" Oakley searched Ellisa's face. "She thinks you didn't like her."
Anger aside, Oakley wanted to know. It had been wrong, the coldness. Even a stranger deserves basic kindness. A partner deserves more.
Ellisa understood at once—Grace had told Oakley. How much, she couldn't guess.
"First impression… she seemed hard to approach," Ellisa said, eyes turning soft with apology. "Not that she's bad. It's my problem. I get nervous around that… type."
"Why?"
"I've known people like that," Ellisa said, choosing her words. "Dark, suspicious, always conjuring fights out of air. It wore me raw."
"Mm." Oakley looked down. It sounded a shade too neat. A little unfair.
"Maybe it's bad luck," Ellisa went on. "I've never met people so calculating—so sure they're right while they make mountains out of sand. It left a mark."
She added quickly, "I'm not saying Grace is like that. I'm saying someone who looked like her once was. That person was that person. Grace is Grace. And I was wrong to bristle. Will you tell her I'm sorry?"
Apology offered, ownership taken—neat as a bow on a box. To keep tugging at it would make Oakley look small.
Only… Grace had a streak of calculation. And suspicion. Oakley, too—why pretend otherwise?
Hadn't she doubted Evelyn for no concrete reason? Evelyn hadn't even been unkind.
Oakley drifted, distracted. The sweet potato was suddenly too rich. She set down the spoon and ordered a hot cocoa, nearly tapped two by mistake, then cancelled one with a faint wince.
Truth: ever since the fight with Grace, she'd been off. Even walking to the café had felt like moving through wool. But she'd promised to come. She hated breaking promises. So she came.
"Oakley," Ellisa said softly.
"Hm?" Oakley looked up.
Ellisa nodded toward a neighboring table where girls were snapping photos in the window light. "It's pretty here. Let's take a few?"
"Sure." Oakley's mouth eased. "It's been ages."
Ellisa slid to Oakley's side on the same banquette. As she did, she noticed a smear of white at the corner of Oakley's mouth.
The drip of soft-serve on a full, sweet mouth—a small, shameless shock.
Ellisa leaned in before she could stop herself.
Oakley startled, their eyes locking. "What is it?"
"Nothing," Ellisa said, smiling harmlessly. "You had a bit on your lip. I was going to wipe it."
"Oh." Oakley dabbed with a napkin. "Better?"
"Perfect." Ellisa slipped back to her proper place.
Oakley searched pose ideas on her phone and lifted the beauty camera. She smoothed her hair and smiled into the lens. Ellisa tipped close and flashed a peace sign.
Ten photos later, Oakley lowered the phone. "I'll send them to you on apptalk."
"Okay," Ellisa said, dimples soft.
As Oakley opened the app, Ellisa peeked, saw her contact name—"Ellisa, who grew up on Cute"—and felt a bubble of pleased warmth.
Then she noticed how Grace's contact was saved: simply, "Grace Barron."
Just a name. Plain as linen. Was their marriage as dry as that? Was Grace receiving less than she, Ellisa, was?
She couldn't help herself. "Why is Grace saved as just… Grace Barron?"
"Is that strange?" Oakley asked, selecting pictures.
"Most people save their partner as 'wife' or something sweeter," Ellisa said lightly. "Yours feels… unusual."
Oakley studied the two words on the screen. "I like her name," she said at last, voice very calm. "That's enough. I don't need confetti."
She remembered Grace telling her once: My mother wanted me to live light.
Ellisa hadn't expected that. Her gaze darkened, but it was envy, not judgment.
So Oakley didn't resent Grace. The opposite.
Jealousy pricked like pins beneath the skin.
After an hour they finished their sweets and drinks.
"I should go," Oakley said, standing. "Another time?"
"Another time," Ellisa echoed, smiling.
They parted at the door.
Maybe it was just too much sugar, but Oakley's head felt spackled, her thoughts slow to turn. She drifted home, stepped inside, and saw Hazel perched on the couch, gaming with a ferocious focus.
Oakley bypassed her and climbed the stairs, already rehearsing what she'd say to Grace. After a fight, the first words mattered.
But the bedroom was empty.
She went down again and stood beside Hazel. "Where's your sister?"
Hazel didn't look up. She raced across the map, fingers flying.
Oakley remembered their first meeting, Hazel's cool disrespect. How had she phrased it? "Genetically faulty." She'd thrown that at the girl without blinking.
Maybe last night Grace had done the same—pulled one careless shard from Oakley's own words and laid it at Ellisa's feet.
If Ellisa had been openly rude, wouldn't Grace be angry, too?
"Where is she?" Oakley asked again.
Hazel finally heard. "Hospital."
"Hospital?" A slick of fear. "Why?"
"Checkup," Hazel said, eyes still on the screen. "It hit again. You didn't know?"
"Hit—what?"
"Trauma something," Hazel said around a yawn. "She cracks a few times a year. We figured she'd kicked it. Guess not."
Her tone was light as lint—practice making even the difficult ordinary.
The match ended. Hazel stretched, then turned to Oakley with bright, nosy eyes. "Know what set her off this time?"
Gossip. But Oakley went still, a shock traveling up her spine to the back of her eyes.
That sentence. The one she'd flung like an arrow. Numb. Cut off. Unloving.
She had said the one thing that burrowed most faithfully under Grace's skin—the softest place. She'd been the hand that pushed.
God. What had she done?
She'd promised Grace not to belittle herself, to stop calling herself broken. She'd watched Grace heal by inches. And then she'd slapped the word back over her mouth. You're not normal.
A sweet date. A hard slap. Fresh salt ground into a closing cut.
She had done what Devin and Hannah had done all her life.
Worse—she hadn't even noticed how deep the blade went.
Right and wrong didn't matter now. She should never have spoken that way.
It's over, she thought. She must hate me.
"Which hospital?" Oakley asked, breath too fast.
"Princeton," Hazel said.
Oakley didn't waste a step. She snatched her bag and ran.