Page 14 of Sins and Secrets

“Waverly.” Her name sounds like a dream. My lips brush against hers, soft and warm. She leans into mine as a tiny moan escapes her. I didn’t realize how much I wanted this. Not a distraction from my otherwise shitty existence and time in this hellhole, but her. She has always been the best part of coming here—her smile, her laughter...

I pull away slowly, waiting for her to react. Is she mad at me? Does she hate me? Will she run and tell Angie about this?

Her eyes stay shut as she lifts her finger to my lips, barely missing my nose. “Shhhh,” she says, opening her eyes and standing up. Waverly walks out the room and her pounding feet echo on the stairs. Then the house is quiet.

What have I done?

I should run and apologize to her.

Instead, I spend the next ten minutes mindlessly finishing my drawing and replaying our kiss in my head. Damn if she hadn’t been perfect. But why did she tell me to shh before I said anything?

The printer springs to life, screaming and straining for minutes on end until it becomes white noise.

I erase Wolverine’s nose and try again, this time more narrow, and it looks less shitty.

Again, Waverly thunders down the stairs.

Focus on what you can control. The pencil on the paper, one line and shape at a time. Trust the process.

Again, her shadow casts on my drawing, and she drops a stack of papers next to my journal. I blink at it, recognizing the words and iconology, but my brain isn’t fully making the connections.

“This is a list of art schools on the West Coast and all the requirements you need to get in.” She places her hands on the table and leans across, a tiny smirk on her face.

“Why?”

“Because that’s where you live.” She shrugs and shifts from side to side. “You kissed me because I said something nice to you. I figured, if I gave you actual support, we might use tongue next time.”

Waverly is a master of catching me off guard. “What?”

She rolls her eyes. “Ever since my boobs came in, I’ve been patiently waiting for you to work up the courage to make a move. We’ve got ten minutes before my cousin picks me up.” She pushes her hair behind her shoulder and wiggles her eyebrows. “So, what are you waiting for?”

Well, there are worse ways to spend ten minutes. I grab her wrist and pull her toward me. “Get over here.”

She squeaks in delight, and I’d do anything to hear that noise again.

ChapterSeven

Present Day

Waverly

The cemetery is quiet. They always are. I mean, I don't expect a rager to be happening here, but there’s an unnatural kind of quiet which only exists in a cemetery. Or maybe it’s an entirely too natural kind of quiet. I wear my business-appropriate black dress, the white piping on this one giving everything an extra level of sophistication.

I'm already at the gravesite. I should talk to mom before everyone arrives.

“Hey, Mom. I don't know how much time I have before everyone else gets here. Are you busy?” Of course she’s not. “I feel...” How do I feel? “Weird and off. Like I should be further along in my life, have more accomplishments and credits to my name. Angie's getting married, my friends have kids, Izzy’s killing it at her new job. And I'm on the platform waiting for a train to come, and worrying it might not. I don't know what to say.”

A bird cries out in a tree. Not a lovely song, but bellowing a startling cry.

“I saw Lukas this week. He looks good. Healthy. Same brooding, growly guy. He didn't seem happy to see me. I’m not sure what I expected though.”

Two squirrels are bouncing off headstones that must be at least a century old—gravesites whose only visitors approach to admire the age of the stone, not considering the body underneath.

“Mom, did you know everyone hates Adam and no one told me?” There’s a chill in the air and I jam my hands into my pockets. “Of course, you do. You're probably in a group chat with all the other dead Four Families members. I’m pretty sure I need to leave Adam. I’m not happy, but at least I’m comfortable?”

In the distance, my half sister Shae's voice carries on the wind. She's rambling, nothing disrespectful or whiney, it’s who she is. I turn to see my dad in a suit, his wife Sheila’s wearing a long, green maxi dress. Dad has his fingers locked with hers. He smiles when he sees me. “Have you been here long?” he asks when he gets closer.

“Not long.”

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