Page 81 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“Oh?”

I bow my head a fraction, shifting in my seat so I can look out without fully facing him. I’m still trying to get my heart to stop pretending it’s auditioning for a damn marching band.

“For many Native peoples, water is life. It sounds like a cliché now that the phrase has been so grossly co-opted, but it’s true. For the Potawatomi, this lake was a trade route, a source of sustenance, a spiritual home. It mattered.”

I brace myself and look at him. Shadows cover his face, but his gaze is clear.

“And now it’s polluted. All the life has been drawn out of it. Now it’s just…something to look at. Something that can kill, too.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks down at the water like he’s trying to see it without all the buildings and structures around it. I wonder if hecansee it—before the wealth, before the greed, before the condos and high-rises and super yachts.

Then his voice returns, hesitant.

“Do you always have such deep thoughts?”

My chest tightens. I know the tone. I’ve heard it from boys before—mocking or amused. And IknowI should let it roll off, but still, my voice hardens before I can catch it.

“Are my thoughts deep, or am I just a thoughtful person?”

His head jerks a little, like I hit a nerve. I brace for him to get defensive, but instead, he reaches for my hand.

I should pull away.

I don’t.

Our palms press together, and I swear somethingclicksinto place—like the entire world just shifted one inch to the left, and now everything makes sense.

“Hey,” he says, thumb brushing over my wrist, soft and sure. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to offend you. I wish there were more people like you. I’m surrounded by folks who can’t hold a conversation beyond stock futures and society gossip.”

I can tell he means it. But still…I don’t know what to do with his honesty. It’s disarming. Dangerous.

I shake my head lightly and mutter, “Lifestyles of the rich and famous?”

He chuckles. “Something like that.”

We fall into a silence that feels…weirdly intimate. Like we’ve said something that matters. Like we’re tethered to each other by an invisible string.

“I’m sorry for what my dad said tonight,” I murmur.

Storm shrugs. But I see it in his eyes. He heard every word, and they hit their intended target.

“He hasn’t been trusting lately. He’s always afraid someone’s gonna take advantage. That’s how he lost the church.”

I don’t know why I’m telling him this.

Maybe because I want him to understand that my dad isn’t just a grumpy old man. That he’s someone wholovedand got burned for it.

And maybe because I want Storm to know whyIdon’t trust so easily, either.

“That’s how he lost the church, by trusting the wrong person. One of the senior pastors was an accountant and was there when Daddy took the pastor role at Mt. Pisgah. He was a nice enough man, on the outside, at least. When I was in the fifth grade, everything blew up. Mr.Cole—that was the senior pastor’s name—had siphoned off hundreds of thousands of dollars over severalyears. The church was bankrupt, they blamed Daddy, and Mr.Cole fled the state.”

He listens quietly, eyes narrowed with something I think might be…rage? Protective rage. Overme.

And that makes me ache.

When I finish, he leans closer. “I’m sorry that happened to your family, Shae. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

I blink once, then a few times, each increasing speed. Why do I feel like crying just because he said “sorry”?

---