Veronica Rossi: Brooke

That night, Clara sleeps next to me again.

She doesn’t cry and my mother doesn’t cry either. I wake up feeling rested and cheered. It’s a feeling I recognize. It’s how I used to always be. Maybe we’re all adjusting to being reunited.

“Take me outside, Brooke,” Clara pleads after a breakfast of boiled oats and a handful of dates.

I can’t see why not. Wylan isn’t a threat anymore, and I won’t take her far. Just right to the cove outside. “Sure,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Talon and Willow skip up as we pass the platform. Willow’s constant shadow, her mutt, Flea, prances up as well. When they learn where Clara and I are going, they ask to come along.

“Fine,” I say. “Sure.” Nothing can spoil my mood. “Anyone else?”

“Straggler!” chirps Willow. “You have to come!”

“I’m busy, Willow,” he calls over.

He’s on his back on the platform. It looks like we interrupted his nap.

“You’re not busy!” Talon shouts. He and Willow scuttle over to Straggler and grab him by the arms. As I watch, they yank him off the platform and tow him over.

I don’t know any adults as persuasive as children.

A race begins before we have even emerged from the mouth of the cave. Willow darts across the beach, Flea barking as he lopes alongside her. Clara breaks into a run, kicking up sand behind her. She’s fast, but Talon is all heart and determination. I wonder who will win.

I plop down to watch, their shrieks and hollers ringing in my ears. Willow trips first and tumbles onto the sand, and then Clara does. Talon throws himself down, I think, because everyone else has done it.

The morning is fearsome—a storm is gathering strength above us—but I don’t care. The sound of my sister’s laughter is louder than the crash of the waves. How can this day ever be anything less than perfect?

“Don’t feel like racing?” Straggler asks as he sits next to me on the sand.

“Maybe later.” I look at him. “How about you?”

“Nah.” Straggler shrugs. “I mean I would. But I twisted my ankle this morning and it’s a little sore.”

“What happened?”

“Oh . . .” He smiles. “It’s my birthday.”

Like that explains everything. “For your birthday you got a twisted ankle ?”

“Yeah, it’s a family tradition. Whoever’s birthday it is gets pinned down first thing in the morning and roughed up a little. It’s something my brothers and I do to remember.”

“Remember?” I ask.

“Our father. When we were younger, he used to wake us up by tickling us. Eventually the whole lot of us got in on it, even our mother. You always knew you’d wake up pinned down and tickled to the point of crying when it was your birthday. Mom and Dad passed on, but we still do it. Every birthday. Except we changed it from tickling, you know, since we’re not little kids anymore.”

“So you beat each other up.”

“Yeah . . . not badly, though. You think it’s strange, don’t you?”

I shake my head. Their tradition doesn’t bother me. In fact, I think it’s sweet. But I feel bad for Straggler. Hyde and Hayden are well over six feet—more than a head taller than Straggler, who hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet—and they’re strong . It seems like they have an unfair advantage, but Strag must be used to it. As the youngest and smallest, he’s the butt of everyone’s jokes, and he’s forever lagging behind, which earned him his nickname. A shame since his given name, Haven, is so beautiful.

“How old are you today?” I ask.

“Sixteen.” He grins proudly, like he’s automatically become a man. Then he glances away, and a giggle slips out of him that’s all boy. “My brothers said if I ever kissed you, they’d beat me unconscious.”

Well. All right, then. “They told you?”

“No. They’d never talk. It’s just I overheard them arguing. They were both saying you like them the most, and then the rest sort of came out.”

“Is that so?” I shake my head. This was bound to happen. “Do you want to kiss me?”

Straggler makes a squeaking sound. “What?” he says, his eyes flying open. “I don’t know! I mean, yes. I would . I do . But I know we aren’t going to, so that’s all right. More than all right because of course I didn’t expect you to. Do that. With me.”

I stare absently at Willow, Talon, and Clara, who have begun another race, as I consider the situation.

I have no desire to kiss Straggler. My move on plan has changed. Hyde and Hayden are incredible in their own ways, but I’m not ready to open my heart again. Not yet, but one day I know I will be. One day I’ll find someone who will see me as the best instead of one of the best .

I will find a life-sustaining love.

But my new plan is to focus on me now. Instead of trying to heal a wound, I’m going to keep doing things that make me feel strong. Spending time with Clara. Protecting my tribe. I can do those. They fill me. And some wounds you can’t fix by sheer will. You just have to let them heal on their own.

Regardless of all that, I am going to kiss Straggler. Not for me, but for him. The contentment inside me is so strong that I have to spread it.

I actually feel like trying to be nice.

“Haven?” I say. “I have a birthday gift for you.” Then I lean over and plant a kiss on his lips.

When I draw away, he is stunned, but I’m not finished yet. I can’t help but smile, knowing how much my next words will mean to him. “You can tell both of your brothers I said you were the best .”

Aria lurched upright, the echo of gunshots ringing in her ears.

Disoriented, she blinked at her surroundings, taking in the canvas walls, the two bed pallets, and the stack of battered storage trunks, finally recognizing Perry’s tent.

Pain pulsed steadily in her right arm. She looked down at the white bandage wrapped from her shoulder to her wrist, dread swirling in her stomach.

A Guardian had shot her in Reverie.

She licked her dry lips, tasting the bitterness of pain medication. Just try it, she told herself. How hard could it be?

Aches stabbed deep in her bicep as she tried to make a fist. Her fingers gave only the slightest twitch. It was like her mind had lost the ability to speak with her hand, the message vanishing somewhere along her arm.

Climbing to her feet, she swayed in place for a moment, waiting for a wave of dizziness to pass. She’d come to this tent soon after she and Perry had arrived, and hadn’t left since. But she couldn’t stay there a second longer. What was the point, if she wasn’t getting better?

Her boots sat on top of one of the trunks. Determined to find Perry, she slipped them on—a challenge, one-handed. “Stupid things,” she muttered. She tugged harder, the ache in her arm becoming a burn.

“Oh, don’t blame the poor boots.”

Molly, the tribe healer, stepped through the tent flaps with a lamp in hand. Soft and gray-haired, she looked nothing like Aria’s mother had, but they had similar demeanors. Steady and dependable.

Aria jammed her feet into her boots—nothing like an audience to motivate—and straightened.

Molly set the lamp down on a trunk and came over. “Are you sure you should be up and about?”