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356 pages, Hardcover
First published April 2, 2024

A marble boy, mired in his own personal mausoleum. Her starved god. Her secret saint. Her killer.
The feel in her chest was that of stitches ripped clean. There, beneath her bones, was a wound she thought she'd healed.
He withdrew his hand, flexing out his fingers as if it hurt him to touch her. She hoped it did. She hoped it shattered him the way it shattered her.
"There's a Welsh word I learned in school," said James. "Hiraeth. There's no direct translation for it in the English language, but it means a deep longing for a home you can never return to."
Inosculation, where the trunks of multiple trees grew so close together that they grafted into one. That was them, he'd thought , only half listening to the lecture.
He, Peter, and Wyatt, their roots so intricately knotted that none of them could tell where one of them ended and the other began.
"You can't run from the things you fear. Instead, sit with them a while. Look them in the eye. You will find they are not as big as they seem, and you are not as small as you thing."
“He could have told her she was dead wrong -- that he'd studied her for so long, for so many years, that he knew her like a sailor knew the sea. That he felt the shifts in her moods the way a lightkeeper's knees ached before a storm.”
All those years wondering what a real kiss from Peter might taste like, and now she knew. He tasted like a tragedy. An end, before they'd even begun.