I try to step past him, but he steps with me. I push, but he pushes back. My heart is racing and I can feel tears returning to my eyes. I want to tear him apart, and this room, and this school.

“You want to hit me, don’t you?” he says. “Go for it.”

He pushes my shoulders.

“Stop.”

“Defend yourself,” he says, and pushes me again.

“Knock it the hell off, Ash.”

“If you’re not going to hit me, I’m going to hit you,” he says. “I suggest you block or do something other than stand there.”

And before I can really think it through, I pull back my arm and punch him hard right in the jaw. And he doesn’t stop me.

My hands fly to my mouth and I take a step backward. I shake out my hand, which now hurts like hell. I focus all my attention on it, trying to keep my lip from quivering. Punching Ash zapped my anger, and now that it’s gone, all that’s left is this bottomless sadness.

Ash rubs his face. “Not bad. I think there’s a chance I’m actually going to have a bruise.”

Tears roll down my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

He takes a step toward me and I start to cry harder, all my grief pouring out of me. His arms wrap around my body and he pulls me into a hug. I push back, but when he doesn’t let go, I bury my head in his shoulder. Feeling the warmth of his arms around me and his hand rubbing my back makes me realize how much my life here has lacked in basic human comfort. No one touches anyone in this school unless it’s to hurt them.

“Actually, I’m not sorry. You deserved it,” I say.

He laughs into my hair. And when his laugh stops, we’re both silent.

“It was someone really close to you,” he says after a few seconds, but it’s not a question.

I nod against his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and squeezes me a little tighter.

I take a deep breath. “So am I.”

We’re like that for a long minute until my tears stop and my sniffles become less frequent. When he finally lets go, some of the edge is gone. The loss hasn’t diminished, but the pain and the helplessness feel lighter.

I wipe my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Do you let everyone in this school who’s sad punch you?” I ask, because I’m not sure what else to say to him right now and verbally sparring with him feels more normal than talking about my emotions.

He points to the wet spot on his shirt where my face was. “Only if they agree to snot on me afterward,” he says with a sly grin.

“Are you making fun of me while I’m grieving? Do you have any shame at all?” I say, but there isn’t any frustration in my voice.