Scene 45

The reviews were polarized. Half the critics hailed the second film as revolutionary, the other half were scathing.

Elliott, like always, took a sick satisfaction in homing in on the condemnatory .

" The New York Times called it ‘Cinema Suicide.' Oh," he cooed, his voice trailing one beat behind on the transatlantic phone call to where I sat in Jacqueline Sinclair's living room, "but here's my favorite! The cover of Empire Magazine ," he cleared his throat, " Sand Seekers Sinks: No Bulkheads High Enough to Keep this Billion Dollar Barge Afloat. Jesus. Who writes this shit?"

I tapped out an impatient rhythm on the arm of the couch. "It also broke the opening weekend record as the highest-grossing film in box office history, so I somehow doubt we'll find our heads underwater any time soon."

Elliott scoffed. "Why you gotta be such a little ray of sunshine? Let me sulk."

"Well, you're going to have to sulk alone. We're about to make toffee." I was anxious to get on with Christmas Eve. Dillon would be home soon from physical therapy and Seren would be back from the barn. I was ready to drink wassail and forget about life in Hollywood as I soaked in the serenity of the nineteenth-century stone home. I'd been on the road for seven weeks, transversing five continents, more countries than I could remember, and four premieres—the last of which had taken place five days earlier in Japan. I'd drank too much. Slept too little. Existed on a diet of caffeine pills, airplane snacks, whiskey, and Gatorade.

I'd begun to forget what it felt like to exist in a world where you weren't on exhibit every waking second of the day. How it felt to live the sort of life where you could stop in at the Farmer's Market to pick up asparagus on sale or hit a WeHo nightclub without having to call ahead, arrange security, and devise an entrance and exit plan. To not have every angle of your life scrutinized, criticized, or glamorized by strangers across the globe.

A life devoid of fan accounts. Fan fiction. Shipping. Stanning. Stalking.

Two weeks earlier, I'd ended the farce with Carter. He'd met a girl I could tell he really liked. A set designer who'd been at our wrap party. I would have liked her, too, if I hadn't known she was sleeping with him thinking it was behind my back. It provided me the motive I needed, however, to call things off. I wanted him to be able to pursue a relationship out in the open, and it got me out of staging holiday photos that made me feel like a schmuck.

I called him, thanked him eternally, and then deleted all our photos together from my Instagram.

Celebrity code for Trouble in Paradise .

Hollywood gossip was still obsessing over it, with entire articles speculating on what went wrong, who I might be dating, if I was or wasn't a slut. For months, rumor had circulated that I'd been carrying on an affair with Elliott, stemming from the inconceivable notion that a man and a woman couldn't possibly be friends without fucking. A scandal that likely would have petered out the next time Elliott showed up at an event with one of his blonde armpieces sporting stilettos longer than my inseam, but instead, the idiot decided to fling fuel on the fire, choosing to kiss me on the red carpet at the European premiere.

"That's for the billing," he'd whispered in my ear, referring to my name that appeared on the marquis above his. I'd pinched the inside of his arm hard enough to leave a bruise, and he'd strolled away, offering me a wink as he disappeared into the theatre. The next day every entertainment news site ran with the photo.

But despite his endless impertinence, I'd come to consider him one of my best friends. He'd proven to be a pillar of support as I navigated the unknown territory of turning into an overnight celebrity, and the rocky waters of life on the A-list. He'd become my ally. My confidant. We understood each other. We had the same secrets to protect.

He talked me through the hype of being nominated for a dozen different awards following the first film release—MTV Movie Awards, BAFTA, Empire, EDA, SAG—and the disappointment of losing the majority of them. He reminded me my worth wasn't tallied by Roger Ebert's great-great-granddaughter's opinion or the sweatpant-wearing, forty-year-old keyboard warrior still living in his mother's basement with his hands down his pants.

He consoled me through Dillon's accident. It was his networking that got the consultation with Dr. Monaghan. Every day he'd checked in to inquire about her progress, and how I was holding up.

And the thing with him was—he meant it. Beneath his cocky veneer, his arrogant playboy exterior, he was kind. He was generous. And I loved him for that.

It still didn't change the fact that I was glad when he got another phone call and was forced to hang up.

I texted my parents, sent Sophie a requested toffee recipe, and then helped Jacqueline in the kitchen until I heard Dillon come through the front door. Her gait was unmistakable, the click of her crutches and pad of her single tennis shoe soft as she moved across the tile.

She'd been in good spirits over the seventy-two hours that I'd been there. Her mood had been generally optimistic, Seren told me, since she'd come home from surgery, but her fixation with recovery seemed to double by the day.

I'd hoped my presence might alleviate her blinkered obsession with speeding up Mother Nature's Laws of Healing , but it hadn't made much difference. She was still up before dawn, but instead of us going to the bay for her morning swim, she left for the Swansea Aquatic Center, where she pushed the limits of Dr. Monaghan's instructions for non-weight-bearing activities. In the afternoons she attended physical therapy, and at night, as she reviewed race results across the various federations, she stretched the painful muscles that threatened to constrict.

There were three more weeks before she was permitted to cycle. Two months before she could test out jogging. And an undetermined length of time before Dr. Monaghan would entertain anything more aggressive.

Dillon ignored this last part.

"I can do Bermuda," I'd heard her tell Seren the previous morning.

"Science says you can't." Seren had not sounded thrilled about her sister's eagerness to fast-track her return to competition.

"It's fifteen weeks away. The run is mostly flat."

"You won't even be at five months!"

"Seren, I can do it—"

"You promised me!"

Dillon remained pragmatic. "I promised if it became too much. How can I know what is too much if I don't even try?"

My eavesdropping had been interrupted by Jacqueline, who'd appeared behind me at the top of the stairs. Before I'd worked out an excuse for my lingering, she smiled tightly and made a noisy descent to where her girls had grown silent in the kitchen. She'd undoubtedly heard the exchange, and her opinion on Dillon's desire to expedite her healing appeared on par with Seren's.

A little part of me had begun to feel like I'd overstepped my bounds by recommending Dr. Monaghan—by finding someone to tell Dillon yes, there was still a chance.

But certainly, the alternative had been worse. Hadn't it?

Christmas afternoon, after we'd opened presents and I'd neutralized my hangover with Dillon's twice-baked Welshman's cheese soufflé, I asked if we could go for a walk along the bay. I wanted to be alone with her—just the two of us.

"Seren said she'd be happy to drop us off. It should be quiet due to the holiday." I'd already outlined my argument in preparation for any excuse she might make. I wanted desperately to get out of the house. To have some time together. I needed to feel like it mattered I was there. That I wasn't just in her way.

To my surprise, she willingly agreed. I tried not to allow it to slip into my head that her resistance may have been greater if the Aquatic Center hadn't been closed for the day.

"Where'd you have in mind?"

"Mumbles Head?" I loved the scenic views from the peninsula.

She nodded. "Alright. We can walk down to Limeslade Beach."

I didn't bother questioning if she felt up to tackling the coastal terrain. She was more agile on crutches than I was on my own two feet.

As hoped, the picturesque cliffside was deserted, the usual hikers home with their families.

"Take care along the edge," Dillon warned after we'd turned off the main trail and woven our way along one of the narrow paths leading to the highest point of the headland. "It's slippery."

In the distance, the lighthouse atop the furthest islet blinked through the low-lying fog, heeding ships we couldn't see.

"Would you jump in to save me?" I taunted, leaning over the ledge to look at the frigid water crashing against the rock face. I could tell she was uneasy about the height, but it didn't stop me from wanting to get a rise out of her. To slip beneath her skin. Anything to gain her attention.

"I'd jump in after you," her expression remained neutral as she gave an unfazed shrug. "But neither of us would survive the fall."

"Modern-day Romeo and Juliet? Thelma and Louise?"

"You've been reading too much Tolstoy."

It wasn't an unfair assessment. I'd been cast in a contemporary retelling of Anna Karenina set to begin filming the following summer, and in preparation for the role, had filled countless travel hours poring over the Russian's tragic prose.

"Better than the fluff of Margaret Gilles—isn't that what you said?"

"I didn't call it fluff."

"But that's what you meant, right?"

I'm not sure why I wanted to pick a fight with her so badly. I think I just needed to feel like she still saw me. To know I still mattered. With her single-minded fixation on her rehabilitation, it had become difficult to tell where I fit into her life.

"Don't be thick," she chided, resuming her one-legged travel along the ridge, "I called it light reading. Not everything has to be Joyce and Faulkner. You're making something of nothing."

Justly scolded, I watched three more signals from the lighthouse lantern before trotting to catch up.

"Dillon." I caught her arm just as she reached the Y that split the trail's further destinations: right, the parking lot, left, Limeslade Beach. I had to get it off my chest. "Are you still happy? With me, I mean."

Her look of unmistakable astonishment simultaneously filled me with embarrassment and relief.

"Happy with you?" The crease of her brow deepened. "Whatever are you going on about?"

"I… I don't know." I tried to brush it off. It was ridiculous to have worried. Naturally her focus would be on her training. She was living under the colossal pressure of a question mark, the entire path of her future dependent on her recovery. The last thing she needed was to deal with me and my insecurities. "Come on." I pressed my hand against her back. "Let's go to the beach."

"No," she studied me a moment, and then my heart sank as she swung a few steps up the trail leading away from the water.

"Dillon, come on. Please." I didn't move. I would have given anything to take the question back. I couldn't stand the idea that I'd ruined the outing. "Forget I said anything."

"Impossible." She paused, looking over her shoulder. "I remember everything you say. And even the things you don't say." The ghost of a smile graced her lips. "Now come on, Kam-Kameryn."

I hesitated. "Where are we going?"

"I'm going to take you on a proper hike." She resumed her trek toward the main road. "After all, it's tradition."

The twelfth-century castle cast an ominous shadow across the acres of parkland as the sun settled behind the ruin of its western walls. I'd seen the crumbling stone structure plenty of times from a distance. It was impossible to miss, sitting atop its hill less than a mile from the heart of the village, but this was the first time I'd had the opportunity to see the landmark up close.

I would have found it charming. I never grew tired of the way ancient fortresses seemingly popped up from nowhere across Great Britain. But today we'd come in through the back side of town, which meant we'd spent the last ten minutes weaving through the massive Swansea cemetery.

It had been my mistake, mentioning to Dillon how the centuries-old tombstones and obliquely protruding grave patches gave me the creeps.

Especially at dusk.

Suddenly, despite having led the entire way at a pace I'd nearly had to jog to keep up with, Dillon became a hobbling invalid, limping along through the most tenebrous sections, taking time to tell me about Lady Alina, the mistress of Oystermouth. Dead these last seven hundred years, her spirit was said to haunt the castle grounds.

"Especially at night."

"And why exactly would we want to come here, then?" I asked as her swiftness returned up the final grass hill leading to the castle entrance. My cowardly soul found a moment of triumph when I saw the thick chain wrapped around the iron gates. "Oh, what a shame. It's closed."

She never gave the entry a second glance, instead continuing around the side of the towering walls, further into shadow.

"Dillon?" I followed for no reason other than I refused to be left alone with a mysterious ghost in the quickly burgeoning darkness.

Coming to a stop beneath a narrow slot vaguely resembling a window, Dillon turned to face me. "Want to go in?"

I glanced at the window in question. It was less than a foot wide and at least ten feet above us—and, to my relief, had a bar running down the middle to keep idiots out who might be stupid enough to trespass.

"I'm assuming this question is rhetorical."

I was rewarded with a lopsided smile. "Are you afraid?" She glanced higher. Another dozen feet above the first window was a second—this one without a bar.

"You think I'm climbing that?" I laughed, relieved, because I knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that was ever going to happen. "You think you're climbing that?" I gave a pointed glance toward her non-weight-bearing leg. "You're a regular comedian."

"You think I can't get inside these walls?" There was something in the timbre of her voice that made me wish I hadn't challenged her. "Tell me, what do I get if I prove you wrong?"

"The satisfaction of being right." I was still doubtful, but I knew better than to put anything past her. "As well as the opportunity to spend a lonely night inside a haunted castle."

"Who said anything about being lonely?" She gave me an arch glance before sweeping aside the knee-high grass with her crutch, prodding for something along the stone. "I'll have Lady Alina to keep me company."

Her crutch clanked against something that sounded hollow. With a smug smile, she smoothly dropped to the ground—despite her straight-locked knee—and a second later her legs disappeared into the wall.

A drainage pipe , I realized. One that was too dark. Too narrow. And—with little doubt—too full of spiders.

"Enjoy your transcendental tryst." I stepped back. "I'm sure you'll give Ol' Alina a thrill." The last glacier in Antarctica was going to melt before she convinced me to crawl into that hole.

"I'm calling your bluff, Kam-Kameryn. You'd get jealous." Her body vanished up to her shoulders.

"I'd be more jealous of catching the flu."

"Suit yourself." Her dimples creased as the last glow of sunset turned her hair to amber. "I would have made it worth your while."

Then she was gone, crutches and all.

I stood alone in the unfolding blackness.

I absolutely was not going. I didn't care if she'd smiled at me in a way she hadn't smiled at me in months. I didn't care if the thought of being locked alone with her behind two-foot solid stone walls ignited a blaze in every fiber of my body. I refused to be the substantiating proof that even the highest form of intelligence could be undermined by corporeal desires.

And then I was down on my belly in the wet grass—because who was I actually kidding?—and army crawling after her.

By the time I wormed my way out the opposite side, Dillon was up on her feet, crutching across the vacant courtyard.

"Oh, no you don't," I laughed, springing after her. "You owe me. Big time!"

Faster than should have been possible, she disappeared into a narrow stairwell, taking the spiraled steps two by two in a manner suggesting she knew every nook and cranny, turret and alcove of the tattered castle. I followed to the upper level, guided only by the click of her gait and brush of my fingers across the moss-covered walls.

I'd nearly caught her when I stumbled through the highest threshold and suddenly found myself suspended in the air, the waxing moonlight through the demolished roof revealing the ground forty feet below. Dillon laughed at my moment of panic as I tried to determine why we weren't falling, but before it had fully processed that we were standing on the transparent floor of a glass viewing platform, her mouth was on mine, and I no longer cared.

Fall. Float. Fracture into fragments absorbed by the surrounding stone—it didn't matter. I could think of nothing beyond the way she grabbed me, the intensity with which I knew she wanted me. The ferocity with which I needed her.

She walked me backward until my body collided with rough-edged Sutton stone, my hands finding the intricate tracery of a majestic Gothic window. It occurred to me, as I helped strip layers of winter clothing, that the unforgiving earth of the outer courtyard lay an unreasonable distance below us. I didn't know how admirably the stone mullions of eight-hundred-year-old architecture withstood the elements of time, but I couldn't bring myself to worry. So be it if tomorrow morning headlines across the globe read Sand Seekers actress; dead at 25. Found mostly nude —mostly, only due to the fact that my jeans were caught around my ankles, one tennis shoe still in place— after rapturous rendezvous resulted in apparent fall from haunted castle window. Details to follow.

When it came to the inevitability of dying, at least this way led the current list of choices.

Impatient, she turned me away from her, tangling one hand in my hair while the other sought the remaining inconvenience of clasps and buttons. I could feel her mouth against my ear, the staggered rasp of both our breathing, the weight of her healing body supported against me.

There was nothing gentle in her touch. Nothing delicate. No lingering kisses or trailing fingertips. In the darkness, with our bodies pressed against the window alcove, it was little more than the pent-up exchange of heartache. The expulsion of months of frustration. A sharing of hurts. Of healing. Of longing. Of yearning.

I fought the urge to close my eyes, finding the caressing breeze from the bay erotic against my exposed body. It was entirely prurient, knowing we were somewhere we were not meant to be, aware that a stone's throw from the dark parklands, the glowing homes of Mumbles were preparing to sit down for Christmas dinner. All one had to do was look up, to scan their eyes to the highest window in the castle. Would they see the shadows, find the desperate silhouettes searching for cathartic absolution, lost in one another?

Relenting to the feel of her traveling mouth and urgency of her persistent hands, I finally closed my eyes, giving up all thoughts of Mumbles, of castles, of the past and future. I found myself only in the present. Only in the throes of desire. Of the shedding of uncertainty that she still wanted me.

Later, Dillon laughed when I wondered aloud how many women had been fucked in that exact spot throughout the centuries. We were lying on the renovated glass floor, surrounded by the remnants of stately Gothic architecture, the stars burning overhead through the collapsed ceiling.

"Probably fewer than you think. For one, I imagine an altar once took up the majority of this space. And two, I believe sex in a chapel was deemed an explicit act of blasphemy."

I side-eyed her. "An entire castle at our disposal and you chose to lead me to the chapel?"

She shrugged. "There's no better view than from Alina's window."

"Alina?" Scanning our surroundings, I noticed for the first time the stone-cut aumbry and well-preserved piscina, the obvious hallmarks of a Catholic place of worship. "Alina—as in Castle Ghost Alina?"

"One in the same."

I wasn't religious. What I knew about Catholicism stemmed from playing Aldonza in a high school production of Man of la Mancha . I wouldn't have thought twice about putting a confessional booth to good use in the modern world. But igniting the wrath of a devotional medieval spirit? No thanks.

I started to push onto my elbow, but Dillon dropped an arm across my waist, barring me from rising. "Relax. You said to give the ol' girl a thrill. Who knows—maybe she liked watching?"

"If you're listening to this, Alina," I teased in a stage whisper, "please remember, it's her soul you want, not mine."

"She was imprisoned in the Tower of London while her husband was drawn and quartered by Edward II—I imagine we're low on her list when it comes to revenge."

"Your pillow talk is a bit rusty." I flipped on my side, flinching as my bare skin found the glass platform beneath our discarded pile of clothing. It was getting colder, the breeze picking up from the water, stirring the Welsh flag that flew atop the gatehouse. "Why do you know so much about this place?"

"I volunteered here a few summers when I was in school."

"Ah ha," I gave her a knowing smile, "so Lady Alina's no stranger to your late-night dalliances."

Her laugh was tighter than I expected as she brushed my teasing off, sitting up to rifle her jeans pockets. "I have something for you. I wanted to give it to you when we were alone."

I sat up, curious. Earlier that morning, she and Seren had given me a joint gift—a hardbound first edition of the Sand Seekers trilogy. The set had to have cost a fortune—a near-impossible collector's item to find, especially now, with the frenzy of the movies. I'd been thrilled with the thoughtfulness behind the present. In turn, I'd given her an out-of-print signed copy of Sports Illustrated with her all-time favorite triathlete, Michellie Jones, on the cover. I'd hunted the magazine down on eBay and spent a week stalking the auction lot, finally waking up at two AM in Japan to be certain I was the highest bidder.

In the end, the decades-old publication cost me a whopping twelve dollars—two dollars for the magazine and ten dollars for shipping. The paltry price had made me feel guilty. But the look on Dillon's face when she opened the package reassured me the value of a gift was rarely in the cost of the purchase.

"It's, um…" She fished a tiny tissue-wrapped parcel into the palm of her hand, tugging on a bow of hemp twine. "Maybe it's weird. I don't know. I…" Struggling to get the knot undone, she grew more flustered, until I reached out and swept it from her hand.

"It's my gift. I get to open it." I pulled out my phone and turned on its flashlight, undoing the string handily.

Inside the tissue, I found a delicate pendant of silver. A spoon, less than an inch in length, with a series of intricate designs crafted along its handle.

"It's a… a kind of promise. A gift given to someone you love. They're usually carved from wood, but I didn't think you'd have much need for that, so…" She flicked a finger toward the charm. "I asked the silversmith to make it with two hearts, because—"

"Because two hearts mean the love is reciprocated." I looked up from examining the flawless cast, taken by the design's beautiful complexity. "I know what a lovespoon is, Dillon."

Her smile was half surprise, half relief.

"And why would a girl from Hollywood know about an old Welsh tradition?"

"Because she fell in love with a girl from Wales." I rubbed the smooth silver between my thumb and forefinger before catching her eye and smiling. "Well, that, and they have an exhibit of them in the lounge at the Cardiff airport." Sweeping my hair over a bare shoulder, I unclasped the chain and held it out to her. "Will you?"

"Don't feel like you have to wear it." She hesitated. "It was just something I wanted you to have—to know."

"For someone remarkably intelligent, you really are an idiot." I tipped my head forward, exposing the nape of my neck. "I'm never taking it off."

She smiled—the slow, perfect, beautiful smile I loved—the one I could feel without even looking at her—and slipped the fragile chain into place. "Are you going to write it into your next nudity clause?" She fastened the clasp, pausing to kiss the top of my shoulder. " All clothing negotiable except for my tiny comfort spoon ?"

"I think I'll phrase it exactly like that," I sassed, twisting to make a grab for her wrists, but finding her superior strength turned the tables against me. Her counterattack immediately left me flat on my back.

It wasn't a defeat I minded.

"And your premieres?" She held herself aloft above me.

"I'm wearing it."

"Golden Globes?" Her lips moved to the hollow of my throat.

"Still wearing it."

"BAFTA?"

"Wearing it." The words came out through clenched teeth as her mouth made a slow procession to my hip bone.

"What about the Met Gala?" She spoke into the ticklish crease of my thigh.

I laughed. "They're never going to invite me to the Met Gala."

"Fair enough. That would require a sense of fashion."

"Hey!" I pressed my palms against the wall of stone, trying to keep myself from squirming. "Be nice!"

"I think I'm nice." She eased my legs apart, sliding her hands down the slope of my calves to my ankles. Unlike earlier, with the frantic rush, the impatient desire leaving no room for lingering, she was now torturously slow, going to great efforts to tease me. "You think any of Alina's husbands were this nice?"

I didn't answer.

"I bet not." She dipped her head, trailing her lips against me, before abruptly sitting up again. "Not that I can blame them. She probably spent more time kneeling at the altar, exalting the virtues of agape, than she did practicing eros on her knees in the bedroom. Not very nice , if you ask me."

" Dillon !" I covered my face with my hands to prevent me from going with my first inclination—which was to strangle her. "Fine! You win! You're nice !"

"How nice?"

" Very nice." Her lips brushed me again, and this time, when I raised my hips to meet her, she didn't pull away. " Exceedingly nice." Whatever it took to get her back on track. " Tremendously nice." To stop her from waxing philosophical with her head between my legs.

She smiled. "See—that wasn't hard."

I bit back a cutting retort—willing to forfeit this battle to win the war—but my treaty was interrupted by the grating sound of metal striking metal, and the shriek of an angry hinge.

Flying upright, I clipped Dillon's head with my chin, and then paused, trying to hear over the drubbing of my heart.

"Who's up there?"

A gate slammed closed.

Holy fuck . I looked at Dillon.

"Oh, fuck me!" she hissed.

Yeah, the time for that had clearly departed.

Not needing any additional motivation, I lunged to my feet, grabbing for my clothes—her clothes—whatever threads of fiber I could find to tug on.

She was still half dressed—courtesy of her knee brace—and was on her feet and ready to run before I'd even pulled up my pants.

"Turn off your torch!"

In my current state of turmoil, it took too long to register her meaning. She reached out and snatched my phone, flicking off the flashlight.

"Okay, come on, we can go through the south keep."

Again, I struggled to keep pace with her, my shoulders colliding with ninety-degree turns and toes stumbling over jagged steps. Down a pitch-black staircase into an even darker hall, I caught hold of the tail of her t-shirt as we burst out a cockeyed doorway and ran for the west curtain wall.

"Hey!" A man's voice bellowed, his shadowy shape moving across the courtyard lawn. "Stop!"

Had yelling stop ever actually worked in the history of crime ?

Dillon threw on the brakes as we reached the drainage pipe, waiting to shove me head-first to the other side.

"Head for the wood," she whispered as her crutches preceded her through the pipe.

Inside the castle, the man's curses rang off the stone, but we were already halfway across the open parkland, making for the shelter of the trees.

"Oh, my God," I panted when we'd finally waded through waist-high foliage to find the woodland hiking trail leading to the main road. "What the fuck, Dil—?" My words were cut short as I stumbled over an exposed tree root and a low-lying branch smacked me in the face.

The perfect abridged synopsis of the way my evening was going.

Dillon was still laughing as she caught my elbow, steadying me. "Mr. Roberts—the groundskeeper. He must have seen your light."

"You didn't mention a groundskeeper!"

"I wasn't expecting him to be around. He lives off property."

As we picked our way out of the last of the trees and onto Mumbles Road, I paused to take inventory of what I was wearing:

Dillon's jacket. My unbuttoned pants. Underwear on one leg. Both shoes.

Which meant my bra, t-shirt, sweatshirt, jacket, scarf, beanie, sunglasses, and dignity had been lost to the holy chapel of Oystermouth.

Sorry, Alina .

But whatever. Centuries of ladies left alone while their lords went off to war—no one was going to convince me Dillon and I were the first pair of women to find pleasure within those walls. Against those walls. However you wanted to look at it.

"Uber will be here in three minutes," Dillon said, looking up from her phone.

An older couple passed us as we waited on the corner for our ride. I struggled not to laugh from behind the upturned collar of Dillon's jacket as they gave us a wide berth, no doubt assuming we were a pair of derelicts wandered out from the pub. Dillon's hair was wild, slick with sweat and dusted in cobwebs. Her elbows and thighs were streaked with grass and mud from our belly crawl through the drainage pipe, and half the foliage in Mumbles was stuck to the velcro of her knee brace.

"Happy Christmas," she said cheerfully, prompting the pair to pick up their pace.

The Uber driver gave us a long glance in her rearview mirror, and then Dillon turned the chat to the latest Wrexham football match until we reached her front door.

"Longer coastal walk than anticipated?" Seren called as the two of us tried to tiptoe across the hardwood floor. She and her mom were playing a game of chess in the living room and had both looked up from the board.

I froze midstep, feeling like a rabbit caught in the crosshairs.

There was a walk of shame, and then there was a walk of shame . This certainly fell under the category of the latter.

Dillon struck a casual pose, leaning against the doorway. "Nah. Cut a little short, if you ask me."

The burn of my cheeks rivaled the glow of Christmas lights on the Fraser fir.

Jacqueline gave us a calculating once-over, tapping a black rook thoughtfully against the table. "Where's your hat, Dillon?"

Code for: why is Kam half-dressed and wearing your coat ?

Dillon was unperturbed. "Somewhere in Oystermouth."

The way she said it was a challenge and from the hardening line of Jacqueline's lips, appeared to be received the same. I'd expected Seren to laugh, but she didn't even smile.

"You went to the castle?" Jacqueline set the rook down.

"Yeah—til Old Roberts came around."

"I see," said her mother, returning her gaze to the game. "Well, the two of you should go tidy up. We've been holding dinner."

"What was that?" I asked once we were behind the closed door of Dillon's bedroom.

She took a seat at the end of her bed, working a thorn out of her t-shirt. "She's not fond of the castle."

"Yeah. I got that."

To my surprise, she didn't make me ask her to elaborate.

"It's where I started to meet Henrik." She flicked the thorn onto her nightstand. "Outside of training."

I paused my efforts to eliminate my hair of forest debris, looking into her dresser mirror to catch her reflection.

"Okay." I held her gaze. "Then why bring me there?"

She didn't look away. "Because I want it back. The things he took from me."

I nodded, waiting to see if there was more she wanted to say. She made it easy to forget, sometimes, armored behind her bravado—behind her humor, her bold confidence, her endless drive—that she hurt in ways I couldn't see. In ways I didn't know how to fix.

But instead, she stood, coming to lean over my shoulder, still holding my gaze in the mirror. A wryness in her smile said she was done with the conversation, wanting to set it aside. "Come on, Kam-Kameryn," she pressed her lips against my ear, "if you join me for a shower, maybe I'll finish being nice."