Page 124 of The Next Lie

Her hand moves so fast I barely register it. One finger hits the center of my chest and pushes, hard enough to make me step back.

“You don’t know what I remember.”

I slap her hand away. “Well, why don’t you tell me?”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Why?”

“Because I am trying to keep you safe, you stubborn little idiot.”

The words slam me with old muscle memory.

Little idiot.

She used to call me that when I climbed too high in the magnolia tree behind our house. When I tried to jump off the porch steps with an umbrella. When I put glitter in the ceiling fan because I wanted to make weather.

My chest cracks, and goddamn but I hate her for it.

I shove her. Both palms. Hard.

“I don’t need you to keep me safe.”

She stumbles one step, catches herself, and looks at me like I have slapped her. Then she shoves me back.

“You obviously have no idea what you need and don’t need.”

I grab her wrist. She twists out of it.

I am not sure who moves next. Maybe both of us. One second we are standing like adults on a patio beside an expensive pool, and the next my hand is tangled in her sleeve while hers is in my hair.

It is not elegant.

It is not tactical.

Ever would be horrified by my stance. Nash would call us uncivilized. Shiloh would probably critique the drama and then applaud the commitment.

Delia yanks my hair. I gasp and grab hers in retaliation. She makes a furious sound that is so familiar I nearly let go.

Nearly.

“You always did that,” I snap.

“What?”

“Pulled my hair when you were losing.”

“I was seven, and I’m not losing any damn thing.”

“You were violent for seven, and trust, you’re losing.”

“You bit me!”

“You deserved it.”

She hooks a foot behind mine.

I stumble, drag her with me, and we both slam into one of the lounge chairs. It skids backward with a horrible scrape across the stone.