Of Scars and Stardust

by Andrea Hannah

  I smile and write it down.

  Of course, he’ll never read this.

  The no-contact order that the Buchanans put on my family is in effect for at least another year. One phone call to Grant and I pretty much buy myself a one-way ticket to prison.

  But last week, his name lit up on my phone, just for a millisecond before the screen went dark. He’d called me and hung up.

  It happened again two days later, and another time just yesterday afternoon. I was leaving therapy when my phone rang, and I saw his name on the screen. I hurried to answer, and when I said hello, there was nothing on the line.

  At least, I thought there was nothing. At first.

  I stepped into a space between buildings and listened.

  Breathing—shallow, hopeful—on the other end. “Grant, are you there?” I whispered. And then: “I miss you.”

  There was no response other than a click.

  I shove my journal back into my bag and stand up, brushing the grass off my jeans. It’s rain-washed and spongy, and it clings to my clothes like the grass in Amble never did. It’s impossible to get rid of.

  I bend down to grab my blanket and bag, and when I look up, I see a head with dark, cropped hair across the park. I blink and it disappears.

  I shake my head. Impossible.

  I start to move toward the street when I see it again—a flash of dark hair. I stop and turn.

  “Claire, where are you going? It’s time for your medicine.” A squat, caramel-skinned woman in a white coat stands behind me, shaking a paper cup. My pills rattle around inside it.

  I wave her off. “Just a second, okay?”

  Grant leans against an oak tree. His arms are crossed over his chest and he tips his head to look at me in the space between the crowds. Our eyes meet.

  And everything in me cracks open and my heart thrums in my chest and I’m running, running, running.

  The white-coat woman is yelling my name, but I don’t care. I don’t listen. I don’t need a paper cup full of pills right now. I just need Grant.

  I drop my bag when I reach him. He looks down at me with his spring-colored eyes and smiles. The kind with teeth. Even though most of his star freckles have been replaced by a shiny, pink scar, he’s still Grant and I still love him.

  “You came to see me,” I say, breathless.

  His fingers brush my face and it feels just like a breeze. “Of course I did,” he says.

  I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of him: peppermint Chapstick and earth and home. I stand on my tiptoes and touch my forehead to his.

  He kisses me.

  His lips are so gentle against mine that I can barely feel them, taste them. I want more of him. I reach up to wrap my hand around the nape of his neck, to thread my fingers through his hair, to pull him closer to me.

  But my fingers brush against something that doesn’t feel anything like star-freckled skin or cropped hair, but feels everything like tree bark.

  I open my eyes.

  And he’s gone.

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  I imagine that when you found this book, it was propped up on a “Young Adult Fiction” shelf, or arbitrarily ranked on a website under “Mystery, Thriller, and Suspense.” In fact, there’s a good chance you found it somewhere else entirely, since this seems to be one of those books that doesn’t quite fit anywhere.

  In truth, it’s a love story. It started with a spark of an idea, a flash of an image: two sisters clinging to each other through the biting wind and insurmountable odds. My very first critique partner, Michelle Levy, asked all the right questions in order to bring Claire and Ella Graham to life. Michelle, you are wonderful.

  I cannot even begin to express my gratitude to my agent, Victoria Marini, for loving Claire Graham as fiercely as I do. Your patience, guidance, and devotion to this book and my career have been my anchor, and your encouragement and willingness to push me are what continue to propel me forward. To my editor, Brian Farrey-Latz: thank you for understanding exactly what I envisioned for this story, and for plucking that image straight out of my heart and mind onto the cover of this book. To my team at Flux: Mallory Hayes, Sandy Sullivan, and everyone else who worked tirelessly behind the scenes to bring the best version of this book into the world: thank you, thank you.

  I am continually humbled by the love and support I’ve received from my critique partners and beta readers. Thank you to Leigh Ann Kopans, Jamie Grey, Megan Orsini, Dahlia Adler, Kelsey Macke, Amanda Olivieri, and a million others for reading and championing the early version of this book. Thank you to my sisters at The Secret Life of Writers—Heather, Stefanie, Leah, Kelsey, Farrah, and Alex—for the endless cheerleading. And thank you to my street team and the writing community in general, for your constant glitter cannons and goodwill.

  To my advanced composition teacher, Mrs. Thomas: You probably never realized the effect you had when you told me you were going to use my essay as an example in class. Now you do. I also could not have done this without the beautiful people in my life: Kristen Jett, you are my guiding star; Hay Farris, you are my sun; Megan Whitmer, you are my breath of fresh air. Marilyn, Kristie, Matt C., Sarah G., Tracy: you are everything in between.

  To my dad, for giving me a love of literature, and to my mom, for giving me a sense of adventure and the courage to follow it. To my brother, Zack, for loving me through all the late-night revisions and making your own dinner with only a little bit of complaining. I love you. To my soul sisters and very best friends, Keri Grieve and Sarah Slayton. I don’t have a biological sister, but if I did, I would hope she would be exactly like you both.

  And to Matt, my husband. Being a writer’s spouse is not a glamorous job. There are numerous nights of cereal for dinner, piles of laundry that will never get folded, and too many hours of caring for small children to give me creative space. You’ve done all this brilliantly, but I’m most thankful for that first conversation we had several years ago, the one where I said, “I’m going to write a book.” And you said, “Of course you are.” I love you.

  © Matt Hannah

  About the Author

  Andrea Hannah lives in the Midwest, where there are plenty of dark nights and creepy cornfields to use as fodder for her next thriller. She graduated from Michigan State University with a B.A. in special education. When she’s not teaching or writing, she spends her time chasing her sweet children and ornery pug, running, and dreaming up her next adventure. You can find her at www.andreahannah.com.