“It’s fine,” I sob.

Someone comes up and hugs my back, and I crumble to the floor, Krisjen hanging on and falling with me.

“Clay, it’s okay,” she whispers, and I hear the tears in her throat. “I know you miss him. It’s okay. You can cry.”

Yeah.

Henry. Right.

I let her hold me, giving into it as Amy kneels down beside us, and probably only there because she thinks she should be, but I’ll take it, because the world feels empty enough. There’s nothing. I’m nothing.

I wish tomorrow would never come.

It’s fine. Everything is fine.

She’s the one who loses. Not me. Everything is as it should be now.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Just leave her alone. Forget about her.

She’s gone.

“DID YOU THINK I wasn’t going to find out?”

I swallow the small bite of chili and tap the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot before setting it down. I look over at Macon’s hand, watching the screen of the phone that he holds in my face. The video of Megan and me plays, and Iron, Army, and Dallas crowd around him to see.

Aracely sits in the stool, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed, and very interested in what the guys are talking about, because she’s relishing it. She brought it to their attention, I’m sure.

I turn off the burner and grab a bowl for myself. “What were you going to do about it?”

It’s not like I was trying to hide it. I reposted it, didn’t I? I just didn’t make him aware of it. There’s a lot I don’t make him aware of.

“Is this why you left school?” Army chimes in.

“I’m still a student.”

I scoop up a bowlful and place the lid on the pot. Adding some oyster crackers, I pick a spoon out of the drawer and walk into the living room.

“You let them get away with everything,” Macon barks. “And now you let them drive you away.”

“Look what they did to the house,” Aracely chimes in, swinging her arm around as if I’ve yet to notice the destruction that took place when the Saints snuck in Saturday night. They all blame me, because I’d invited them over the tracks.

“Good thing it’s not your house,” I reply.

She casts a glare to Macon as if he’s going to make me respect her.

I sit down on the couch and prop my elbows on my knees as I lean over my bowl on the coffee table. “And I didn’t let them get away with anything.” I look up at Macon. “I took away their entertainment. I won.”

“That’s not how they see it.”

He steps into the living room, approaching me, and I look away, scooping up some chili. So this is about his pride. Got it.

“We’re not letting it go this time,” Dallas tells me.

“And you’re going back to school,” Macon adds.

“Not likely.” I blow on my food.

Macon advances, tossing his phone to a chair on my right, but Trace inches in. “Just leave her alone.”

“You shut up,” Macon growls.

I put the spoon into my mouth, ignoring the fire in my brothers’ eyes. Except Trace’s, because he always takes my side, and Iron’s, because he doesn’t ever get mad at me.

Army picks up Macon’s phone again, studying the screen. “Is this that assistant coach?” he asks, peering over at me.

I eat another bite, everyone’s eyes and ears trained on me, and I’m so damn tired of putting out fires that I didn’t start. Damn her.

“Is it?” Macon asks when I don’t answer.

I shake my head, smashing the beans as I mix up the chili and crackers. “Don’t.”

“Livvy…”

“Just let me be!” I shout, glaring up at them. Jesus! This doesn’t have to be a family-fucking-meeting, Macon. I shoot daggers at him, tired of everyone on my back. Even at home, I’m not safe.

They have no idea what it’s been like for me. What every day is like for me in this town. I made a decision. Just support me. Please!

Macon blinks, hesitating. The last time I’d yelled at him I was ten, in tears, and thrashing. He’d hugged me until I couldn’t hurt myself anymore.

When he speaks, his tone is gentler. “You are the only one ever getting out of here,” he tells me. “Don’t you think I’ve always known that? You have three months left. If you let them win now, it will follow you forever.”

I scoop up more chili. “Clay Collins won’t feel like she’s won anything six months from now.”

“Clay Collins,” he says. “That’s who did this.”

He holds up his phone, smart enough to know someone had to take the video of the assistant coach and me.

I ignore the question. “I’m a fighter,” I inform him. “But that is something you never understood. Not everything is worth a fight. What do I care what they think about me in twenty years? I won’t be thinking about them at all.”

“Well, that’s just great,” he says, tossing his phone back down. “Because as usual, everything is all about you.”

“On the contrary, finally something is.” I stare hard at him. “I don’t have to stay in a community that hates me. I don’t have to put up with anything.”

“Then bite back!”

I shake my head. I bit back in that shower with her, and I loved seeing how much she wanted it. I loved it too much. That was the problem.

Biting back could hurt me more than her. I can’t.

So, fuck it. I’m out. I’m eighteen. I got into Dartmouth. All I have to do now is graduate high school, and it really doesn’t matter how or from where. If Marymount decided to send me packing when I withdrew this week, I could go to the public high school to finish my credits, and I’d still be going to Dartmouth in the fall. Living my life. Free. Happy. I win.

The doorbell rings, and I see Trace head for it as Macon and my gazes stay locked on each other. I eat another bite, finally looking away, rather than play his infantile game of “Who’s Going to Blink First?”

I know what he’s saying. And part of me agrees. Part of me is consumed by pride, and I hate that Clay Collins and her friends will get even a moment’s satisfaction by running me off, but it’s not my responsibility to educate them. It’s not my lot in life to survive them. Fuck them.

“What the hell?” I hear Trace gripe.

We all turn our heads as he opens the door wide, and I watch as Krisjen steps into the house, her lacrosse uniform on and her hair in French braids.

My brothers stare at her, knowing exactly who she is. Her grandfather is the judge Iron always gets every time he’s in trouble, and the judge who would just love to be there when my brother gets his third strike.

“Really brave or really stupid,” Trace says, sounding amused. He turns his head to me. “Any idea, Liv?”

“She’s not brave,” I tell him, scooping up more food and pinning Krisjen with a stare. “Or smart.”

Just stupid.

“You have twenty seconds,” I tell her.

She casts a nervous glance around the room, looking apprehensive to say whatever she has to say in front of my whole family, but whatever.