a deadly storm, an unsolved disappearance, and a small town brimming with secrecy;
an outcast girl, a boy who only knows how to hide, and the world against them;
what could go wrong?
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Boo and Harry park in the crumbling driveway of what was once Martha's house. Harry leads the way to the backyard while Boo stumbles along behind him. The smell of rosemary and lemon lingers in the air, ramming through her with the force of a train. The broken back gate hangs off one hinge as they pass through and onto the edge of the cliff, where Jack Creek Lake sits below.
Harry sits in the empty grass with his long legs stretched out while Boo plops down beside him. A silence drags on as Boo studies the placid lake and Harry studies Boo, who's pretending not to notice his intense gaze or the way it brings a rising blush to her cheeks.
"What's on your mind?" Harry murmurs, his words hanging in the still air. Boo glances over into magnetic green eyes.
"What isn't?" she mumbles glumly. Her gaze flits to the matte gray clouds overhead, stretching out to cover the sky over the lake.
Harry makes a noise similar to a sigh before leaning back on his hands. "Let's play a game," he suggests lightly.
Boo eyes him. "Nothing with the name 'strip' in the title."
He cracks a goofy smile. "No, more like a trading game. A fact for a fact, a memory for a memory. That sort of thing. I'll go first."
"Go on then," she urges.
Harry hums contentedly. "I cannot sleep at night without having a cup of tea before bed. A very specific cup too-Earl Grey, splash of milk, and no sugar. It's ritualistic at this point."
Boo finds herself smiling wistfully. "I can't sleep without one of my dad's shirts. He only had really old shirts from decades ago so all the fabrics are soft and comfy. They remind me of him a lot."
"Were you two close?" Harry asks.
Her gaze drops to her lap. "Very. He died when I was young but it still hurts like it was yesterday. Besides Nana, he was the only person who understood me. Now that I'm older and I see how this town works, I miss him even more."
She picks a stray blade of grass and begins absently shredding it into thin slivers. "Some of my favorite memories are from when he would read to me before bed, usually either the Hobbit or Harry Potter."
