But that was Frances—Frances was the one who couldn’t save her parents. Frances was the one Grey was falling in love with. Not Libby. Not the girl I am now.
Sweat gathers at the back of my neck, dripping down my spine and the roar of the cicadas in the old oak trees becomes deafeningly loud. Grey has a way of asking questions that find their way past my defenses— unexpected ones I haven’t figured out how to answer.
Do I tell him the truth?
I nod, feeling the way air pushes from my lungs against my tightening throat. If I let it escape, it would be a scream that never ended.
There’s a difference between me and Grey, though. He hides his guilt behind his father’s power, cowering like a child. I use my guilt as armor.