Page 125 of The Exit Strategy

Bea’s eyes soften at the corners, her wrinkles more prominent when she’s not peeling back the layers I keep hidden. “Neither are you, Juniper.”

“It feels like a monster-type of thing.”

“That I can understand.”

“If anyone knew?—”

“Who would you tell?” Bea’s eyeing me curiously. Does she expect me to tell Cole just because we had sex once?

“No one.” The bite in my tone is uncalled for, even I know it.

“You will, eventually,” she says. “The right person. When it’s…safe.”

“I don’t…this doesn’t even have anything to do with Grace. I don’t know why I said all that.”

“You’d be surprised, Juniper, by how our minds categorize pain.” I stare at her like she has sixteen heads. “Woundsof a different flavor can still produce the sweetest cake when baked properly.”

I don’t answer. I don’t know what to do with her question or her confirmation that my brother has been tracking me from six thousand miles away, or her weird wound analogies. I just know that her question about me throwing things away has been a thorn in my side for weeks, and now I’m unmoored by my inability to throw spite at Grace the way she deserves.

We don’t speak until her alarm goes off.

“Time’s up.”

My jaw drops. Was she charging me this entire time?

“Dinner.” She smirks. “Time to get my chicken breast in the sauté pan.”

“Oh.” I jump to my feet. “Right. I’ll just—” My legs are wobbly as I stumble down her stairs.

“You know where to find me, Juniper.”

I wave over my shoulder, not caring if it’s rude. I just need to get back to my apartment.

By the time I’m standing in front of my closet, I’m so over silence that I want to scream simply to fill the void, and my closet offers no advice.

I’ve only filled half of the space, and now we’re well into July and I have nothing to wear. One side is full of sweatshirts, and the other side is what I packed on impulse the night before Fen and Hudson drove me south.

Somewhere in the back of this closet is a dress in a color between moss and sage that’s made of the softest cotton with beautiful gold buttons down the front. The tags are still on it because I don’t even remember buying it. But I do know I was pissed off at myself when I shoved it into my suitcase, reprimanding myself because Cole Whittaker didn’t deserve to see me in a dress.

I packed it anyway.

Past me knew something.

Pushing aside my hoodies, I drag out the offending dress, then rip the tags off with my teeth and slip it over my head. Then I curse myself while drying and styling my hair—something Cole has probably only ever seen in person a handful of times.

I straighten my shoulders in the mirror.

The girl staring back at me in a pretty green dress in a garage apartment that has started, without my permission, to feel like somewhere I belong is… a glimmer of someone I might like. Someone I could respect. Someone who might deserve the happiness she’s watched others find.

It’s everything I never thought I could have.

“For now,” I tell her.

She doesn’t believe me either. But I put on my shoes and pretend anyway.

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