The gossip would spread like wildfire; Did you hear? Beverly Price was screaming in the street—over Blake McHayes, of all people. Oh, you didn’t know? Oh, honey. They were together. No, I swear! Secretly. But it all went up in flames right there on the driveway. And you know what’s worse? He didn’t even look back. Now she’s losing it. Poor thing, after what happened to her dad...

The thought made my tears dry instantly, burned away by something hotter, something angrier.

They wanted something to talk about?

I’d give them something to talk about.

I shot up from the pavement, the sting in my knees barely registering as I stormed back inside. The house was silent. It felt emptier than usual, as if it had already adapted to life without Blake. And Mom? Mom wasn’t here. Of course she wasn’t.

Still barefoot, I made a beeline for the garage, throwing open Dad’s toolboxes with shaking hands, searching for something to make this pain external—a way to make it real.

I wanted to destroy every last piece of him still left in this house.

My fingers closed around Dad’s axe. The last time I’d seen him use it, he was splitting logs, wiping sweat from his forehead. He smiled at me like he always did, like he was untouchable, invincible, like nothing could ever take him away from me.

And now he was gone. And so was Blake.

And I had nowhere to put the pain.

So I rushed upstairs, straight into his room.

For a brief second, I froze. He had really done it. The desk was still bare. The bed was made, as if he hadn’t slept there in weeks. As if he had never been here at all.

My throat burned.

He had been planning this.

I had spent days begging him to talk to me, and all the while, he had been packing his bags behind my back.

I swung the axe before I even realized I was moving. The first hit shattered the lamp on his nightstand, sending shards of ceramic flying. The second cracked the edge of the wooden headboard. The third was just because I could.

I didn’t stop. I swung and swung and swung, my breath coming in broken sobs as I ripped him out of this house, out of my life, out of existence. I smashed his dresser, splintering the wood, drawers spilling open like guts on a battlefield. I tore the closet door off its hinges, yanked his last forgotten sweatshirt from the hanger, threw it to the ground and stomped on it like it was his goddamn heart.

I hated him.

I hated him for leaving.

I hated him for not looking back.

I hated him for making me think we had a chance.

I hated him for being the only person I had left, and then deciding that wasn’t enough.