The corner of his eye twitches. “Delilah, I’ve known that my whole life. The only difference here is that it hurts more than I can handle.”

Macon

I walked away. I couldn’t see that look in her eyes. Regret. Shame. A mistake.

Every inch of me hurts. There is a crushing weight in my chest, claws grasping at my throat.

I’m Macon Saint, untouchable, the one everyone wants to be near. I am nothing. Stupid, disrespectful, lazy boy. That’s what my father always called me. Though I’ve tried over the years, I can never fully rid myself of that old hurt. Just a glimpse of his face, the memory of his voice is enough to yank me back into that shell of a boy who felt small and helpless. How can I fault Delilah for having the same knee-jerk reaction to the things I said to her?

Some things you can never forget. Like the moment I saw that girl on a red bike coasting along the road, weaving back and forth in a serpentine pattern. Nut-brown skin and glossy brown hair streaked with copper and gold spoke of days spent in the sun. She appeared happy and well fed. Carefree. She didn’t sit on her seat but balanced on the pedals, humming some tune off-key as she glided. A butterfly girl in the sun.

Her dark eyes caught sight of me, and a knot of dread formed beneath my breastbone. I didn’t want her to see me. My face was hot and throbbed in time to the beat of my heart. It was probably red and swollen at my cheek where my father had hit me. But she didn’t heed my warning glare and rode over.

She had chubby cheeks, a snub nose, and eyes the color of the butterscotch candies our maid Janet sometimes slipped me when no one was looking. And she was bigger than me. By at least a few inches. I knew she’d just moved into the neighborhood.

I knew the house. It was one of a dozen bungalow-style houses built sometime during the 1920s. Nothing like the monstrosity of a mansion I lived in, looming at the end of the road. I’d seen two girls running around on the lawn while their father watered the pink rhododendrons and laughed at their antics.

She was loved.

She looked at me on that first meeting with those strangely golden eyes surrounded by dark lashes. Looked at me like she saw it all: the pain, the isolation, the sadness. I couldn’t breathe from all that looking. This pretty, happy girl on her bike had everything I wanted: a sister, parents who loved her. She belonged in the world, and I didn’t.

Rage choked me, thick as grits sliding off a hot spoon. Stupid boy. Lazy, disrespectful little shit.

She peered at me and seemed to come to some conclusion. “Maybe you’d like a friend?”