We were a graveyard of almosts.
Almost loved. Almost stayed. Almost brave enough to let the world burn just to keep each other warm.
An Excerpt from Wren's burnt diary.
Wren's POV
If you asked me what I knew about Kai Rivers, I'd tell you this:
He hated thunderstorms.
He loved Bukowski like a religion.
And once... just once... he kissed me so hard I forgot how to breathe.
He is my childhood best friend.
No, scratch that.
He was my best friend. Before he blurred every line between us. Before I ran away.
Three years. That's how long it's been since the incident that shattered us. Three years of pretending I moved on. Got a new school, new life, new lies. But my hands still clenched when it rained. The Universe has a sick sense of humor, she was a nasty bitch. And now? Now I'm staring down the barrel of everything I tried to escape.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Whitaker, but your daughter has crossed a line that can't be ignored this time."
Principal Maxson's voice was steel wrapped in velvet, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. My father, sweating through his pressed shirt, dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief that had seen better days, the one I'd embraided for Father's Day. The threads were fraying. Just like us.
"Surely there's another solution? Expulsion seems… extreme."
"This isn't her first offense," she countered. "No other school would have been this lenient. But arson? Brutalizing twenty students with a pen and brass knuckles? That's not a mistake. That's a pattern."
I was careful enough to avoid stabbing their eyes, they were lucky.
I couldn't help it. I butt in "It was self-defense."
"Quiet!" they snapped in unison, as if I were a fly buzzing too close to their ears.
My jaw locked. I forced air into my lungs, counting the cracks in the ceiling to keep from setting the whole damn office on fire, again. The weight of the brass knuckles in my pockets grabbed my attention. They were his, A birthday gift, back when he still laughed, when we traded secrets instead of scars. Now they fit my hands better than his.
I didn't just light a match, I almost gave those twenty boys a funeral pyre. He would've hated it. He would have understood.
Principal Maxson's lips thinned. "Burning down the chem lab. Stabbing hands and feet with pens. Brass knuckles to the face—"
"They grabbed my ass," I cut in, voice colder than the principal's stare. "Laughed about what else they'd take. Joked about raping me. Tell me, what's the appropriate response to that?"
For the first time, she hesitated. Then sighed, sinking into her leather throne. "The school will cover the lab damages. The boys will serve suspensions. But your daughter? She's done here. Immediate expulsion."
My father's shoulders slumped. Defeat.
"Thank you for your time," he muttered, shooting me a glare that promised hell later.
I stood, rolling my shoulders like I hadn't just been handed my second expulsion.
"For someone your size," the principal mused, "taking down twenty boys is… impressive."
I flashed her a grin sharp enough to match hers. "Sheer luck."
"Get out, Miss Whitaker."
The hallway was a gauntlet. Whispers slithered after me like snakes. And then... her. Amanda Michigan, cheer captain, girlfriend of the ass-grabber himself, gnawing on her manicure like she wanted to tear my throat out with her teeth.
"Finally leaving, you psychotic bitch?" she spat.
I wrinkled my nose. "Aw, sweetheart. Worry less about me and more about that rancid breath of yours. All that gagging on Brandon's dick, you'd think you'd learn to brush."
Laughter erupted. Amanda's face purpled. "I wish you'd fucking died!"
"Sorry to disappoint," I called over my shoulder. "But trash like him isn't worth the murder charge."
My father was already in the car, cigarette dangling from his lips, silver lighter flicking open and shut in his palm. That lighter, I knew it well. Stole it once, set my hair on fire. Kai doused me with a bucket of water in the dead of winter. I caught pneumonia. He read Bukowski to me while I coughed up a lung.
"Get in."
I slid into the backseat. My phone buzzed... Cassie.
Cassie: One day. I leave you for ONE DAY and you get expelled?! Call me.
A smirk tugged at my lips.
Me: News travels fast. Dad's driving. Guts will be spilled later.
Cassie: You better.
Then my father's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"You're finishing school in Vermont. Dawn tomorrow. You're going to your mother's."
The air left my lungs.
Vermont.
Was located in Saint Hollow.
Where he was.
"Father no...Please."
My voice was a broken thing, a whisper frayed at the edges, like the last gasp of a dying flame.
But his eyes were colder than the silence between us.
"There is nothing else I can do. You ruined everything, mija."
The words landed like a knife between my ribs. Ruined. As if I were a shattered vase he couldn't glue back together. As if I were a fire he'd given up trying to contain.
I dug my nails into my palms so hard I swore I tasted blood. I wanted to scream. To shake him until he saw me... not the disappointment, not the expulsion, not the girl who kept setting the world on fire just to feel its warmth... but me. The daughter he used to carry on his shoulders. The little girl who once believed he could fix anything.
But the words turned to ash in my mouth.
Instead, I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, hot and bitter.
The penthouse loomed before I even realized we'd arrived. I flung the car door open, slamming it hard enough to rattle the windows. My vision blurred, tears spilling over like an unforgiving tide. I ran, blind, furious, choking on the weight of my own unraveling.
Then I crashed into someone.
A soft yelp. A familiar scent, vanilla and something floral, something hers.
"Wren, are you okay?"
Her voice was too gentle. Too kind.
And I...
I shattered.
"Are you finally happy?" My laugh was jagged, a broken bottle's edge. "He's giving up on me. Sending me away. You finally have the house. Have him. How thrilling for you, witch!"
The slap came before I could finish.
A crack of skin on skin. My face snapped to the side, the sting blooming like a poison flower.
When I looked back, her eyes were glassy with unshed tears.
Good.
Let her hurt too.
Then my father's hands were on me, dragging me back, his grip bruising. His voice was a hiss, venomous. "You do not speak to Jules like that! She's your mother."
"She's NOT my mother!" I screamed it, raw and guttural, the words tearing from my throat like barbs. "She's the whore you let crawl between you and Mom. You cheating bastard..."
The second slap knocked the breath from my lungs.
I staggered, ears ringing, the taste of copper sharp on my tongue. My cheek burned like betrayal.
His face was a stranger's.
"Get to your room. Pack your bags. Now." His voice shook with something worse than anger... disgust. "Jesus Christ, Wren. You are a disgrace to the Whitakers."
The word disgrace hung in the air like a noose.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't breathe.
"Fine." The word was a ghost. "I'll leave."
And then I was running again—up the stairs, past the portraits of a family I no longer belonged to, my sobs clawing their way out of my chest like wounded animals.
Because he was right.
I was a disgrace.
A wildfire no one knew how to contain.
A girl who loved too hard, burned too bright, ruined everything she touched.
And now?
Now I was being sent away.
Like trash.
Like something broken beyond repair