Prologue
Sawyer (Flashback)
September, Senior Year, ten years ago
I’d recognise bruises like that anywhere. How the deepest shades of purple amongst the discolouration are concentrated into four smaller blots. Probably a thumb print further round. Just peeking out from the sleeve of her white cardigan, which has slipped down her arm. Faint surrounding shadows of struggle cloud the otherwise clear, golden skin, easily missed by teachers and friends.
But not by me.
I just never expected to notice them on Honey Goldman.
Sweet, quiet,innocentHoney Goldman who always sits at the back of my homeroom. The choir girl who, to this day, I don’t think I’ve ever heard speak more than two words.Voice of an angel, the teachers all say. Heart of an angel too, from the other things I know about her—never misses church, stays late to study in the library, does everything she’s told in class.
Honey doesn’t argue with teachers. Honey doesn’t flunk her tests or forget to do her homework. Honey doesn’t get distracted easily because her damn mind won’t shut up. Honey isn’t already on track to fail multiple classes when it’s only the end of September.
Not like me.
If she’s golden, then I’m scrapyard metal.
So why does she have bruises like that too?
With my eyes still focused on where Honey’s mottled arm is reaching into her locker, I grab my bag out of my own and slam the door shut. The clinking metal gets lost in the echoes of corridor chatter and hurried footsteps, unregistered by my friends gathered around me—the ones whose conversations I zoned out of the second I noticed those bruises.
But Honey flinches at the sudden sound. It might be the slightest tremor that moves her body, but it halts her for a second. Her chest swells and falls in one deep breath—long enough to remind you that you’re safe, that no one’s going to hurt you today, but short enough for your fear to go unnoticed.
Just not by me.
When I glance back to her wrist, the bruises suddenly disappear under her sleeve, which she tugs up sharply. Where inky splotches once loomed, cloud-like wool now performs the perfect deception. My eyes immediately flick up to her face, catching her baby blues—how they flash with panic like a deer caught in the headlights. Even from down the corridor, the two pools of aquamarine glisten like sunshine along the surface of water. Except, this time I get a glimpse of the years of unspoken struggle floating beneath.
And then Honey’s ducking her head, ashy-blonde hair bouncing behind her as she slips off between groups of teens as inconspicuously as possible. Assuming her role as the wallflower—perfect for someone who would rather the bruises on her arm went overlooked.
I should just let her walk away.
Except … I can’t get those bruises out of my head.
Or the panic in her eyes.
‘Catch you at practice,’ I hastily mumble to the guys before I sling my backpack over my shoulder and race down the corridor after Honey. I don’t really know the girl, and she probably doesn’t want to speak to me, but … I have to dosomething.
Just because everyone else has left me to fend for myself doesn’t mean I should do the same to others. Not when Honey could be the only other person I know who’s going through what I am.
I barely acknowledge people as I pass by with more than a quick nod and smile. Damn, I even just blanked that new girl in our year, the cute one my friend, Wolfman, said had been asking about me. Cassidy, I think was her name. Pretty girl with an eager smile that promised me the attention I usually love to lap up.
Later. I’ll get her number later.
I carry on barrelling down the corridor after Honey. Her quick steps are no match to my long strides which eat up almost all the distance between us in no time. I’m certain she knows I’m only a couple of metres behind her now—she glanced over her shoulder briefly before snapping her focus forwards again.
I don’t like this.
I’m used to girls flockingtome, not running away. Perks of being Willow Ridge High’s quarterback and all that, as well as an up-and-coming bull rider.
‘Honey,’ I whisper-shout, trying not to draw too much attention to either of us, but still wanting to be loud enough for her to hear. She doesn’t turn, just grabs onto her backpack straps, and increases her pace. The skirt of her dress swishes with her curvy hips, stupidly distracting me for a short moment.
‘Honey, wait!’ I try again, raising my voice as I speed up. It makes a few heads turn as I hurry by, just not Honey’s.
I could reach out to catch her arm or something, but I’m not sure that’s the best idea. Touching is conflicting when you can’t always predict the meaning behind it. A tender hand settling on your shoulder can quickly slide up to grab the back of your neck and force you forward. A reassuring squeeze of the upper arm can easily slip into something more constricting, tight enough to leave purple-tinged marks as you’re dragged out of the room, which my aching bicep decides to remind me of again—the remnants of Dad’s latest outburst.
So, touching Honey is off the table.