Page 48 of Forsaken Oath

She expels a breath, letting her arms straighten out. “It’s just . . . I wasn’t sure if you had them. Hopes and dreams.”

“Ah.” I hum with a few short nods, my sinuses tingling as embarrassment prickles along the back of my neck, hot and sweaty. I refocus on rinsing the pan and setting it on the drying rack next to the sink.

She clears her throat. “All I’m saying is, it’s okay to have them, you know? To hope for something more than Avalon Falls for yourself. To have dreams. And you can, you know, sharethem with me or whatever. I won’t think differently of you or anything. It’s just, I know how much you sacrificed to take on me and Vivie.”

I spin toward her quickly; the water sloshing out of the sink with the sharp movement. I point a sudsy finger at her. “You two were never a burden. Taking the two of you out of her house was the best decision I ever made. The only thing I regret is waiting so long to do it.”

She tosses her hands up, palms toward me. “All I’m saying is I get it now, you know.”

I’m feeling hot and uncomfortable, and I don’t know what to do with my hands. It’s cowardly, I’m sure, but all I can do is nod once and turn back around to wash the dishes.

Margot taps the counter a few times with her palm. “All right, I’m going to get back to studying now. Just let me know if you hear anything, yeah?”

My shoulders feel tight, and I’m afraid that if I turn around now, I’m going to cry. The worst part is, I don’t even know why I would be crying.

I swallow it all down, shoving it into the black pit in my gut with all the other emotions I don’t have time to deal with and finish the dishes.

An hour later, and the nervous, frenetic energy still buzzes in my veins. I’m not tired enough to fall asleep, and not even my favorite baking shows are easing my nerves. If it wasn’t ten o’clock, I’d hop into my car, crank up my favorite playlist, and go for a drive.

Instead, I decide to make chocolate chip cookies. Because one thing my dad taught me was that everything is better with a cookie.

I bring my laptop into the kitchen, the low murmuring of the competition show keeping me company. I go through the pantry and collect all the ingredients I need for chocolate chip cookies.It’s the basic recipe, the one on the back of the chocolate chip bag, and nothing like the kind of thing these bakers are making on TV.

I found a bag of walnuts tucked behind the baking soda, so those are going on half the batch. If it were up to me, I’d put them in the whole thing, but Vivie claims they’re gross.

I listen to the baking show as I assemble my cookies, the quiet of the night pressing in on me. There’s a big misconception about Seven Pines, the neighborhood. Sure, it’s affiliated with the crew, but it’s not parties twenty-four seven. Mostly, it’s just a regular neighborhood with respectful neighbors.

Once the cookies are in the oven, I clean up. Washing and drying the dishes, putting everything away. I still have a few minutes on the timer, so I wipe down the counters and refill the soap dispensers. I snagged this fall-scented dish and hand soap a few months ago, and I’ve been patiently waiting for the seasons to change enough so I could use it.

Rifling through the basket of stuff under the sink, I pull out the plastic bag. Inside, next to the two bottles of pumpkin brûlée scented soap, is a box of peach hair dye.

With the cookies cooling, I find myself drawn back to the box of hair dye, my fingertips tracing over the image of the smiling model with her vibrant peach-colored locks.

I don’t know what possesses me to do it. Maybe it’s the restless energy still thrumming through my veins, demanding an outlet.

Maybe it’s the memory of Beau’s fingers tangling in my hair, his husky voice whispering “peach” against my skin.

Maybe it’s the desperate need for a change, for something that feels like my choice in a world where so much is decided for me.

An hour later, I sink into bed with a warm cookie in hand and peach-colored hair, feeling content.

22

BEAU

It’s late,and I’ve got insomnia. Which is the fucking worst. It doesn’t happen nearly as often as it used to, and I’ve tried just about everything to fix it. But nothing is working. I worked out, meditated, and took a hot lavender shower. I even tried that app that’s supposed to ease insomnia for people, and still, here I am at two a.m., walking around my house like I’m trying to hit a step-count goal before sunrise.

My phone buzzes in my athletic shorts, and I pull it out. My brows arch toward my hairline with surprise.

Why the fuck is Mason video calling me in the middle of the night?

I answer on the second ring. “Hey, man.”

The sounds of a wailing baby fill my apartment, loud enough that I wince. A second later, Mason appears on the screen—red-eyed, cheeks flushed, his mouth pinched in a look that’s part exhaustion, part desperation.

“Beau.” It’s a plea if I’ve ever heard one.

“Shit, what’s wrong? Is the baby okay?”

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