“She can’t eat.”

“Oh no, not that stomach thing again,” Mrs. Hunter sighs. “I’m sorry, honey.”

“It’s fine. She’ll get better.” Jack says with hard conviction. Mrs. Hunter looks to me.

“Jack and Sophia were friends from a very young age. She’s such a sweet thing, but she’s bedridden in the hospital. Some genetic neurologic disorder. It’s so sad.”

“She’s fine,” Jack insists coldly. “And you don’t need to tell that girl. She already knows.”

Mrs. Hunter looks to me with surprise. “You do, Isis? Jack kept it under such tight wraps I didn’t know about it until a few years ago. I’m surprised he’d tell you.”

“I didn’t. She snooped.”

Shame washes over me, hot and red, but I push it out.

“Excuse me if I go around looking for your weaknesses when you posted mine all over the school,” I hiss.

“Being fat is not your weakness,” He snaps. “We both know it. You disproved that with that trashy outfit the next day. And I never asked Evans to do that. He went overboard. I never expected he would do something on that magnitude, and I never expected you to sneak into my house to try and get leverage.”

“You used to be fat?” Mrs. Hunter gasps. “I bet you were just as pretty then, too.”

Her compliment tears me out of my anger, but not for long.

“I’m sorry if I try to defend myself when you back me into a corner, jackass!”

Mrs. Hunter watches us snarl at each other, her head going back and forth like she’s watching a ping-pong match. With swords. And a flaming meteor as the ball. Darth Vader, hearing our rising voices, runs in and starts barking.

“I never backed you anywhere. Evans did,” Jack snaps.

“This is our war. Take some responsibility for your f**king actions!”

“So you decided it was alright to come into my house,” Jack’s voice rises minutely. “Go through my things, and read my personal letters? You were looking for ways to hurt me. But it’s not just me you’ll hurt, is it? You’ll go to Sophia and hurt her too, just to get back at me.”

I flinch. “I wouldn’t –”

“You would. You’re ruthless and maniacal and stubborn. You’ll do anything to hurt me because you hate me. You hate me so much you declared a petty little war on me.”

“You declared first!”

“You’ve hated me the second you saw me, and I can only assume it’s because I remind you of someone who hurt you.”

“Jack!” Mrs. Hunter looks shocked. “That’s a horrible thing to say!”

“Did he say you were fat?” Jack asks coolly. I go still, but he presses on. “Did Will say you were fat?”

“Shut up.” I growl, a roiling nausea creeping into my stomach.

“No,” Jack says lightly, as if to himself. “It must’ve been more than that. Did he call you stupid? Prudish? Ugly?”

Ugly.

“I said shut the hell up!”

“Jack, I don’t think you should –” Mrs. Hunter is cut off. Jack takes the stir-fry off the stove and turns, leaning against the oven and looking at me with sharp, chilly anger in his eyes. But something behind those fragments of ice suddenly goes soft. Sad warmth is in them, buried deep and buried well.

“Did he hit you?”

“Jack that’s hardly –” Mrs. Hunter starts. I stand so fast the barstool screeches and tips over.

“I’ll kill you,” I grit.

“Is that why you hate me? Because you think I’m like him?”

“Shut the hell up!”

Jack’s voice becomes even softer.

“Did he force you?”

“Jack!” Mrs. Hunter snaps. Darth Vader’s barks turn shrill.

“I swear,” I spit through my teeth digging into my lips so hard there’s blood. “I’ll f**king kill you if you keep talking.”

“Is that why you hate everyone? Because he hurt you bad? Because you trusted him, and he took that and set it on fire?”

“Jack Adam Hunter, I want you to stop speaking right now –”

Jack smiles, brittle. “That’s what you get for trusting someone. You should’ve known better.”

I lunge for him, but I’m too slow. A slap resounds, and Jack’s head whips to the side. The silence in the kitchen puts on pounds, tons. Darth Vader chokes off a whine and goes quiet. The hissing of the rice cooker is the only thing that dares to make noise. Mrs. Hunter puts her hand down, face contorted with equal parts fury and regret.

“You will not,” Her voice is slow and deliberate. “Speak to Isis again while she is here today. Is that understood?”

Jacks eyes glint with shock, and confusion. But he steels himself quickly and strides out of the kitchen without another word, without a glance at me. When he’s gone, Mrs. Hunter turns to me.

“I’m sorry, Isis. He’s…I won’t make excuses for him, but he’s not the best at recognizing when he’s hurting people beyond repair.”

“I’m fine,” I manage.

“Sweetie,” Mrs. Hunter says softly. “You’re not fine. You’re crying.”

I raise my hand to touch my face. It’s wet and cold.

Mrs. Hunter comforts me when I falter, hugging me. Every inch of my body shakes, and I break into choking sobs in her arms.

***

Mrs. Hunter holds me until I calm down, and then she insists I drink a cup of mint tea. It’s sweet and warm and opens my sad-clogged lungs. I thank her. She doesn’t bring up what just happened, and she doesn’t ask questions. She just busies herself with the tea and drinking her own cup of it.

Ugly. I finger the thing under my sleeve. I can feel the outline of it on my arm. It hurts, burns and smolders.

Ugly ugly ugly.

Jack doesn’t come down.

I leave after thanking her, making some excuse about dinner. Avery is in the car, still waiting, tapping away on her phone. She looks to me, irritated.

“What took you so long? Did you get it?”

“He caught me.”

“He WHAT?” Avery hisses. “But – But I didn’t even see his car pull up!”

I jerk my thumb behind me. Avery turns around and her eyes widen at the black sedan parked almost a block behind her.

“He saw my car,” I say.

“Why is his windshield streaky and brown?”

A single peal of laughter escapes my throat, but it cuts off quickly. Avery looks confused, and then shakes her head.

“What happened in there? You look sick.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I saw lowly, and start the car. Avery must see my red eyes, or snotty nose or the way I move like I’m drained of all energy, because she doesn’t push me to stay or go back and get it. Even ruthless popular girls have a heart, I guess. The highway flashes by as I take her back to her house.

“I read the letter,” I say dully. Avery’s eyes flash.

“Anything…did she anything about a surgery?”

“No.”

Avery exhales, a deep and worried thing that leaves her in one breath.

“Neurological, right?” I ask.