Free Underwater by Brooke Moss

shoulder. “Which I can totally do by myself now, by the way. I’m capable of doing almost everything for myself now.”
    His mouth stretched upward. “That I don’t doubt.”
    When I hit the gravel of the driveway, I pointed toward the path. “Is that way all right?”
    “Looks good.” Saxon followed my lead. “You seem very independent to me. I’ll bet those months after your accident were really tough for you.”
    “They weren’t a jog in the park. Obviously.” I snorted. “And my parents don’t really accept that I can take care of myself now. They still think they need to watch my every move and make sure I’m safe, healthy, and happy all the time.”
    Saxon looked down at me as I hit the root at the mouth of the trail with all of my strength and bounced past it. “And are you?”
    “I don’t know.” I was surprised by my honesty. I preferred to appear surly and indignant to every person I encountered, but when I was with Saxon, my defenses crumbled. I could be myself, and no matter what that included—scared, happy, pissy, sad, or somewhere in between—he would still like me. Even Evey got sick of me eventually. But that was what happened when you were forced to watch over your older sister all of the time like some sort of backward nanny. “I guess I am. I don’t go to parties and drive around drunk like everyone at school, and I’m not doing drugs. So I guess I’m safe. My mother thinks I’m lazy and depressed, but—”
    He frowned down at me. “Is that true?”
    “Am I lazy and depressed?” I paused long enough to tilt my head at him. “No. I’m not. I couldn’t be lazy if I wanted to. I would get bed sores.”
    He chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Be serious.”
    “Fine. I’m not lazy.” I rolled to a stop. When Saxon turned to look at me, I unzipped my hoodie and pulled my arm out. Though my skin was horrifyingly pale and translucent—the curse of my Irish/Scottish bloodline—my biceps were nicely defined. I didn’t look like one of those freaky bodybuilder chicks in a fluorescent bikini, but I looked all right in a tank top. “See? I push myself all over school every day, and I hoist myself in and out of bed, the bathtub, and the car by myself. And as for depressed…ah, hell, I don’t know. Maybe I am. Sometimes. But that’s what comes with being forced to sit and watch the whole world instead participating in it. That’s what happens when you go from being popular and having something to do every day of the week to sitting at home watching your phone not ring.”
    I pushed my wheels, slowly, one of my arms still exposed to the weather. “So yes, I think I can be depressed some days. But it’s not like I’m clinically depressed. I only get really down once in a while. Homecoming, summertime when my dad takes Evey and Declan hiking, ski season, prom season. Just the times of year when it is apparent how different from everyone I am. But most of the time, I’m just glad to be alive.”
    He examined my arm, and I felt my skin warm under his gaze. He took a few more steps. “You’re very beautiful.”
    I didn’t look up at him. Couldn’t. I didn’t want to know if Saxon was saying it out of pity. Crap, I’d heard it all before. When Ian dumped me, he’d sat next to me on my hospital bed and said, It isn’t that you’re not pretty, Luna, because you still are. It’s not that.
    And when I’d looked up at him, I could see it. Pity fogged his eyes and made him throw empty compliments my way to make up for the fact that he didn’t want to date a girl who was in a wheelchair. I didn’t want Saxon to say things like that if it weren’t something he really thought.
    “Shut up,” I half mumbled, half whispered.
    Saxon grabbed the handle to my chair and stopped walking. Coming to an abrupt stop, I glared at him over my shoulder.
    He glared back. “Why do you do that? Why don’t you accept my compliment?”
    “I don't know.” I pulled at my wheels, but his grip