I don't consider this part a spoiler, just a fact you've probably already picked up on from the story tags and prologue and foreshadowing: this story is going to be rough. It won't be a slow burn like some of my others, but it will handle some Hard Life Moments.

Okay, now for the spoiler-free spoiler/Easter Egg hunt: there will definitely be some familiar names/faces in distant future chapters. Any guesses?

Also, writing angsty teenage Claire is almost as fun as writing Quil.

Happy holidays, readers!

Don't let them get you wrong. I hear your song, sweetness. – "I Hear Your Song, Sweetness" by George Taylor

Claire

For as long as I can remember, there's been music in our house.

If there's no music, it means my mom is either not awake or not home. She has a song for every day, every season, every mood, every emotion. I can tell as soon as I come home whether we're having takeout for dinner, if I have a shot at making weekend plans.

She's never restricted herself to any genre (or decade, for that matter); she does not discriminate. I can tell the difference between Patti LaBelle and Aretha Franklin, The Stones and the Struts, solo George Michael and Wham! George Michael. At this point I'm considering putting these skills on my resume.

When it's rainy and Mom wants to escape, her go-to is "Islands in the Stream" by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. She dreams of islands in the middle of the Pacific, "swells as white as heaven, Claire, and water so clear you can see a mile down. We'll go there one day."

We often talk of visiting those places together, her and me. In these daydreams, Dad and my sister Callie come sometimes too, but mostly these trips are for us, a way to escape the dreary landscape of the reservation, the mountains, the gray. Gray is a color, but it's also a feeling. My mom loves the sun, the water, and I am the same. The gray gets to us more than most people.

Like today.

Today gray is a color, a feeling, and an overall mood.

I slam my locker and jump out of my skin when Jaxyn Powers appears on the other side of it.

"Claire," he greets, giving me the smile all the girls go crazy for, the one that makes the dimple in his left cheek pop out. "Hey."

"Hi," I say, trying to move past him. It's Wednesday, which means I have exactly seven minutes to scarf down a protein bar before study group starts. With winter break coming up next week, this is the last study group of the year.

The SATs aren't until April, but if I want to have any chance to escape this place, I need all the help I can get. Ideally, I'd get a perfect score. Realistically I'm shooting for a 1560.

"So Claire," Jaxyn says, walking with me toward the library. "I was wondering if you'd given any more thought to maybe hanging out, just me and you. Do you have plans this weekend?"

"I do." I want to say sorry, but Embry's wife Bethany is teaching me not to placate what doesn't deserve placation. In her eyes, few things do.

Having plans isn't a lie. I just don't know what they are. I know what they won't include, though—kissing Quil.

Since our first date over a month ago, the situations where we might've found ourselves alone, like we were on my front porch, have become virtually nonexistent. He doesn't want a repeat of the part where my legs were around his waist and his hands were on my butt, even though that was clearly the best part. The, er… log in his pants sure felt like it thought the same.

It was the best kiss of my life, and it won't ever happen again. Quil's carting me around with him everywhere, like normal, but the scope of that "everywhere" has been expanded, so we have less time to ourselves. I'm not necessarily mad… I love Embry and Bethany and their daughter Sadie. Aunt Em and Uncle Sam and their sons. Jake and Nessie and their little one Marie—I helped birth her into existence (long story there); she bears my name; of course I love her.

And I love Seth and Katie Clearwater and Billy Black and Jared and Kim and Paul and Rachel and their twins and Quil's mom and Embry's mom and Sue and Charlie and the guy at the post office and the list goes on and on and on. Last week, we "stopped by" to see the local butcher.

The. Local. Butcher.

But like I said, I'm not mad.

I'm just horny.

And if Quil's claiming to be the guy I'm dating but not put his money where his mouth is, I'm bound to get a little cranky.

Which might be why my tone comes out sharp to Jaxyn. The guy is nice and definitely cute and much closer to my age age than Quil is. But I'm not going to fake attraction to the guy just to spare his feelings.

That would be placation.

"Look, I have to go, okay? I have study group." My back aches with the weight of all my books. "But if I don't see you before, have a good holiday."

Some guys at school would push a little harder, fight for me. But Jaxyn is one of the good ones, and he doesn't do those things. He punches me lightly on the shoulder, flashes that dimple one more time, and says, "You too, Claire."

Study group goes how it always goes – the more serious scholars sit toward the front, ask thoughtful questions and take the practice sheets seriously. The less serious students, the ones who only came because of extra credit or whatever the fuck, sit at the back and make it hard for everyone else to concentrate.

By the end of the hour, my blood is boiling, and all I want is to come home and smell Mom's spaghetti and listen to Joni Mitchell or Bonnie Raitt or another of her favorites. Her favorites are mine, too, because they make her smile the widest and sing the loudest.

But neither Mom nor Dad is waiting to pick me up. Quil is.

Despite the confusion, my heart races at the sight of him, like it has since I turned thirteen and learned just how different boys and girls really are. I'd known about the imprint for a long time, but I wasn't prepared to feel so strongly about Quil when my hormones kicked in. Mom says it's like that for all teenagers, though—maybe that's why no one ever has their homework finished in class.

Along with my racing heart, my knees go weak, my insides go tight and twisty, and an ache blooms between my thighs. He's still wearing his casual uniform, the one they wear around the station when they aren't out on calls. Black t-shirt with the station logo over his pec, black uniform pants, heavy boots. I spy with my little eye the edge of his tattoo poking out from under his sleeve and have to swallow all my spit before I start drooling.

"What are you doing here?" I ask calmly, letting him take my bag from my shoulder and open the driver door for me. Swoon.

He grins, leaning to graze a kiss on my temple. "I dunno. Your dad just asked if I could grab you. They invited me for dinner."

"Like you aren't there every night anyway," I call as he starts to shut my door.

I'm surprised Quil's letting me drive, considering there's drips of precipitation on his windshield. He turns green at just the thought of me driving in the rain. Or at all.

"How is this happening?" I say once he's buckled in, reaching for the gear shift. "Get new brakes on your first love?"

His hand covers mine on the shifter, preventing me from going anywhere. The contact is warm and sweet and makes my breath catch. "This is just a truck, Claire. My first love's much more valuable."

First love. I wonder if we'll have the other normal firsts every couple has. We say "I love you" all the time, but is it different if you kiss that person on the mouth and various other body parts? Maybe we'll have a first I'm-in-love-with-you. First fight? But again, we fight often.

First vacation happened when I was ten and my parents flew us all to San Diego. It was one of Mom's bucket list travel places, and the only one she could realistically reach while juggling two young kids. But maybe we could take a trip, just Quil and me. Somewhere warm, with swells we can surf. Maybe back to San Diego.

It's no secret the post-sex sleepover is the first I'm most excited for. I've always had this… thing. I don't know, a fantasy maybe? Or a daydream.

I've never slept naked.

I mean, logistically, sleeping naked in the PNW is impractical. The furnace is on the fritz half the time, and what if there's some big Pack emergency that forces me out of bed in the middle of the night? Callie swears it's the best feeling in the world, sleeping naked, but I just can't.

Or, I haven't. It's always been my plan for my first time to be after My First Time. Sort of a one, two punch.

I haven't clued Quil in yet. Figured it would be a little treat for both of us.

Except it feels like at this rate, the only naked sleeping I'll be doing is in my freaking coffin. After I die.

A virgin.

The one thing Quil freely allows now that we're "dating" is hand-holding. So you can bet your bottom dollar I hold the shit out of his hand. I'm even feeling a little feisty today, so I bring it over to my side of the cab and rest it on my thigh.

He gives it a gentle squeeze before guiding my hand back to the steering wheel. "Nine and three."

I mess with him, clutching at ten and two. Driving him crazy is my favorite hobby. I'll put that on my resume under "can distinguish 80's pop icons by opening chord progression."

We arrive at my house in one piece, despite Quil's grumbling that I took that curve a little too sharp. (It was fine. There were always at least three wheels on the ground.)

Quil's face pinches in concern as we exit the truck.

"What?" I ask him as he slings my backpack over his shoulder. "What's the matter?"

His eyes tighten in my direction, warring with something in his mind. Finally, his face smooths and he says, "I'm not sure. It's probably fine," but the color of his eyes stays dark and guarded.

That's my first warning.

The second greets me up the stairs, through the wooden front door that's been chipped and repainted so many times I can't remember what the original color was.

When I enter through that door, I pause.

There's no music.

The air is still, as if someone pressed pause and is listening for other background noise. There's a lot of it. My heavy breathing, for one. The tick of the clock above the stove I've literally never heard before this moment.

A deep breath—my father.

"There you are."

For a split second I fear I'm in trouble, and I wrack my brain to figure out what they've discovered. My pulse quickens at the fear of them seeing my first kiss with Quil, where he'd pinned me to the wall, his hands breaching the hem of my dress.

I glance to Quil, nervous, but he looks just as confused. So that's not it.

That's the only thing I have to be cautious about. I don't sneak out. I don't break curfew without permission. I don't drink or do drugs or have sex (not for lack of trying, but the point stands). I have nearly perfect grades and my attendance this semester is shining.

"What is it?" I finally ask before I lose the courage.

My parents sit at the table, both holding mugs although it's well past five. Callie sits across from them, one foot tucked under her as she scrolls her phone with one hand and chews her thumbnail with the other.

My mom smiles, but it doesn't crinkle the skin of her eyes. She pats the empty seat next to her twice, and I'm probably imagine the way her hand shakes. "Come here, sweet girl. Have a seat."

"Drink, Quil?" Dad's tone is thick with persuasion as I settle into my seat next to Mom.

I wonder if it's actually coffee in the mugs.

Quil declines and takes the only empty spot, between Callie and me. "What's up?" His tone sounds casual enough, but I know his every nuance and inflection. He's worried.

Which instantly makes me worried, too.

Dad takes my mother's hand, and my brain doesn't know where to start first with its panic spirals. He was considering taking a promotion that would move us to Boise. Did he do that? Are we uprooting?

Quil takes my hand, too. I grip him tightly.

Mom clears her throat, the universal sign for listen up. Callie slides her phone into her hoodie pocket.

Mom takes a breath. "Your father didn't want me to say anything—"

"Hannah," Dad hisses.

"Jonathan," Mom hisses back, a little teasing. She clears her throat again as Dad takes another heavy pull from his mug. Definite no on the coffee, then. "Your father didn't want me to say anything until we had more information, but I didn't want to hide anything from you girls. And I knew Claire would tell you everything anyway, Quil, so I just saved her some air.

"I went in for a mammogram last week and the doctors found a lump."

It was good forethought on her part, saving me some air. I need all of it I can get now. Quil's grip tightens to a point I know should be painful but isn't registering.

Mom keeps talking, her voice a little shaky but mostly there. "They sent me to Seattle today for a biopsy and bloodwork. They aren't sure what it is yet, but they've got it narrowed down to, what was it, John, three or four things?"

Dad nods, leaning over to grab Callie's hand which has formed a fist on our oak kitchen table. There are scratches and scorch marks, even a weird spot by Mom's mug where Callie and I painted our nails and tried to clean up the mess with acetone.

"Four," Dad confirms. "Not all of them are bad," he continues, ducking his chin to try and catch me and Callie in the eye.

"But not all of them are good," Mom says. "I could—I could have cancer."

It's hard for me to listen to much more after that. Or maybe that's not quite right. I try to listen, but my ears are ringing. I can't even feel Quil touching my anymore, even though I know he is. I'm staring right at his hand in mine.

"Three out of four of these conditions are genetic," Dad's voice says, breaking through my fog.

He spouts medical terms before getting flustered and flummoxed. Mom finds her purse and pulls out stapled booklets from her purse. Multiple stapled booklets.

They talk through the different diseases with us the way a doctor would, the ways they mimic breast cancer and the items on Mom's scans that caused concern. My ears are still ringing—someone should turn that off.

"You girls could be tested for them, if you want," Dad says.

Callie speaks for the first time since this family meeting started, tears making tracks down her rosy cheeks. "Yes. Obviously, yes."

"No," I blurt, shocking everyone, if the sudden silence in the room is any indication.

I think they're waiting for me to concede or apologize or explain. But I won't. If we do these tests, it means Mom is really in danger, sick. I'm not ready to go there.

Quil gives my hand another squeeze, and although he takes to tracing my knuckles with his thumb, it doesn't do anything. "When will you know more, Hannah?"

Mom gives him a kind smile. "Not soon. They're hopeful to have some results within a month or two."

"Two months?" my sister and I say at the same time, abandoning our normal smirk about our shared sister brain to gawk at my mother.

"Girls," Dad scolds before a glare from Mom softens his next words. "We're going to do our best to support your mom through this, okay? We're going to help out more around the house and take her mind off it. Aren't we?"

We both nod sullenly and say, "Yes, sir."

I'm just thankful Quil's here. Although I was present for this entire conversation, I couldn't repeat it if my life depended on it.

If Mom's life depended on it.

The only reason Quil is allowed to come to my bedroom later is because I'm hysterical, and everyone in this house knows it.

After a few more minutes of reassurances that things will be fine (how this can be promised, I have no idea) and the group decision to order pizza because nobody should have to cook tonight, things started to press down on me.

That gray I was talking about earlier? It's a presence, a physical weight bearing down on my chest right now. Can sixteen-year-olds have heart attacks? Can you die from a broken heart?

Quil finds me on my bed staring at nothing. Or maybe the gray. I'm starting to think it should be a proper noun – The Gray.

Nothing feels right, but that feels better.

"You wanna talk?" he says, maneuvering around me and propping against my headboard.

"No words," I whisper quickly.

We both know I'm lying. It's not that there are no words. It's that the words bring the truth, the unavoidable future we're looking at.

He hums sympathetically, and I peek at him. He doesn't smile, but he does pat his lap.

That does it.

I don't have the strength to enter his arms, not when my tears are taking everything I have. But I find myself pressed to his chest anyway, my head tucked under his chin. I can't even fully appreciate being in his embrace, his hand rubbing slow circles up and down my spine.

Maybe I'll have energy to be mad at myself tomorrow. Tonight, though, Quil just holds me.

It has to be enough.