Chapter Text
Jackie stood, frozen, holding her jersey in one hand, her carry-on bag yawning open on the bed in front of her. The sun was fully up now—pale and washed out through her curtains, too bright for how she felt. She’d showered the second she got home, scrubbing her skin raw like she could rinse off the night. Like steam and soap could undo the way Shauna’s hands had felt on her.
She thought that sex would’ve felt different after their mutual admissions—their feelings finally laid bare, love breathed into their air like a vow. But it didn’t.
It felt like it always felt.
Raw and soft. Familiar—even from the first time. Sacred in a way she didn’t know how to put into words.
Maybe because Jackie had always known she loved her. Deep down, under all the denial and double-talk and pretending. Even if she hadn’t said it out loud—hadn’t let herself think it—she’d known. In her bones. In the way she always breathed easier with Shauna in the room. In the way her heart pulled toward her.
But shouldn’t it have felt different? Knowing it wasn’t one-sided? Knowing Shauna loved her back?
Or had she always known that, too?
Maybe she instinctively just knew what Shauna felt. In that way you only understand someone when they’ve been a part of you for so long you stop noticing where they end and you begin. She knows her tells, her silences, the weight behind her glances. Gets her the way she gets herself—maybe more.
Maybe that was the real truth—that even before the confessions, even before the slow slide into yes, this—, Jackie had known exactly what it was between them.
She didn’t need Shauna to say I love you to know what she meant every time she looked at her like that. Every time she touched her with careful hands. Every time she let Jackie stay, despite her inability to give her anything substantial.
And now, Jackie had to pretend that love—real love—was something she could just walk away from. Something she could tuck back into the box labeled best friends and never touch again.
That was a lot to put on a shower.
At least now she was clean. Changed. Dressed in the butterfly shirt Shauna always said she liked.
Whatever.
She looked down at the jersey in her hands. Realized she was gripping it too tightly, twisting the fabric. Her knuckles were white.
She shoved the jersey into her bag, then promptly yanked it back out to fold it neater. Smoothed it flat like that might help her feel more in control.
She sighed deeply, doing her best to swallow the lump in her throat.
Her room felt wrong. Or maybe she did.
The silence was too heavy. Everything was too still.
Did I fuck this up?
She closed her eyes. Tried to picture Shauna’s face. Not from months ago, not from one of their sleepovers when everything was blurry and unsaid—but this morning. Right after Jackie said it.
Best friends.
She’d said it like it was a solution. A reset button. Like she could un-know what it felt like to lie in bed with Shauna and let herself want. Want in a way that was terrifying and true. In a way she’d never wanted anyone else before and probably wouldn’t ever again. Her hand paused over her toiletries bag.
Can I really live without kissing her?
The question came in quiet, brutal. It hadn’t even been a full hour, and already her body missed it. Missed her. Not just the kissing, but everything—the breathless way Shauna whispered her name, the weight of her hand on Jackie’s hip, the unspoken understanding between them in the dark.
Jackie stuffed a pair of socks into a side pocket, too hard.
She wasn’t sure why, but she thought back to a conversation they’d had when they were maybe ten. Sitting side by side in Shauna’s room on a Saturday afternoon, surrounded by a mess of embroidery floss, making friendship bracelets and arguing over which colors looked best together. Jackie thought pink and green looked quite nice, but Shauna didn’t like pink anymore. Thought it was too childish. Jackie had told her they were children, and Shauna threw one of the skeins at her.
“What’s a dyke?” Jackie had asked, squinting at her.
Shauna turned her head. “What?”
“My dad told my mom that the dyke at work won’t stop interrupting him during meetings,” Jackie explained, like it was just another vocabulary word.
Shauna made a face. “You know, like… a lesbian.”
Jackie blinked. “Yeah, but what’s that mean, though?”
Shauna shifted, looking at her like she couldn’t believe she had to spell it out. “It’s like… when a girl wants to kiss another girl.”
“Oh.” Jackie shrugged. “Well, duh.”
Shauna blinked. “Duh?”
“I mean,” Jackie said, “all girls want to kiss other girls.”
Shauna laughed—a quiet, surprised sound Jackie still remembered all these years later. She wondered if Shauna did too.
“They don’t, actually.”
But Jackie had believed it. At ten years old, it didn’t even cross her mind that wanting to kiss Shauna might be different from the way she was supposed to feel. It was just natural. Obvious.
So Jackie couldn’t tell anyone.
She wasn’t even sure her parents would do anything if they found out. They cared too much about appearances for anything too drastic—she didn’t think they’d kick her out or send her to conversion therapy or whatever.
But they’d stop loving her.
Not out loud. Not in any way she could point to. But in the quiet, impossible-to-prove ways. The way her mom might stop brushing her hair while they watched TV. The way her dad would start clearing his throat before hugging her, like it was something awkward now.
They wouldn’t think of her the same.
They’d look at her and see something wrong. Dirty. Broken.
And Jackie couldn’t live with that.
It’s not like her relationship with them now was all that great—and she did everything right. Good grades, star athlete, nice boyfriend.
Maybe once she’s out of her parents house, it’ll be different. She clung to that thought. Perhaps when she and Shauna were at Rutgers, in their shared dorm room instead of sneaking around in cars and bedrooms with the doors locked. Maybe when Wiskayok was far behind them, with its tiny minds and sharper eyes.
But the other voice came creeping in just as fast.
People like you don’t get treated better anywhere else.
Her chest tightened. She stared at the pile of folded clothes like it might offer her some kind of clarity. It didn’t.
Maybe she was doing Shauna a favor.
Shauna liked boys too—she could move on, find someone safe, someone easy, someone male. She could go be normal.
She wasn’t like Jackie—wasn’t a dyke.
The word struck hard, even unspoken. She flinched, physically, like it had cut her from the inside out.
God, she hated that word. Hated the way it made her feel—cornered and dirty and small.
But worse than the word itself was how quickly her brain reached for it.
How could she feel so deeply, so fiercely, and still be disgusted the second she named it?
Why did she hate this part of herself so much?
She didn’t hate it in other people. She never judged Melissa—not that she knows, but she knows. Never once thought anything bad about the rumors surrounding her and that girl from Red Bank last year. If anything, she admired her—how she didn’t seem to care what people thought.
But Jackie cared.
She always cared.
About how it looked. About what it meant. About who would stop looking at her the same way if they knew.
And she hated that she cared. Hated it enough to want to disappear sometimes.
She sat down on the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. The butterflies on her shirt stared back from the mirror across the room.
Shauna had once traced them with her finger. Said it was cute.
Jackie felt like she might throw up.
She’d done the right thing. Right?
She had to believe that. Had to believe that pushing Shauna away was self-preservation and not cowardice. That she could survive this ache. That they could still be best friends. Maybe they’d laugh about this someday.
Jackie reached over. Closed the suitcase. Zipped it shut.
If she could just make it to the airport.
To nationals.
To next week.
Maybe the ache would dull.
Maybe she wouldn’t miss her so much.
Maybe she’d stop feeling like she left something vital behind in Shauna’s bed.
She stood up. Smoothed her shirt. Practiced her smile in the mirror.
It didn’t reach her eyes.
But she’s not sure that’s new.
Jackie watched Shauna out of the corner of her eye. She’d gone quiet again, picking at her thumbnail, her jaw set like stone.
Shauna had always been afraid of flying—but that wasn’t what this was. At least not fully. Jackie recognized the way she’d gone still. How she was bracing herself, holding every muscle taut, like if she let go for even a second—if she unclenched her hands, dropped her shoulders, let herself breathe—she might fall apart.
And Jackie knew she was to blame.
It was how she’d looked this morning too, wrapped up in her sheets, eyes wide and searching, waiting for Jackie to say something—anything—about what had happened the night before.
About how Jackie told her she loved her, not just with words, but in every breathless second they’d spent pressed together in the dark. It was real. It happened. And now they were here—sitting side by side on a plane full of their friends who didn’t know that everything had changed.
She tried really hard not to hate herself for it.
She’d pictured this while packing—Shauna’s sad, crumpled face, the guilt and shame it made her feel. But remembering it and actively seeing her like this were two completely different things.
Jackie wanted to reach over and take her hand. She wanted to whisper something reassuring—something soft and stupid like I’ve got you or don’t be scared or I love you. She wanted to be the version of herself Shauna saw last night—the one who was terrified, yes, but honest. Brave, even, in the smallest way.
But she couldn’t.
Not after she pulled the ripcord on whatever they were—whatever they’d been for months—and told Shauna they should just go back to what they were before. No more late-night touches. No more tangled sheets and whispered nothings. No more pretending they could keep living in the gray.
It wasn’t technically a breakup, but it gutted her just the same.
They had reestablished the script—best friends. Nothing else.
Jackie had never hated the title more.
If she reached for her now, it would undo everything. Not just the words, but the fragile sense of control she clawed back by saying them. It would make everything real again. Jackie didn’t know how to live in that truth when she’d already told Shauna she couldn’t.
The worst part was, she knew Shauna would take her hand if she grabbed it. She’d proudly be with Jackie in the open—in front of all of them. Jackie could sense it in the way Shauna kept glancing at her out of the corner of her eye. She was waiting—for a sign, for a slip, for Jackie to mean what she said last night—I love you—more than what she said this morning—best friends.
And Jackie did. She did love her.
But she also meant the fear. Meant the panic. Meant the part where she didn’t know how to want Shauna and still be herself.
So she didn’t take her hand. She couldn’t. Not after everything. She had to be her friend now—just her friend.
Jackie forced herself to look at her fully for the first time since they sat down. And despite everything—despite the ache curling in her stomach—she smiled. A genuine smile. Shauna just looked so damn cute.
“Hey, you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Jackie narrowed her eyes. Right. Sure. She dug into her bag anyway, fingers brushing past lip gloss and ponytail holders until she found what she was looking for—a crumpled tissue with two little pills wrapped inside.
“Remember when you came to Hilton Head with us in second grade? And you cried the whole flight?” She peeled back the tissue.
That got a small chuckle out of her. Jackie felt like she’d won something.
“Here,” she said, letting one pill fall into Shauna’s outstretched hand. “Swiped these from my mom’s medicine cabinet. Valium.”
“She’s got like a never-ending supply, so I doubt she’ll even notice.” Jackie heard herself rambling, but Shauna was still quiet.
Shauna’s lips parted, trying to shape a thank you, but the words caught somewhere. She looked so nervous. Jackie wished she could smooth it all away—make her feel safe again.
“I know. I’m basically the best. And here, it’s a good luck charm.”
Jackie reached behind her neck, unclasped the chain, and dropped it into Shauna’s palm.
“Now nothing can touch you.”
Jackie thought she might’ve just crossed a line—some quiet, invisible boundary she swore she’d hold—she couldn’t keep going back and forth, it wasn’t fair to Shauna. But right then—she didn’t care. Because Shauna was clasping the necklace around her neck, delicate fingers brushing gold against skin, and the sight of it sent a thrill through her.
She looked so good like that—wearing something of Jackie’s. Wearing Jackie’s heart.
Jackie woke up to screaming. Sharp, desperate, endless.
What the fuck?
What the fuck?!
Her vision lurched as she tried to sit up—ears ringing, the world tipped sideways. Smoke burned the back of her throat, and something warm and wet dripped down the side of her temple. Her seatbelt was digging into her ribs like it was trying to keep her tethered to a life that no longer existed.
Their plane had fucking crashed. That couldn’t be right.
She blinked hard, trying to piece the moment together, but it was all noise and fire and chaos. Her first thought wasn’t her parents. Wasn’t the team. Wasn’t even herself.
It was Shauna.
She turned, heart already hammering in her chest, and saw her—slumped in her seat, limbs loose and eyes shut. Unmoving. Too still.
Jackie’s stomach dropped. No. No, no, no—not like this. Not her.
“Shauna?”
Nothing. Not even a flinch.
“C’mon, please, Shauna.”
She shoved at her seatbelt with shaking fingers, clawing at the latch until it finally clicked. The second she was free, she lunged toward Shauna, grabbing her face with both hands, patting hard at her cheeks.
“Shauna. Shauna, get the fuck up!”
She was burning up, head spinning, but all she could think about was getting Shauna out—getting her away.
Shauna blinked. Just barely. But it was enough. Relief hit her so hard it almost knocked her over. Nothing had ever felt like this. Nothing had ever mattered more. Shauna was alive.
Jackie didn’t waste another second. She unbuckled Shauna’s seat belt and hauled her upright, wrapping both arms around her and lifting with every ounce of strength she had. Shauna was deadweight, barely conscious, and Jackie could feel the heat of her body sagging against her, like gravity was trying to pull her away.
They had to move. Now.
The air tasted like melted plastic. Smoke curled in her nose and lungs. Something was leaking—fuel, she realized. It smelled sharp and final and she knew that was a bad sign. Her vision kept doubling—but she wasn’t going to let herself go down. Not when Shauna was still in danger.
“Help! Help! Help! Help me, help me, help me!”
Van. Somewhere nearby. Her voice hoarse, panicked, unraveling.
Jackie’s brain stuttered between instinct and fear, but every cell in her body was screaming one thing: Get Shauna out.
She didn’t even look to see if anyone else was moving. Didn’t call for help. Didn’t think. Shauna was the only thing that mattered. If she lost her now—after everything—Jackie knew she wouldn’t be able to go on.
They were almost out, almost to the fresh air when—
Shauna stopped walking. “It’s Van.”
“I’m stuck!” Van’s voice cut through the smoke—raw, frantic, impossibly close.
“We have to help her,” Shauna said.
Jackie’s pulse spiked. Her hands were trembling again. No. No, no, no.
Jackie dragged herself away from their escape. She wasn’t going to leave Shauna.
Why did Shauna have to be so fucking selfless? Couldn’t she see how serious this was? How dangerous? Why must she always insist on running straight into the midst of all the chaos? They had just seen a woman on fire, for Christ’s sake.
Jackie couldn’t stop staring at the body actually. Couldn’t stop thinking about how if they didn’t move soon, that would be them.
“I’m coming, Van!” Shauna shouted.
Someone kept yelling for help. Jackie didn’t know if it was Van, or someone else, or just her own fear echoing in her skull. The fire was closer now, heat pressing close like a warning. The air was thick with smoke and screaming.
“I’m coming,” Shauna said again, scrambling toward the row where Van was trapped.
“Come on, oh god. It’s stuck.”
“I can’t get out! Can’t get out!”
Van’s voice was cracking now, rising into full-blown panic. The seatbelt wouldn’t budge—Jackie could see it from here. Shauna was tugging at it with both hands, yanking uselessly, as if sheer willpower could melt the buckle loose.
And the fire. The fire was right there. Creeping closer by the second, licking at the wreckage, hungry.
Jackie couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Shauna needed to hurry.
“Hurry up!” she yelled, but it scraped out of her like gravel. It wasn’t just urgency—it was pleading.
“Oh my god.” Shauna was still trying.
“Shauna, we got to go.”
She saw it in Shauna’s eyes: she wasn’t leaving. Not unless someone made her. And Jackie knew, with an awful clarity, that she couldn’t lose her to this. Not to fire. Not to guilt.
She didn’t want to leave Van. She loved Van. But Shauna—Shauna was everything. And if Jackie had to choose between who lived and who died—
“We got to go.”
She lunged.
Her arms wrapped around Shauna’s chest, yanking her back with everything she had. Shauna fought her instantly, thrashing like a wild animal, her nails digging deep into Jackie’s skin.
I’m so sorry, Van, Jackie thought. I’m so, so sorry.
“Shauna, we have to go!”
Shauna was screaming something—maybe Van’s name, maybe no, maybe please—but Jackie didn’t stop. She tightened her grip, teeth gritted, and shoved her backward, out of the wreckage, stumbling to the ground after her.
They were outside. They were breathing. They were alive.
Jackie couldn’t hear anything but the ringing in her ears and the chaos around them. Screaming. Crackling fire. The metal shell of their lives twisted into something unrecognizable.
How did this happen?
How were they alive?
She wanted to go home. Wanted to crawl into bed and pretend this didn’t happen. Wanted to hold Shauna and never let go.
“We have to go back inside!” Shauna cried suddenly, wrenching Jackie out of her daze. She was already moving, already stepping toward the wreckage like they didn’t just barely crawl out of it alive.
Jackie grabbed her again, tighter this time. Ready to tackle her if she had to.
What was she doing? Why was she trying so hard to die?
And then—
The back of the plane, right where Van had been sitting, exploded.
The blast knocked the wind out of her. Heat washed over them in a brutal wave. Jackie’s eyes stung. Her ears rang louder than before.
And all she could think was:
Poor Van.
And—
Thank God it wasn’t Shauna.
Later, after the sun gave up and the fire became their only light, Jackie sat with her arms wrapped around her legs, chin resting on her knees, eyes fixed on the flames like they were the only thing anchoring her to the present. She wasn’t cold yet, but she felt like she could be. Like if she let herself notice her body too much, she’d start shaking and never stop.
The others were scattered around her in silence—some crying, some staring blankly, some clinging to each other like they might come apart otherwise. Jackie didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She felt separate from all of it, like she was floating just above her own body, watching herself sit there in the dirt.
She kept thinking back through the day, trying to make sense of it. But it was all static. It didn’t line up. There was no order—just flashes, like a horror reel playing on loop.
Coach Martinez in the tree—limp, mangled, dangling like some grotesque marionette. A body wasn’t supposed to be up, she thought. Not like that. It short-circuited something in her brain. And the sound it made when it fell—she’d never unhear it.
Coach Scott’s leg. The way it looked when they dragged him out from under the wing. The scream that tore out of him. Misty’s axe, the blood, the wet crack when she brought it down.
Van’s voice still echoed in her skull. That rage. That betrayal. Jackie tried to justify it—I saved Shauna, I didn’t have a choice—but her guilt didn’t care, despite the fact that Van was okay. It gnawed at her anyway.
She thought about how she felt when they finally got away from the wreckage. Not relief. Not gratitude. Not even shock. Just cold. Cold in a way she didn’t know was possible—like her veins were ice.
And somewhere in the haze of it all, a thought kept creeping in—I can’t believe I ever cared.
She couldn’t believe she’d ever given a shit about popularity. About the right lip gloss shade. About if her hair looked better blown out or curled. About whether someone liked her, or if the girls on the team thought she was too bossy, or if Jeff’s friends found her hot.
Most of all, she couldn’t believe how much of her life she spent carefully managing how straight she seemed.
The parties. The makeup. The flirting.
And then Shauna. Months of sneaking around and brushing it off. Of calling it not a big deal. Of pretending it didn’t matter that they kept ending up tangled in each other’s beds, or that Jackie’s heart beat faster every time Shauna looked at her.
She thought almost dying would make everything clear.
But she still cared. About what it meant. About how it looked. About what people would say if they knew.
She should’ve been transformed. She should’ve risen from the wreckage with her priorities rearranged, stripped of everything superficial and scared and stupid. But she didn’t.
She still wanted to be the girl everyone expected. And she registered the self-loathing like a fact—fixed, unchangeable.
What is wrong with me? she thought. What kind of person survives a plane crash and still worries about being gay?
She felt sick. Rotten.
And worse, she was starting to wonder if maybe it would’ve been easier—cleaner—if she hadn’t survived. If she’d gone down with the rest of them. Maybe then she wouldn’t have to live with this version of herself. The one who saw the truth and still couldn’t stand in it.
It might not be too late, a voice whispered—too soft to be anyone’s but her own. The woods were dark. The fire would burn low. The cold was already creeping in. Maybe no one would come save them, and she could simply vanish—softly, quietly, into nothing.
But then who would take care of Shauna?
She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, breath catching.
She didn’t want to die. But she didn’t know how to live like this either.
“You okay, Laura Lee?” Taissa asked.
Jackie didn’t look over—just listened.
“This is all my fault.” Laura Lee said, voice small, like the words weighed more than she could carry. “I did something really bad,”
She continued, “I kept screwing up in my piano lesson last week. Mrs. Brophy kept yelling at me—Sharp. F sharp. F sharp. I just… I couldn’t take it anymore.”
Jackie shifted, leaning back on her forearms. She probably should’ve said something—interrupted her to tell her something soft, something reassuring—but she stayed quiet. She was too curious about where this was headed. Or maybe she was just waiting for something to crack the pressure in her chest.
“So I called her a bad word,” Laura Lee sniffled. “Just in my head, but… God heard me. Now we’re all being punished.”
Jackie didn’t believe that—of course she didn’t, not even a little bit, but there was something about Laura Lee’s conviction that made her pause.
She felt something strange bloom in her chest. Not quite pity. Not quite disbelief. Something closer to affection.
Did she really believe that? That a stray rude thought could bring down an airplane?
Jackie blinked slowly. The world was already so upside down, so senseless—maybe it made more sense to believe in a God with a petty sense of justice than to accept that sometimes things just fall apart. For no reason at all.
She looked over at Shauna, lips twitching faintly. She could tell Shauna was trying to suppress a smile too.
“What did you call her?” Taissa asked.
“…cunt,” Laura Lee whispered.
They all tried to contain their laughter—but they couldn’t. It burst out of them in waves, sharp and sudden and uncontrollable. Jackie laughed until her stomach hurt, and for the first time all day, she felt her age.
“I steal shitty clothes from T.J. Maxx,” Lottie blurted.
“What?” Van’s voice cracked.
“I return them, and I get credit that I never use, and I have thousands of dollars in T.J. bucks,” Lottie replied, smiling like it was a point of pride and shame all at once.
“What? Really?” Jackie laughed, disbelief curling in her throat.
She was still smiling when she heard herself say, “I, uh, I used to sneak downstairs after everybody had gone to bed and watch The Color of Night so I could pause it on Bruce Willis’ wang.”
They all giggled at that.
She didn’t say the rest. Didn’t say it was Jane March who kept her coming back—not Bruce Willis. Though, she hadn’t even let herself accept that before now. But in this moment, the truth settled in—quiet and undeniable. She knew it with the kind of certainty that took root deep inside her, dark and unwelcome, like something ugly growing where no one could see.
Her, crouched in front of the TV long after midnight, remote shaking in her hand, breath caught, eyes wide and greedy. Like a sinner. Like a girl already damned.
And fine, that wasn’t the worst thing she’d done. Not even close.
There was Shauna.
Not what they did. She wasn’t that naive anymore—she didn’t think God, or whatever, struck down a plane full of teenage girls because she got into bed with her best friend.
She thought maybe how she treated Shauna did it. How she made Shauna carry all of it alone. The way Jackie made her feel like she had to pretend too. She had taken what she needed and disappeared into denial, acting like nothing had changed while Shauna unraveled in front of her.
She thought maybe this was her punishment.
Maybe it was her fault.
Not because she wanted Shauna.
But because she used her. Lied to her. Took and took and only gave her the truth once it was too late.
Maybe the crash was just the fallout.
Maybe she already doomed them before the plane ever left the ground.
Jackie shook the thought from her mind. If God was punishing her, Shauna wouldn’t be here.
“That is definitely why we crashed,” Tai said, and it bought Jackie a little grace. The joke landed. She breathed.
“I mean, Jeff’s not bad… but damn. Right?” Jackie added. The words felt awkward coming out of her mouth. She silently prayed the girls didn’t think so too.
She didn’t mean it. And she didn’t look at Shauna when she said it—because she knew Shauna would already be looking at her. Not with judgment, but with that quiet, unnerving way she saw her. Saw straight through her. Jackie always felt exposed when she looked at her like that, like her skin had been peeled back and everything raw was just there, on display for her.
She laughed anyway. Like that could cover it.
“That’s so funny,” Van said, wiping tears from her eyes.
There was a pause. Then Mari spoke up.
“I started that rumor about Becky Colgate getting her dog to eat her out with peanut butter ’cause she got a better grade than me in Trig.”
“That was you?!” Van hollered.
“Oh my god—I believed that one!” Gen yelled.
“Jesus Christ, Mari.” Tai wheezed.
“I faked sleep paralysis for a week just to make my family be nicer to me,” Melissa said, a little hesitant. Jackie smiled at her, encouraging. She’d always been pretty quiet, soft-spoken, in the background. She was happy to see her participating, even though the circumstances were completely fucking insane.
“Smart,” Natalie replied, “Did it work?”
Melissa nodded at her in response.
Gen added, ignominiously, “When I was 13, I licked the frosting off my sister’s birthday cake and blamed it on my nonverbal cousin.”
“GEN,” Van gasped, nearly falling off the log.
Laura Lee choked on nothing. “That’s so bad.”
“I know,” Gen groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I’m going to hell.”
“Front row,” Tai said.
“Save me a seat,” Mari quipped.
“Think we’re already there,” Natalie added.
They all laughed again. Less wild now, more easy.
“What about you, Shipman?” Jackie said, warm. She felt it in her chest and told herself it was just the fire.
“Any secrets big enough to crash a goddamn plane?” She looked away as she finished—Shauna’s gaze on her was too much.
The second it was out, Jackie wanted to take it back. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe she meant to ask, meant to tempt fate. Maybe she wanted Shauna to say something like yeah, my tongue inside you or your hands on my thighs—something so brutal and revealing it would split everything open and Jackie wouldn’t have to choose anymore. The secret would be a secret no longer. She wouldn’t have to carry it.
She thought that might be a good option.
She decided she wouldn’t be mad if Shauna said them.
The silence stretched a little too long, and she couldn’t help but wonder if anyone noticed.
The fire popped.
Jackie’s heartbeat was in her throat.
She felt Shauna’s eyes on her. And when she finally looked back up, Shauna was already watching—already smiling that small, dangerous smile Jackie knew too well. The kind that meant I know. The kind that meant I want you to know that I know.
They exchanged a look—just a flicker—but it was enough.
Go on, Jackie thought. Tell them what we did. What we do. Ruin me.
Shauna never got the chance. They were interrupted by Coach Scott’s anguished screams.
Most of the others had drifted off hours ago, their bodies curled together in twos and threes around the fire, a patchwork of limbs and shared blankets, the quiet breathing of people too exhausted to be afraid anymore.
But Jackie was wide awake.
She lay on her side, facing Shauna, heart thudding slow and steady beneath her ribs. The night air was cool, but she didn’t feel it. All she felt was the hum under her skin, the ache she couldn’t name, the pull.
Shauna had fallen asleep in the same position she’d curled into earlier—on her side facing Jackie, one arm tucked under her head, the other resting across her stomach.
She looked so peaceful—almost impossibly so. Her face was tilted just slightly toward her, lips parted the smallest amount, the curve of her cheek soft and flickering in the firelight. There was a streak of dirt high on her cheekbone, and Jackie had the sudden, aching urge to reach out and brush it away. To lean forward, press her forehead to hers, and breathe her in—just for a second.
She didn’t.
Her gaze dropped to the necklace.
The little gold heart still rested against Shauna’s chest, warm from her skin, tucked just above the collar of her shirt. Jackie isn’t sure what compelled her to give it as a talisman earlier, just that she was desperate to soothe her panic. Now, she wonders offhandedly, if it had really done what she said—prevented anything from touching her.
She reached out—so slowly it barely felt like moving—and let her thumb graze the charm. Once. Then again. The metal rocked gently beneath her touch, the chain twitching where it met skin.
“Do you want it back?” Shauna whispered.
She pulled her hand back quickly, fingers curling into a fist like she’d been caught stealing. She hadn’t realized Shauna was awake. She looked up and found wide, unblinking brown eyes already watching her.
The air left her lungs. She blinked, then shook her head quickly. “No—I wasn’t—I mean, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
Shauna didn’t move. “You weren’t doing anything,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”
Jackie was silent for a while, hand resettling to play with the necklace.
“So… do you?” Shauna asked, barely above a whisper. “Want it back?”
Jackie flinched like the question had teeth. Her hand stilled against the charm.
“Oh. No,” she said, voice cracking a little.
She stopped. Took a breath. Met Shauna’s eyes in the low firelight.
“I don’t want it back,” she said, slower this time. “I want you to keep it.”
Shauna blinked at her. Jackie’s heart twisted.
“I gave it to you because I was scared,” Jackie admitted. “Not about flyi—not for the same reason as you. But you know, still scared. And you were scared. And I didn’t know how to make either of us feel okay except—”
She looked at the necklace. “It felt like… maybe if you had something of mine, and I could see it on you, maybe we’d both feel a little better. I don’t know.”
She exhaled sharply, almost laughing. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” Shauna said, firmly. Not loud, but certain.
Jackie huffed a quiet breath and rolled her eyes, but it didn’t carry the usual edge. “Really,” Shauna insisted. “It did make me feel better.”
That admission hung there for a second, like it surprised them both.
Shauna’s gaze flicked down to the space between them, then back up. She wet her lips, swallowed, like she was working up the nerve to ask something she wouldn't normally have the courage to say out loud.
“Did it…” Her voice trailed off, then found its footing again. “Did it—make you feel better? Seeing it on me?”
Jackie didn’t answer right away.
She looked at Shauna instead. Looked and looked, until the space between them felt too quiet. Until Shauna’s breath caught just slightly.
And then Jackie nodded. Once. Barely more than a breath.
And Shauna, maybe needing something to do with her hands—or maybe not thinking at all—reached for the charm.
But Jackie’s hand was already there.
Their fingers met—softly, uncertain—grazing against each other.
Shauna’s fingertips brushed Jackie’s, then paused, curled slightly like she might hold on.
Jackie could feel her pulse in her throat, her wrist, her palm—everywhere Shauna was touching her.
She nodded again.
“Yeah,” she said, voice quieter now. “It did.”
Shauna didn’t speak. But she didn’t look away either.
Jackie swallowed. Her voice went softer, almost childlike.
“I want it to keep keeping you safe.”
She let her hand fall then. The words hung in the dark between them, heavier than they had any right to be.
Shauna’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak.
Jackie wanted to reach out again—touch the chain, her collarbone, her hand, something—but she didn’t.
She’d already said too much.
And not nearly enough.
Shauna’s eyes didn’t leave her. She looked so open in the dark. Not vulnerable, exactly—just unguarded.
“How are you?” she asked softly.
Jackie froze.
No one had asked her that. Not since the crash. Not since the fire. Not since she dragged Shauna out of the wreckage and left Van behind. Everyone had looked to her—she was their captain, after all—but no one had asked.
And if she was honest with herself, it had been long before the crash, too. At least in a way that meant something—beyond the polite, cursory “How are you?” / “Fine, thanks. And you?” where the answer was already decided.
Her parents didn’t ask. Jeff sure as hell didn’t. Neither did Coach. Or the team. No one really did.
The realization sent a pang through her chest.
She didn’t blame them. Not when she really thought about it. It wasn’t their fault she’d made it so easy to believe she was fine—happy. She’d trained herself to smile at the right moments, to keep her voice light, to stay just distant enough that no one ever looked too closely. From the outside, her life looked effortless. Perfect, even.
And that was the point, wasn’t it? She wanted it that way. Needed it—made sure of it. She built the illusion herself, brick by careful brick. So what right did she have to feel abandoned, when she was the one who made herself unknowable?
She only ever let herself fall apart when no one was watching.
Or, she supposed—when Shauna was.
Jackie swallowed. “I’m fine.”
Shauna gave her a look. Like she already knew it was a lie and was giving her another chance to say something true.
Jackie let out a quiet breath. “I’m not fine,” she said, voice hushed. She didn’t want the other girls to overhear. “I feel like… everything’s too loud. Even the quiet parts. It’s like my brain won’t shut up—” she let out a shaky laugh, “which isn’t exactly new, I guess—but now none of it makes any sense.”
She blinked fast, like that might help keep everything from spilling over. “I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up and it’ll all be some weird, extended nightmare. But I don’t. I’m just—” her voice caught, “I’m just here. And it’s only been, what? Twelve hours? Like—how is that possible? How has it only been twelve hours?”
Shauna didn’t interrupt.
“And I keep thinking about Van,” Jackie whispered. “About the way she screamed. I keep replaying it. I saved you. I didn’t save her. I think if I say it enough times it’ll stop hurting, but it doesn’t.”
Shauna shifted a little closer. “You really did save me, you know,” she said. “I’m still here because of you.”
“That’s the problem,” Jackie said, and it broke out of her before she could catch it. “You’re the problem. I didn’t choose to save you. I just—had to. It wasn’t even a decision. I saw you and I just—moved. And like, of course, I would always pick you, it’s just, I don’t know. The fact that it wasn’t a choice.”
The words hung there, raw and terrible.
Shauna’s face didn’t change. But her fingers curled slightly against the blanket.
“You think that’s a bad thing?” she asked.
Jackie blinked. “No. I don’t know. I think it means I don’t know how to stop choosing you.”
Shauna replied, “Why do you have to stop?”
The silence that followed was thick. Their faces were inches apart now. Jackie hadn’t noticed them closing the gap, but there it was—Shauna’s knee against hers, the heat of her body spilling into the space between them.
“You’re allowed to want me,” Shauna added. Barely a whisper.
Jackie’s stomach flipped. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
“I know you’re scared,” Shauna added. “Me too. But you don’t have to—pretend like it didn’t happen. Like we’re not…” She trailed off, and her eyes flicked down—to Jackie’s mouth, then back up again. “Especially now.”
Jackie felt her heart jolt like Shauna had reached out and touched it.
It wasn’t fair—how easy it was for Shauna to make her forget everything else. The fire, the cold, the blood still dried under her nails. All of her convictions slipped away with just one glance.
Don’t look at me like that, she thought, even as she leaned in. Don’t say things like that. Not when I’m already falling apart.
She reached out, without thinking, and let her fingers brush Shauna’s wrist. Light, feather-soft. Just to feel something steady.
Shauna didn’t move away.
She tilted forward the tiniest bit, her breath brushing Jackie’s cheek.
The world narrowed. The fire was gone. The trees, the dirt, the others sleeping around them—none of it existed. Just the space between them. Just the charge in the air, aching to snap.
Jackie’s heart beat so hard it hurt.
Then—
Snap.
A branch broke somewhere behind them. Fast, messy footsteps in the dark—someone coming back from pissing in the woods, maybe Gen, maybe Lottie. Jackie didn’t even turn to look.
Jackie pulled back like she’d been burned. Eyes wide. Breath caught.
Shauna slowly rolled onto her back. Jackie did the same.
The gap between them stretched open again.
Jackie stared up at the sky. The stars looked too sharp.
Shauna didn’t speak again. Didn’t move.
Neither did Jackie.
But her hand stayed half-curled in the dirt between them, like it was still reaching
A couple minutes passed. Jackie could feel every second scrape by, sharp as gravel under skin. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shauna sit up.
“Where are you going?” Jackie asked, her voice low, wary.
“Bathroom,” Shauna answered. Her voice was thick—like it had been strained through something wet and heavy. She didn’t look at her.
“I’ll come with you,” Jackie said, already starting to rise.
“No.” Shauna’s reply was quick. Too quick. “Stay—I’ll only be a few minutes. I want to go alone.”
Jackie froze mid-motion. Watched as Shauna turned and walked off, steps uneven in the dark. And though she tried not to hear it, she couldn’t help it, the sound of quiet, broken sniffling carried just enough to reach her.
She lay back down. Numb. Staring at the sky like it had betrayed her.
What the fuck was wrong with her?
Why couldn’t she just keep her mouth shut—her hands still? Why did she always have to push, to test, to touch just enough and then flinch back the second it became real?
She needs to either buck up and be with her or leave her alone. This constant back and forth—lingering too long, looking too much, saying just enough to keep Shauna close but never enough to give her clarity—it wasn’t fair.
Shauna deserved better than this.
Better than someone who only reaches out in the dark, only looks brave when no one else can see. Someone who flirts with the edge of honesty but never has the guts to leap.
But it was so hard.
So fucking hard.
Jackie didn’t know how to resist her. Not when Shauna looked at her like she wanted to understand every part of her, even the parts Jackie didn’t understand herself. Not when she touched her arm so softly, or leaned in too close, or the way she said her name. Like Jackie was something worth wanting.
And every part of Jackie wanted back.
Wanted to pull her close and finally, finally stop pretending.
But she couldn’t.
Because wanting Shauna meant facing too much. It meant naming something she’d buried so deep she wasn’t sure she could dig it out without destroying everything else she thought she was.
She needed to be better. Stronger.
She needed to resist the pull, no matter how much it hurt.
If not for her own sake, then for Shauna’s.
Because the way things were now—the almosts, the mixed signals, the late-night confessions—it was cruel. And Jackie didn’t want to be cruel. To anyone, sure, but especially not to Shauna.
Tonight was just a lapse. That’s what she told herself. Just a slip, a moment of weakness after the kind of day no one should have to survive. She’d be better tomorrow. She had to be.
She heard Shauna come back—quiet steps, the careful way she settled under her blanket. Jackie didn’t move, but she noticed it immediately: Shauna was lying away from her now. Not side by side like before. Just head to head, their bodies angled apart like magnets flipped the wrong way.
Jackie stared at the ceiling of trees above them, heart sinking.
She turned onto her side, away from the fire, away from everyone—away from her—and let herself cry. Quiet, buried sobs into the crook of her arm.
She didn’t know if it was grief or guilt or just the ache of wanting something she couldn’t have.
But it felt like mourning.
And maybe it was.