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  Heath has taken to lining his green eyes with black. He runs with a bad crowd. Effie hasn’t seen him in months, because the last time they were together, he’d been drunk and high and argumentative. They’d fought about something so stupid she can’t even recall what had prompted it, just that in the end he’d spat out a bunch of insults that Effie had returned with an even fiercer venom.

  They’ve started hating each other, sometimes, and she doesn’t know what to do about it.

  He stands when she comes up the walk. Metal glints on his belt, rivets and buckles. And on his boots. He’s so tall she has to crane her neck to look at him, and she knows him, this boy who’s struggling so hard to become a man. She would know him in any guise. In any darkness.

  “I graduated,” Effie says. “I did it.”

  “Congratulations,” Heath says.

  Confused, her mouth dry and tongue thick, too much to drink, it’s catching up to her, Effie frowns. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you.”

  She twirls, dancing. “Here I am.”

  Heath reaches for her hand to stop her from moving. “I see you. You’ve been with him again.”

  “I haven’t been with anyone.” She doesn’t mean to lie, but there it is, words tumbling from her mouth like stones. “What happened to your face?”

  Heath touches his cheek where a dark bruise blossoms. “My dad and I got into it. He kicked me out. For good this time.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. You want to come inside?”

  Heath glances over his shoulder at the house. “Your parents are home.”

  Her father has never seemed to hate Heath the way her mother does; still, he’s married to her and supports her even when she’s being kind of a crazy bitch. Effie pushes past him on the front step to get at the door, but her keys are slippery and she drops them. Laughing, she bends to pick them up but can’t make her fingers find them.

  “You’re drunk,” Heath says.

  “Come inside.” Effie lets him open the door for her and, putting a finger to her lips, shushes him. Her parents are home, though the house is dark and they’re probably watching television in their bedroom. Her mother would be waiting up anyway, no matter how late it might’ve been. She claims she can’t sleep until she knows Effie is home, safe and sound.

  Effie supposes she can’t really blame her, all things considered. At least her mother has stopped waiting for her in the living room. At least she makes a pretense of trusting Effie at becoming some semblance of an adult.

  In the kitchen, Effie pours them both glasses of clear cola and sips at hers to settle her stomach. She loves the way being drunk makes her feel, but she’s never happy about the aftermath. Heath gulps his soda and she refills his glass.

  “Are you hungry?” she asks. His father never feeds him. Without waiting for him to answer, she pulls out the fixings for a sandwich and lays out the meat, cheese, bread on the counter. She makes two sandwiches and puts his on a plate.

  Together, they sit at the kitchen table. Heath devours his food while Effie picks at hers. When he’s not looking, she drinks in the sight of him.

  “What are you going to do?” she asks after a while. “Where are you going to live?”

  “I’ll get an apartment.”

  Effie presses the soft white bread with her fingertip and watches it spring back. Spongy. The thought of eating it turns her stomach, and she pushes the plate away.

  “How will you pay for it?”

  Heath sits back in his chair and wipes his mouth. Effie watches the motion of his fingertips against his lips. She’s kissing him before she can stop herself, straddling his lap. His arms go around her. His tongue in her mouth.

  She presses her forehead to his and closes her eyes. Between them she can feel him, hard. They have to be quiet here in the kitchen, but she wants to make him scream.

  “I have a job,” Heath says against her throat.

  She runs her hands through his hair, pushing it off his forehead, and cups his face. “You got a job? Where?”

  “Line cook at the diner. Hey, at least you’ll be able to eat there if you know I’m the one scrambling the eggs. Right?” He tips his face to look at her.

  “Don’t go away from me again,” Effie says.

  There it is between them, fierce and yearning, a darkness that won’t ever go away. She touches the bruise on his face, imagining his father punching him. Her slap is sharp, on the other cheek, and won’t leave a mark. It’s not meant to hurt him. Not really. She does it because she knows what the crack of her flesh on his does to him.

  They’ve never talked about it, why Heath craves that sort of treatment, why he likes her to be the opposite of soft to him. Effie has never tried to figure out why she likes the feeling of heat beneath her palm when she hits him; it’s the same to her as the taste of his mouth when he kisses her. One with the other, always, tied up and tangled so tight they can’t separate their desires.

  From upstairs, the creak of the floor turns both their heads toward the kitchen doorway. Effie’s mother is not even pretending to be quiet or subtle about the fact she’s awake and waiting for Effie to come to bed. If Heath doesn’t leave in the next few minutes, Effie’s mother will come into the kitchen and make it so supremely uncomfortable for him to be there that he won’t have a choice.

  Effie kisses the corner of his mouth, then the bruise his father left. She traces the curve of his cheek and imagines she can still feel the heat her slap left. She doesn’t want him to go, but he’d better, or there will be trouble and neither one of them want that.

  “I didn’t go away from you,” Heath says as he stands and settles her on her own feet.

  Effie is no longer drunk, but she wishes she were because it would make it easier to talk to him. “You did. I haven’t heard from you in months...”

  “I’ve been trying to get my shit together.”

  “Good luck with that.” Effie laughs. It’s cruel. She can’t help it.

  “Of all the people in the world, I thought you’d be the one to believe I could,” Heath tells her.

  She should cry out after him and tell him to wait, that she does believe in him. Of course she believes. Shouting will bring her mother downstairs, and Effie doesn’t want to deal with that mess. She wants to call Heath back, but in the end, it’s better if she doesn’t. Those small hatreds they’ve started fostering between them...well, one of them just reared its nasty face.

  If Heath gets his shit together, Effie will have no excuses for continuing to be a fuckup, herself. And what if, in the end, no matter what she tries, she can’t get beyond what happened to them? College, a job, that white picket fence Bill mocked her for wanting? All of those things feel so far away and out of reach, as if she will never be able to touch them.

  chapter thirty-two

  Effie had never been inside the Tin Angel art gallery, a tiny studio tucked inside a lovely restored brownstone on Front Street in Harrisburg. She usually avoided art galleries, to be honest. It was too hard to judge the work on the walls against her own and find either it or hers lacking. She took a glass of white wine, though, to hold instead of Mitchell’s hand as they made their way through the different small rooms in the building.

  To her surprise, in the small back corner room, hung on a plain white wall and lit with several pinpoint spots, hung one of her pieces. Effie pulled up short, uncertain. It was one of the ones she sold on her site, she knew that much. And she’d been credited as the artist, according to the placard discreetly placed beside it.

  “I don’t... This is...” Effie gestured at the painting.

  Mitchell looked closer at it. Then at her. “Felicity Linton? Do you know her?”

  Of course he didn’t know her real name was Felicity. Effie laughed and took a long gulp of wine to keep herse