I counted right. I knew I counted right. So it was definitely Dad’s grave. It had to be. But I had no idea what June Copeland was doing there.

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

There was something picturesque about the scene, the fiery maples and the headstones planted in meticulous rows and the girl in the middle of it all, sitting cross-legged at the grave that wasn’t hers to mind.

When it came to fight or flight, it seemed I had opted for a useless middle ground, one where you stand there, mouth agape, and do absolutely nothing at all. A part of me just wanted to watch June from afar, with the buzz at the back of my skull reminding me that she could turn round at any moment. Some sort of sick endorphin rush. But she wasn’t supposed to be here. This was mine. This was meant to be a haven, a safe place, and this girl whose life was exponentially easier than mine was taking away the one thing I had that she didn’t. I hated her. I hated her.

I was trying to figure out what to say, or if I should say anything at all, when the decision was made for me; when I shifted my weight, my bike creaked impossibly loudly, and June, despite being a good thirty yards away, heard. Her head snapped round, hair flowing behind her like the tail of a comet.

We locked eyes. A long second passed.

‘Sydney?’

I barely recognized my own name. Wasn’t sure why the fact that she knew it made me shiver.

I flipped down my kickstand. Fine. This was happening now.

June stood up and dusted off her jeans, which were dark blue and tight all the way down to her ankles. She wore these mud-splotched Doc Marten boots, which were kind of cool, but whatever. She shouldn’t have been here. Not here, not at the funeral, not in my head.

I traipsed forward, navigating round the headstones as if they were mousetraps. ‘What are you doing here?’ My words were barbed but I didn’t care.

Apparently, it didn’t take much to make her sink. She curled in on herself, linked her fingers together at her hips. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t be here. I should go. I’m going.’

But the way out was past me, so she had to move closer, her gaze trained firmly downwards. And I don’t know why – maybe because the situation was hopelessly awkward, or because I felt I’d been too harsh, or because of the way her face caved in, but before she could leave I said, ‘It’s OK. You … you don’t have to.’

June stopped, still maybe ten paces in front of me, and looked up.