Chapter 70

• “You’re always like this,” Liana spat, her voice cracking as she kicked the peeling leg of her desk. The sound echoed in the cramped bedroom, where posters of indie bands and half-finished sketches littered every surface. “You show up when it’s convenient, say sorry, then disappear again. What’s the point?”
• Leo set his hands on the doorframe, the wood grating against his palms. Rain blurred the city lights behind him, smearing them into liquid streaks. "I'm here now," he said, softer than he'd intended.
• "For what? To make it right? You can't make this right." She rummaged in her backpack and tossed a crumpled-up math test at him—a 56 in red. It fell to the ground like a wounded bird.