Page 7 of Without a Trace
“Okay!” Lena clapped her hands like a preschool teacher. “Let’s all sit down and be normal, yeah?”
“Define normal,” Rhett mumbled.
We squeezed around the big wooden table, Hemingway climbing into my lap like it was his assigned seat. I scratched behind his ears, trying not to stare at the boy who broke me. Or the boys who might be hiding more than anyone realized.
The room was loud, messy, familiar. But underneath the laughter and pancakes, something was shifting.
The lighter shifted in my hoodie pocket as I leaned forward. Just a tiny weight—but it felt like a secret.
Trace shifted, his fingers pressing hard into his forearm, rubbing over the ink as if it burned beneath the skin. Across the room, Alden mirrored the motion—sharper, tenser. Neither spoke. Rhett and Kane exchanged a glance. Brief. Weighted. Whatever passed between them felt older than words.
I dragged my thumbnail across the table's rim, half-listening. Restless. Watched.
They moved in step, dressed in civility, but everything about them warned—they weren’t built for peace.
Scarlett
The bathroom smelled like coconut shampoo and secrets.
Sloane brushed her teeth like she was prepping for battle—elbow sharp, stance wide, eyes locked on her gorgeous reflection, daring it to flinch first. Lena sat on the counter beside the sink, bare feet swinging in slow rhythmic arcs. She was humming something under her breath, peeling flecks of old nail polish from her pinky as if the day didn’t quite fit right on her skin. While I leaned against the doorframe, towel slipping from one shoulder, the backs of my shoulders still damp and stinging from too much sun. The bathroom light buzzed faintly overhead—too bright for how heavy I felt.
We’d been doing this forever.
The getting ready, the shared mirrors, the quiet knowing. A friendship built from years of shared bus rides, locker room confessions, and heartbreaks we pretended didn’t sting as much as they did.
High school brought us together, three girls who weren’t supposed to fit but did. We survived bad dates, mean girls, andthat one-week junior year when we all thought the world was ending because Lena got dumped over text.
Sloane was the one who kept us moving. She was always polished and prepared; her blonde hair was perfect, even when she claimed otherwise. She ran cross country like she was trying to outrun something, and she could call bullshit with just a look. Protective to a fault. She’d throw hands for you in the parking lot, then buy you coffee after.
Lena was the heart. Red hair always curled at the ends, freckles she hated, but we loved, and eyes that saw too much. She felt everything, and didn’t apologize for it. She was soft in a way the world tried to harden. Brave in a way, no one gave her credit for.
And here I was, somewhere in between.
Golden blonde waves that never stayed flat, a body that grew up taller and leaner than I ever learned how to carry. A mouth that got me in trouble more times than I could count. I didn’t cry much. Not in front of people. But I felt it all. Deep down, where it stayed.
Lena looked up at me watching me through the mirror instead of turning around. “You okay?”
I nodded. Too fast.
She raised one brow, not buying it. “You don’t have to lie, you know.”
Sloane spit into the sink. “She always lies. She just looks good doing it.”
I laughed—one of those sharp, breathless sounds that fixes nothing but still buys you time, because that’s what you do when the people who love you most try to remind you who you are.
“I’m fine,” I said again, softer this time.
Lena reached for my hand, fingers curling warm around mine. “We’ve got you.”
And in that moment, standing barefoot in a fogged-up bathroom with the girls who knew every version of me—I let myself believe her.
Scarlett
It was too warm out for a fire, but we lit one anyway—because we always did. Because the smoke made the night feel bigger, and the glow gave us an excuse to sit closer.
Lena dragged out blankets. Kane brought beers and half a bottle of tequila. Rhett messed with the speaker, trying to find something “moody but not too sad” while Sloane stacked graham crackers, no doubt trying to out-build her own anxiety.
I dropped into the sand, knees pulled tight to my chest, the beer sweating in my hand. Hemingway flopped down beside me, his snoring barely audible over the low thump of music. My cheeks were flushed, but I wasn’t sure if it was the fire or the alcohol or the way Trace hadn’t stopped looking at me since he got here.
