Page 8 of Heart of Thorns

“Fine,” I say.

A forceful smile curves onto my cheeks, and she blanches.

“You look like you’re in pain.”

That’s because I am.

Both literally and figuratively.

My back hurts from my earlier tumble in the street just as much as my ego. The idiot football player probably hasn’t given me a second thought, but the way he watched my careful movements with pity hasn’t left my mind.

Marley shoves a beer in my hand. “Drink this. Maybe it’ll help that thing on your face.”

I touch my cheek. “What thing?”

She holds back a laugh. “That thing you call a smile.”

A laugh tries to creep up from my throat, and I can’t help the way my lips actually shape into a crescent.

Marley gasps. “Oh my God! There it is! A smile, everybody!”

My face warms when people chuckle and clap. I quickly close my mouth and shoot her a glare.

She laughs and drags me farther into the party, over to some of the girls I used to hang out with.

That wasbefore,though.

There’s a before and an after.

The Briar they know died in that fire, and I’m not sure anyone knows what to do with the new version of me.

“Hey, Briar!” Brianna, who we referred to as Breezy on the ice, comes bouncing over.

We.

There is no longer a we, even if my teammates still treat me as if I’m on the team.

“I can’t believe you’re actually here!” She wraps me in a quick hug, then grips my upper arms. She squeezes, and there’s a glimmer of sadness in her green eyes.

Ugh. Stop looking at me like that.

“Yeah, well.” I shrug, glancing around the party at all the jocks. This isclearlyan athlete-heavy party. Hockey players with their wide shoulders and arrogant personalities fill the living room. Almost all of them have a girl on their lap. Most of my old teammates are loitering about, rolling their eyes at the puck bunnies or jersey chasers.

In the midst of searching for the baseball player who scattered his balls all over the sidewalk earlier—I’d like to give him some advice, like on how to keep his balls intact—Brianna nudges me with her shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” she whispers.

I hate this question.

“I’m doing good,” I lie. “Stronger every day.”

It’s bullshit. Absolute bullshit.

She eyes me closely, her expression conveying her suspicion. All she has to do is watch me walk for more than ten seconds and she’ll see how much my knee is still bothering me.

The party is becoming crowded, and it makes me antsy. My gaze moves around every few seconds. I eye the windows in close proximity and mentally count how many steps it would take for me to get to them if a fire started.

I turn toward the stairs, knowing I could always climb them if the exits were blocked, whether by accident or on purpose by some lunatic who’s obsessed with fire and trapping college girls in burning buildings, like last time.

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