THEILLUSIONOFANNABELLA

(HONEYTONSERIES,#1)

JESSICASORENSEN

CONTENTS

Prologue
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13
Chapter14
Chapter15
AbouttheAuthor
AlsobyJessicaSorensen

TheIllusionofAnnabella

JessicaSorensen

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Prologue

I ’ve always been a happy person. At peace with my life. Always wearing a sparkling
smile, I was the kind of child who dreamed about catching rainbows and drinking
glassesofsunshine.Therewasn’tadayIdidn’twakeupthinkinghowwonderfulitwas
tobealive.

Iwasfortunateenoughtobebornintoalovingfamily.Igrewupinasmalltownin

thecenterofsuburbiawherelifestoodstillincomparisontolargercities,butIloved
thecomfortitbrought,thathometownfeelingIgotwheneverIwalkedaround.Butmy
favoritepartwashoweveryonecelebratedtheholidays.Christmasesweredustedwith
handfuls of holiday magic, and everyone who lived on our street decorated their
homes so the entire block was lit up. Fourth of Julys were spent at the park with
neighbors, eating popsicles and pies, and gazing up at an explosion of fireworks
paintingtheduskysky,likefireflies.When I was younger, I truly believed they were
fireflies.

“Iwanttocatchthem,”Ishoutedwhilepointingatthesky.“Please,Daddy,letme

catchthem.Ithinktheymightsecretlybefireflies.”

“That’s not a wise idea, Annabella,” my father, who was going through his overly

protectivephase,said.“Youcouldgetburnedifyouactuallycaughtone.”

Isulked,andmymomchimedin,“Oh,comeon,honey,lethergoplayforawhile.”

Sheurgedmeforward,andIranacrossthegrasswithmyhandsintheair,watching
theskyinawe.

My younger twin sisters, Alexis and Zhara, and my older sister, Jessamine, joined

me while my brothers, Loki and Nikoli, stayed by my father, pretending to be
uninterested.Ifeltsorryforthem.Theydidn’trealizehowmuchfunwewerehaving,
even if we never caught a single firefly—they always fizzled out before they hit the
ground.Overtheyears,myfatherstoppedbeingsoparanoidandjoinedin,evengoing
asfarasbuyingusourownboxofsparklerseveryyear.

DespitethemagicoftheFourthofJuly,birthdayswerealwaysmyfavoritetimeof

year. When I was younger, birthdays were solely a family holiday, where the seven
Bakersspentthedaytogetherdoingwhateverthebirthdaygirlorboywanted.Itdidn’t
even have to be mine. I was always happy on birthday mornings, so thrilled to
celebratethedaytogether,daysthatpromisedendlessmagicalpossibilities.Myparents
woulddocrazythingslikepullusoutofschooltotakeustoconcerts,letusspendaday
on the beach sculpting sand statues—which they’d judge at the end—or my personal
favorite,shoppingatsecondhandstorestoseewhocouldcomeupwiththebestfind.I
alwaysfeltsoluckyallthetime,andmaybethat’swhereImadethemistake.

“Ifoundavasethatbelongedtoaprincess,”Iproclaimedtomymomonmytenth

birthday.

The vase was black and pink with jewels and a small crack down the center. In

reality, it didn’t belong to a princess. I just believed pretty vases were supposed to

belongtoprincesses.

“Anna’slying,”Nikolisaid,pointingatme.“She’smakingstoriesupagain.”
“Itcould’vebelongedtoaprincess.”Icradledthevasetomychest.“Mom,tellhimit

could.”

“It can be whatever you want.” My mom smoothed her palm over the top of my

head.

ShealwaysencouragedmetobewhoeverIwantedtobeandbelievedwhateverI

wanted her to believe. She was the same way, full of ideas that didn’t always make
sense.Idreamtofbeinglikeheroneday.

All of that changed the day I turned seventeen. The day that had held so much

promisewhenIwokeup,carriedsomuchdespairwhenIshutmyeyestogotosleep.
MaybeitwasbecauseIknewnothingwasevergoingtobethesame.ThatChristmases,
FourthofJulys,andevenbirthdayswouldneverbemagicalagain.Thosedayswould
belesspromising.Thatthehappy,sunnydaysofcatchingrainbowsweredead.

BecauseitwasthedayIlearnedthatIhadbeen,andalwayswouldbe,livingmylife

in a sea of glass. That my life was a distorted reflection of what I wanted to see, and
when that life shattered, I was left trying to figure out how to put the pieces back
together.

Chapter1

I ’mnottheprettiestgirlintheworldorthemostpopular.Idon’thaveafantastictalent
thatsetsmeapartfromothers.Irarelyrebel.Idosmilemorethanmost,andIloveto
dance.Ienjoyalotofthings,likebooksthatyoucangetlostin,moviesthatmakeyou
happy,andmusicyoucandanceto.Mostdays,I’maverageatbest.MostdaysI’mokay
withthat.Today,notsomuch.

It’smyseventeenthbirthday.AlthoughIusedtospendthedaywithmyfamily,now

that I’m older, my parents are throwing a party for me and my friends. And Ben
Winsington, a guy I’ve crushed on since grade school, is coming. It took me days to
workupthecouragetoinvitehimandallmywillpowernottofaintwhenhesaidyes.
Ben,thestarquarterbackandoneofthehottestguysatschool,saidyes!

The party hasn’t even started, and I’m already a bundle of nerves over what I’m

goingtowear,whatI’mgoingtosaytoBen,ifI’llbeabletoactsemi-cool.Sinceit’sstill
early, I have another seven jittery, nausea-filled hours to suffer through before the
actualfunbegins.

Themusicinmybedroomiscrankedup,astringquartetfloatingfromthespeaker,

asIyankallmyclothesoffthehangersandtossthemontothebed.Inthemidstofthe
madness, my mom sticks her head into my room then snaps her fingers at me.
“Annabella Baker, we need to go now, or we’re going to be late.” Her urgent tone
doesn’tmatchthehugesmileonherface.

“I’mhurryingasfastasIcan.”Ifastenmylengthybrownhairintoaponytailthen

put my hands on my hips and stare at the mound of clothes piled on the bed. “I just
can’tfigureoutwhattowear.”

“Sincewhendoyoucareaboutclothessomuch?”
Ihopemyheatedcheeksdon’tgivemeaway.“Idon’tknow.”
Butshecanreadmelikeanopenbook.“Isthisaboutaboy?”
Ishakemyhead,buteventuallyI’llcaveandtellheraboutBenandmyhugecrush

onhim.Hopefullyshe’llgivemesomeadviceonhowtochilloutandactcoolerthanI
feel.

“All right then,” she says skeptically. She starts digging through my clothes and

holdsupapink,knee-lengthdress.“Howaboutthisone?Youlookcuteinit.”

Iscrunchupmynose.“Idon’twanttolookcutetoday.”
“Thenwhatdoyouwanttolooklike?”
“Idon’tknow...likeyoumaybe.”
My mom is anything but ordinary. Her wild, brown curls that frame her heart-

shapedfaceandcat-shapedeyessurroundedbylong,darkeyelashesremindmeofan
Egyptianprincess.She’sanamazingcook,too,thekindwhocanmakecakeslooklike
worksofart.Plus,shewearsalotofedgyoutfitsthatmakeherstandout.

“Mostdaughterswouldneversaythat,”sheremarksasshesiftsthroughtheclothes

onthebed.

Idramaticallyflopdownonthemattress.“Mostdaughtersdon’thavemothersthat

wearstuddedleatherjacketsandglitteryheels.”

She glances at her black dress, plaid overshirt, and knee-high studded boots. “I

probablyshouldstartdressingmoremother-appropriate,right?”

“Youreallywanttobelikeeveryoneelse?Becauseletmetellyou,beingordinary

isn’t always great. I mean, sometimes I’m cool with walking with the crowd, but
sometimes,”liketoday,“itkindofsucks.”

Shelaughs,herblueeyescrinklingaroundthecorners.“Oh,Annabella,sometimes

youcanbethesilliestgirlontheplanet.”Shepatsmyhead.“Butthat’sokay.”

“Why?Ididn’tdoanythingweird.”
Shejustsmiles.“You’llunderstandoneday.”
“You’rebeingsuperweirdrightnow.”
Shehumsunderherbreathasshesortsthroughmyclothes,butgivesupandbacks

awayfromthebed.“Getyourhairandmakeupdone.I’llberightback.”Shetapsthe
skip button on the iPod on her way out. The song switches to “Elastic Heart” by Sia.
“Stopsulkinganddance,myBallerinaAnnabella,”shesaysbeforewaltzingoutofthe
room,twirlingatthedoor.

AsstressedoutasIamoverBen,IfeelatinybitbetterasImovemyfeetandspinin

circles all the way to the mirror. The more I dance to the rhythm, the smaller my
worries about guys and birthday parties become. For a moment, I feel calmly still in
life.

Irunabrushthroughmyhairwhileshimmyingmyhips.Isqueezeinapirouette

betweentracingmyhazeleyeswithadaboflinerandapplyingadropoflip-gloss.By
thetimeI’mfinishedwithmymakeup,I’vespunatleastfiftypirouettesandonevery
overenthusiasticbríse.

“Feelingbetter?”Mymomreturnstomyroomwithclothesinherarms.
“Yes,”IadmitasIstretchoutmylegsandpointmytoesafewtimes.“Youdidthat

onpurpose,didn’tyou?”

“Didwhat?”sheasksinnocentlyasshedropstheclothesontothebed.
“LeftmealoneinmyroomsoIwoulddanceandchillout.”
“Well, I had to get you to chill out somehow. I figured I could either let you take

some time to dance and mellow out, or get you to fess up to whatever’s got you all
depressed on your birthday.” She waits for me to offer up the answer, but my lips
remain sealed, too afraid to tell her that I, Annabella Baker, the girl who dreams of
chasing rainbows, is stressed out over a guy. “Not going to tell me, huh?” She pouts
disappointedly.“Okay,wellmaybeyou’llfeelliketellingmeduringthecarride.”

“Carridetowhereexactly?”Ipickuptheshort,redandblackpatterneddressshe

broughtinwithher.

“It’sasurprise.”Hereyessparklewithasecret.
“Whatkindofasurprise?”Ieyethedress,studdedbracelet,andstrappyheelsshe

putonthebed.

“Thegoodkind.”Shebackstowardthedoor.“Nowgetdressed.Weneedtogetgoing

ifwewanttomakeitbackintimefortheparty.”

“Can’tIhaveahint?”Iplead,claspingmyhandsinfrontofme.
“Music,”shesays.“Anyparticularbirthdaywishthisyear?”

“Howaboutaunicorn?”Ijoke.“YouknowI’vealwayswantedoneofthose.”
“AsmuchasIlovegivingyouwhateveryouwant,Ijustdon’tthinkwehaveroom

foraunicorn,”shesaysalmostmournfully.

I love that she doesn’t say it’s not possible, that unicorns don’t exist. It’s probably

why,whenIwasyounger,Iwishedforaglitterrainstormandbelieveditwouldcome
true.

“How about a glitter rainstorm, then?” I ask, hopeful. “That would be pretty

amazing,too.”

Shechucklesthatoh-Anna-you’re-so-sillykindofchuckle.“I’vealwaysenviedthat

imaginationofyours.”Shewhisksoutoftheroom,leavingmetoobsessoverwhatshe
said.

Mymomenviesme?Really?
Whiletheideaseemsimpossible,Ifeelallglowyinside.Istarttogetdressedasmy

nervesaboutBenabruptlyshiftintoexcitementoverwhatevermymomhasplanned
fortoday.Mybetisthatithassomethingdotowithdancing,myoneandonlypassion.

I’vebeentakingballetclassessinceIwassix-years-old.Elevenyearslater,I’mstillin

lovewitheveryaspectofit;howeasyitistogetlostinthemusic,howIfeelsoatpeace
wheneverI’mdancing,likeit’sexactlywhatI’msupposedtobedoing.SometimesIget
socaughtupinit,I’lldanceforhours,untilmymusclesacheandmyfeetarecovered
inblisters.IloveitsomuchthatIplanonmajoringindance.I’vestartedlookinginto
collegesthathavegooddanceprogramssowhenIgraduate,Icanliveoutmydreamof
dancingonstageandperformingwithamajordancecompany.

Hmmm . . . maybe that’s what the surprise is? Taking me to check out college

campuses?

Ipeeloffmypajamas,squeezeintothedressandslipontheheels.AsI’mputtingon

a few bracelets, I hear my phone vibrating on my dresser. I smile when I see my
sister’snameonthescreen.

Jessamine:Heybdaygirl!Can’twaittocyatonight!
Me:Meeither!It’sbeentoolong.
My sister’s been attending culinary school overseas now for almost a year, and I

haven’tseenhersincesheleft,soIwassuperexcitedwhenshetextedme,sayingshe
wascominghomeandstayingforoveraweek.

Jessamine:Uhaven’ttoldMomandDadthatI’mcoming,right?Iwantittobea

surprise!

Me:Whoops!Iforgot.UknowIsuckatkeepingsecrets.
Jessamine:Oh,Anna!Udidn’t!
Me:J/k.It’sstillasecret.Bututotallyoweme.IHATEkeepingsecrets.
Jessamine:Iknow.That’swhyIhaveaboutapoundofchocolateinmysuitcase.
Me:Woohoo!Can’twait!
Jessamine:Meeither.Cyatonight!
Puttingthephonedown,Idoaquickcheckinthemirrorbeforeskippingdownthe

stairswaytooeagerly,andIenduptrippingonthefinalstep.

“Shit,”Icurseasmyhipbashesagainstthecounter.
Damnheels.I’mnotusedtowearingthem,andtheymakemelesscoordinatedthan

Iam.

Mydad,scramblingeggsandfryingbacononthestove,shootsmealookfromover

his shoulder. “Anna, watch the language. At least when you’re in front of your
brother.”

“Why?YouandMomswearallthetime.”Nikoli,myyoungestbrotherandthebaby

of the family, chimes in. He’s munching on a piece of toast and reading a playbook.
Eventhoughhe’sonlythirteen,he’salreadydecidedtodevotehislifetosports,mainly
football.

My dad reels around toward Nik, trying to appear stern, but with the floral apron

he’ssportingandthegreasyspatulainhishand,hemissesthemark.“YourmomandI
areadults;therefore,wecansaywhateverwewant.”

Nikdrumshisfingersonthetable.“Thatkindofseemsunfair.Imean,yeah,you’re

adults, but you influence us. We look up to you. If you swear, then we view it as an
okaythingtodo.”

Mydad’sgazedartstome.“Didyoutellhimthat?”
“No,buthehasapoint.”Igrabapieceofdrytoastfromthetoaster.“Although,I’m

notsurewherehegotthepoint.”

“Wheredidyougetthattheoryfrom?”mydadasksNik,flippingoverthebacon.
Nikturnsthepageoftheplaybook,shrugging.“Ihadtowriteareportonheroesfor

English class. I did a lot of research on parents as heroes, because I used one of you
guys,andtherewasanarticlethatsaidthat.”

“You used one of us as your hero?” Hope fills my dad’s eyes as he distractedly

reducestheheatoftheburner.

Oblivious,Nikoliexaminestheplays.“Yep.”
Icrossthekitchentogetthebutterfromthefridge.“Niki,wouldyoupleasejusttell

Dadthatyoudidthereportonhimbeforeheendsupburningbreakfast.”

“What...”Mydadtrailsoffassmokefunnelsfromthepanofbacon.Hecursesas

heswipesupthepanandrushesforthesinkasthesmokealarmstartsscreeching.

NikoliandIlookateachothertheneruptwithlaughter.
“Ithinkhejusttotallymadeitokaytoswear,”Isaythroughmylaughs.
Wehigh-fiveeachother,thenIbuttermytoastwhilemydadfansthesmokealarm

withadishrag.

Mymomstrollsintothesmokykitchenrightashegetsthealarmtoshutoff.“I’m

seriously starting to wonder if your cooking skills are ever going to get better,” she
teases,givingmydadaquickkissonhisscruffycheek.

ForaslongasIcanremember,myparentshavebeencompletelyandonehundred

percentinlove.Theirstoryisprettyordinary,butIthinktheirloveisanepicfairytale.

High school sweethearts and first loves, they got married not too long after they

startedcollege.Theystruggledtomakeendsmeet,livinginatinyapartmentthathad
practicallynofurnitureandaneighborthatlikedtosingshowtunesduringoddhours
ofthenight.Addthattofinalsandpart-timejobs,theywereunderalotofstress.

Althoughmostpeoplespendtheirtimeincollegefiguringoutwhattheywantinlife,

my mom wanted to share the journey with my dad. And my dad . . . well, he
remembersthosedaysas“someofthebest.”

Eventually,theybothgraduatedandfoundsteadyjobs.Twoyearslater,thefirstof

theBakerclanwasborn.Mybrother,Loki,who’soffatcollegestudyingphilosophyand

dating girls who wear lots of black and, in my opinion, seem really sullen about life.
Lokiseemshappy,though.Well,aboutashappyasanyotherphilosophymajor.

Idreamofonedayfindingwhatmyparentshave.IfI’mlucky,maybeI’llendup

havingitwithBen.

“Youaboutreadytogo?”mymomasksmeasshescoopsupthecarkeysfromthe

counter.

“Yessiree.”Imunchonmytoastwhilemyparentsexchangealook.“I’mstartingto

get really curious about where we’re going. And if I had known Dad was in on the
secret,Iwouldhavewiggleditoutofhimbeforeyougotdownhere.

“AllI’mgoingtosayisyou’regoingtoloveit.”Mydadreturnstothestovewithhis

backturnedtome.

“Areyougoingtobeabletotakethedayoff?”mymomasksmydadasshegetsan

energydrinkfromthefridge.“Soyoucangowithus?”

“Yep.ItoldMaggieshe’dhavetoholddownthefortonherown,”mydadrepliesas

hescrewsthecaponagallonofmilk.“ButIhavetoruninandhelpheropenupfirst,
soI’llbeaboutanotherhour.”

My dad owns a quaint bookstore in one of the quieter areas of town. During the

summers, I spend a lot of time there, helping out and reading the inventory. I love
everythingaboutthestore,lovethesmellofnewandoldbooks,theatmosphere,andI
lovespendingtimewithmydad.

“Anhoursoundsperfect.Ihavetorunafewerrandsfirst,anyway,whichmayor

maynothavetodowithpresentsandcake.”Mymomsmilesatme,thengetsherpurse
fromthetableandhugsNikoligoodbye.“HowaboutIgorunmyerrandsthenpickyou
upatthestore?”shesaystomydad.“ThatwayAnnawon’tbelateforherparty.”

Mystomachsomersaultsatthementionoftheparty,butmymomleavesmehardly

any time to tumble back into stress mode. She waggles her fingers, waving goodbye,
thenmotionsformetofollowher.

Istarttoleave,butmydadsnagsmyelbowanddrawsmeback.“Thisisforlater.”

Hehandsmearectangularboxdecoratedwithpinkpaperandsilverbow.

“Thanks,Dad.”Icirclemyarmsaroundhim.“You’rethebest.”
Hehugsmebackthenwesaygoodbye,andIchaseaftermymother,theheelsof

myshoesscuffingagainstthehardwoodfloor.

“Whyarewegoingthisway?”Iask,becauseweusuallyusethebackdoor.
“BecauseIhavesomethingforyouthatrequiresusgoingoutthefrontdoor.”Right

asshesaysit,Iheargigglingfromaboveme.

Itipmychinbackandlookupatthebanisterrightasarainstormofsilverandpink

glittershowersdownonme.AlaughburstsfrommylipsasIspanmyarmstotheside
andspininacircle.

“It’sabirthdaymiracle,”AlexisandZharasingsongfromabovemeastheycontinue

throwinghandfulsofglitterdown.

Itwirlarounduntiltheyrunoutofglitter.ThenIgivemymomaginormoushug.

“Thankyou.”

“Youdeservetogetwhatyouwantonyourbirthday.”Shesmilesasshesmoothes

herhandovermyhead.“Now,comeon.Let’sgetthisfun-filleddaystarted.

Beaming from ear to ear, I follow her toward the front door. As we’re passing

through the foyer, I catch my reflection in the mirror on the wall. My dress, cheeks,
andhairarecoveredwithsparkles.

“Ilooklikeaunicornthrewuponme,”Iremarkwithmyheadangledtotheside.

“Butinthebestwaypossible.”

My mom chuckles as she opens the door. “How you make such a gross sentence

soundsoappealingisbeyondme.Butthenagain,youalwaysdidhaveagiftofmaking
sunshineoutofrain.”

“You’rereallystrokingmyegotoday.”
“Nope,I’mjusttellingthetruth.”
Ibrushtheglitteroutofmyhairbeforegettingintothecar.Mymomcranksupher

favoriteclassicrockstation,andalittlePearlJamplaysthroughthespeakers.

“Whaterrandsarewerunning?”Iask.“Somethingfun,I’mhoping.”
“Unfortunately not. As much as I hate to do it, this is an unbirthday related stop,”

sheadmitsasshebrakesatthestopsignattheendofourstreet.

“Well, I’ll let it slide just as long as you tell me where you, Dad, and I are going.”

Whensheremainssilent,Isulk.“You’rereallynotgoingtotellmewherewe’regoing?”

“Noway.It’lltakeallthefunoutofthesurprise.”
“Oh,fine,”Ihuff,pretendingtobemoreirritatedthanIam.
ShedrivesdownMainStreet,pastalltheshops,thesecondhandstore,thebank,and

finally stops at the grocery store. “I just have to grab something real quick.” She
reachesintoherpurseandtossesmeabagofM&MsandaSnickersbar.“Eatup.”

“Thanks.”Idivein,stuffingmyfacewithchocolatewhilesherunsin.
Ikicktheheelsoff,propmybarefeetuponthedash,andrelaxintheseat,cranking

upsometunes.Itapmyfeetandsingalong,observingallthepeoplewalkinginandout
ofthegrocerystore.Honeytonhasmorepeoplearoundinthesummertimethaninthe
wintertime,mainlybecauseit’satouristtown.SinceitsJune,itmakespeoplewatching
superfun.

Aftertenminutes,Igrowboredandopenthepresentmydadgaveme.Iknowwhat

itisbeforeevengettingitopen,consideringit’sbeenatraditionforfouryearsnow.Just
likeIguessed,underthewrappingpaperisasmallboxofsparklersandalighter.

Glancingaround,Itakeoneoutofthebox,shoveopenthedoor,andplantmybare

feetonthehotasphalt.Flickingthelighter,Imovetheflametothetipofthesparkler,
ignitingashowerofsparks.Laughing,Ijumptomyfeetanddancearoundinacircle,
gigglingevenharderwhenpeoplegawkatme.

Afterthesparklerdies,Ireturntomyseatinthecaranddrummyfingersagainst

mythighstothebeatofaPinkFloydsong.Bythetimemymomwalksoutofthestore,
I’mgigglingatamomwho’sscoldingherteenagesonforwearingahoodiewhenit’s
ninety-five degrees out. He keeps glancing in my direction, as if he’s embarrassed. I
don’tknowwhy.HissunglasseshidehisfacesoIcan’ttellwhoheis,butI’mguessing
he’satouristsinceIdon’trecognizehismom.

“Whatchalaughingat?”mymomasks,tossingaplasticbagontothebackseatasshe

climbsin.

Ipointattheguy.“That...Ikindoffeelsorryforhim.”
Mymomlaughs,shiftingintogear.“Seehowluckyyouaretohavesuchawesome

parents?”

Iwavegoodbyetomysunglasses,hoodiewearingfriendandshovetherestofthe

candy into my mouth. “You guys are super awesome, but FYI, I’ve heard Dad yell at
Lokilikethat.RememberwhenLokiputgaugesinhisears?”

“Ialmostforgotaboutthatphase.Thanksforremindingme.”She’sallsarcasm.
“Noproblem.”I’mallsmartass.
Sheshakesherhead,grinning,andIsitbackandenjoythedrive.
We pass by houses and businesses, driving toward the outskirts of town. The sun

sporadically reflects through the paper-thin clouds, and my eyelids flutter against the
short,fleetingflashesoflighteverytimeoneoftherayshitsmyeyes.

“It’sgoingtoraintoday,”Icommentasthunderrumblesinthedistancewhilethe

cloudsbrewupanearlysummerstorm.

“Onlyinthemorning,”shesays.“Itshouldbecompletelyrainfreebythetimeyour

partystarts.”

Great,nowIfeeljitteryagain,andmyexcitementoverthesurprisedwindles.
Notingmyfrown,sheturnsdownthevolumeoftheradio.“Nobeingsadonyour

birthday.Youhavetobehappytoday.It’sarule.”

“I’mnotfrowningbecauseI’msad.I’mfrowningbecause,”Ipickatmyfingernails,

ananxioushabitofmine,“I’mnervous.”

“About?”
“Um,a...Nevermind.Ican’ttellyou.”
“Oh,comeon,Anna.I’dliketothinkthatI’macoolenoughmomthatyoufeellike

youcantellmethesethings.”Turningthewheel,shemakesasuddenrightdownan
unfamiliardirtroad.

“What things?” I sit up straight and peer out the window. “And where are we

going?”

Attheendoftheroad,enclosedbyafieldofdrygrass,isablueandwhitetwo-story

Victorian home. Beside the house is a faded red barn with a painted sign, Honeyton
AntiquesandThings.

“Iwonderwhat‘things’standsfor,”Ijoke.
“Whoknows,”shesayswithagrin,playingalong.
“Is this my surprise?” I wonder, getting super excited. “Wait. Are we playing the

antiquegame?”

“Nope, not this time. And stop changing the subject.” She parks in front of the

narrow path decorated with roses and leaves the engine idling. “Now, tell me what’s
withthefrown,CharlieBrown.”

“Idon’twantto...It’ssostupid...you’regoingtothinkI’mstupid.”
“Tryme.”
“Fine.”Iheaveadramaticsigh.“It’saboutaboy.”
Shemuses.“Italwaysis,isn’tit?”
Iliftmyshoulders,shrugging.“Idon’tknow.ThisisthefirsttimeI’vefeltthisway

aboutaguybefore.”

Shegivesmeareally?look,becauseI’veprobablysaidthesamethingtoheratleast

adozentimes.“I’mguessingtheguyiscomingtoyourpartytonight?”

“How’dyouguess?”
SheglancesatthedressI’mwearing.“Becauseofthefashionmeltdownyouhadthis

morning.”

“WasIthatobvious?”IhopeBendoesn’tpickuponmycrushonhim.
She thrums her fingers against the console. “Give me, like, five minutes to run

insideandthenyouandIaregoingtohaveaverylongtalk.”Shereachesforthedoor
handleandopensthedoor.

Ilowermyfeetfromthedash.“Aboutwhat?”
Sheswingsherfeettotheground.“AbouttheWorldofWomen.”
“Itsoundslikethetitleofabook.WorldofWomen,asecretsocietybuiltongossip,

shopping,andalustformen.”Ipuckermylipsandflipmyhairoffmyshoulder.

She points a finger at me as she gets out of the car. “Sounds like someone’s been

spendingalittletoomuchtimeintheromancesectionofyourfather’sstore.”

“Hemademestocktheshelves,andIcan’thelpit.Igetboredandreadtheblurbs.”
“Well,I’drathernothearyousaythewordlustagain.”Shestartstoclosethedoor,

but pauses. “From now on, you’ll call it an adorable little crush, because you’re
seventeen-years-old, and you aren’t allowed to be lustful or whatever the books are
callingit.”

Ilaughather,andsmiling,shebumpsthedoorshut.Insteadofheadingtothebarn,

shehikesupthepathtothehouse,butIfigurethat’sprobablypartofthestore,too.

Iflipthroughtheradiostations,andstartobsessingoverallthingsBen.
Settlingonthealternativestation,Isingalonguntilmyphonevibrates.Iretrieveit

frommypocketandopenthemessagefromCece,mybestfriendsincekindergarten.
In some ways we’re similar in the sense that we both love to dance and take a ballet
classestogether,butshe’snotaspassionateaboutitasIam.She’salsoacheerleader,
lastyear’shomecomingqueen,andaself-proclaimedfashionista,allthingsI’mnotnor
everwillbe.

Cece:Hey,bdaygirl!How’sitgoin’?
Me:Supergreat.Headedsomewherewithmymomrightnow.
Cece:That’ssocool!Ican’twaitforthepartytonight.Iheardalotofpeopler

coming.

Mynervesskyrocketthroughtheroof.I’mnotthatpopular.Sure,Ihaveahandful

of close friends and can float through the social circles, but unlike Cece, there aren’t
peoplelininguptohangoutwithme.Plus,Idevotealotofmytimetodanceandmost
peopledon’tseemtounderstandmyobsessionwithit.

Me:Howdoeseveryoneknowaboutit???
Cece:Imayhavetoldsomepeople.
Me:Howmanypeopledidutell?
Cece:Idon’tknow.Isentouttextstolikehalfourclass.
Me:Ok,nowI’mreallynervous.We’renotevendoinganythingfun.Justhanging

outandwatchingmovies.

Cece:We’llmakeitfun:)Wealwaysdo.
She’sright.IrelaxalittleuntilIreadhernextmessage.
Cece:Bentoldmetodaythathewasexcitedaboutit.
Me:Uaresuchaliar,butIluvufortrying.
Cece:I’mnotlying!Iswearhedid.WhileIwaswaitingformysistertopickme

upfromcheerpractice,hecameuptomeandstartedaskingmeaboutthestuffu

like. He said he needed ideas for a bday present, but I think he wanted to be
prepared.

Me:Forwhat?
Cece:Toputthemovesonyou;)
Mycheeksheat.Thankgod,mymom’snotaroundtohasslemeaboutit.
Me:What’dutellhim?
Cece:Thatthewaytoyourheartisthroughdancing,glitter,andmagicalkisses.
Me:Usodidnot.Cece,tellmeudidn’t.
Cece:Whoops.Wasthatasecret?
WithCece,there’safifty-fiftychanceshe’skidding,andifshedidtellsomeone,I’d

havetohideforever.

Me:Pleasetellmeudidn’t.
Cece:Ohfine,Ididn’tmentionthemagicalkissingpart,butIdidtellhimabout

thedancing.Mybetishebuysyousomethingmusicrelated.

Me:Hedoesn’tneedtobuymeanything.
Cece:Why?Presentsareawesome,butgettingpresentsfromguysisevenbetter.
Me:I’llhavetotakeyourwordonthat.
Cece:Notaftertonight.I’mbettingyou’llnotonlyhaveyourfirstpresentfroma

guy,butyourfirstkiss!

Myheartratespeedsup,andmypalmsdampenwithsweat,allbecausesheimplied

it.IfeelsillythatI’veneverkissedaguywhileallmyotherfriendshave,partlybecause
I’mtooshybutalsobecauseIhaven’treallyhadalotoftimetodatewithallthedance
classesItakeontopofpracticingathomeandperforminginrecitals.Itseemslikethe
olderIget,themorenervousIamaboutkissing,whichmakesthepossibilityofever
losingmykissingcarddimmeranddimmer.

Maybeitcouldhappen,though.Afterall,itdidrainglittertoday.
Cece:Gottago!Mymom’syellingatmetohelpherwithlunch.Culatertonight

bdaygirl.

Me:Cya!
Fightingbackagoofy,Ben-inducedsmile,Iputthephonedown.Imanagetokeep

myelationcontainedforawholetensecondsbeforethesmilewinsandbreaksfree.

Grinning like a goof, I tap my feet to the beat of the song and sing along with the

lyrics. Five minutes turn into ten, and ten into fifteen. Almost a half hour later, my
momstillhasn’tcomeoutofthestore,andadark,thunderousstormhastakenover
thepartlycloudysky.Rainsplattersdownagainstthewindshield,andthewindhowls
andkicksupdebris.

Theforty-fiveminutemarkerpasses,andIfinallytextmymom.Whenshedoesn’t

messageback,Ireachforthedoorhandletogetout.RightasI’mpreparingtomakea
sprintthroughtherain,thefrontdoorofthehouseopensandmymomhurriesout.

Shepeersbackatthehouseandrunsherfingersacrossherlips.Thenshebarrels

outintothedownpourandclambersintothecar.Herhairandclothesaresoaked,her
lipstickissmudged,andhercheeksareflushed.

“Man,Idisappearfortenminutes,anditstartsrainingcatsanddogsoutthere,”she

says,wringingoutherwethair.Hervoiceisshaky,andshe'soutofbreath.

“Tenminutes?”Igapeatherthenattheclock.“You’vebeeninthereforoverforty-

fiveminutes.”

Herbrowsknitasshelooksatthetime.“Oh,myword,Ididn’t...”Shesighs.“Anna,

I’msosorry.Iwaslookingatantiquesandlosttrackoftime.YouknowhowIget.”

“Yes, I do.” I fasten my seatbelt as she flips down the visor and runs her fingers

throughherhair.“Whydidn’tyouanswermytext,though?”

“Oh,IforgotIturneddowntheringerbecauseIdidn’twantanyonebotheringuson

this little trip.” She seems distracted as she reapplies her lipstick. Then she briefly
placesherfingertoherlipsasshestaresatthehousewithaconfused,worried,andyet
slightlydreamylookonherface.

“You’reactingweird.”Whythehellisshestaringatthehouselikethat?Stop,Mom.

Juststop.“Well,weirderthannormal.”

“Notreally.”Shelowersherfingersandshovesthecarintoreverse.
Thetiressplashthroughthepuddlesandmurkywaterspraysalloverthewindows

asshebacksup.Amiddle-agedmanwearingat-shirtandjeanswalksontotheporch
barefootedandwatchesusdriveaway.Whenmymomspotshim,sheflushesagain.

Ithinkaboutaskingherwhoheis,butfeartheanswermighthavetodowithwhy

herclothesareonfunky.“Yourshirt’sinsideout,”Imutter.

“Shit.”Sheslamsonthebrakesattheendofthedrive,jerkstheemergencybrake,

andstartstoslipherarmsoutofthesleevesofherovershirt.

Istareoutthewindow,tryingtorememberifherovershirtwaslikethatwhenshe

wentinsidethehouse.Idon’tthinkso.ButmaybeI’mrememberingthingswrong.

“I tried on an old dress,” she explains, as if reading my mind. “It was an old

VictoriandressIwantedtowearforHalloween.”

“Halloween isn’t for, like, four more months.” And why is she shopping for

Halloweenclothesonmybirthday,anyway?Usuallythedayisallaboutme.

“Iknow,butthiskindofdressishardtofind.”
I glance at her then at the grocery bag on the backseat. “But you didn’t buy

anything.”

ShestruggleswithwhattosayastherainpoursdownsoviolentlythatIcan’tsee

thetreesandfieldsaroundus.“Idid,butI’mpickingituplater...It’sasurprisefor
yourdadactually.He’sbeenwantingtodothiscouplescostumethingsinceforever—
you know how excited he gets over holidays. I’ve always told him no, but decided
maybe it’s time.” She places her hand on my knee and looks me straight in the eye.
“Youhavetokeepitasecret,eventhoughIknowyouhatekeepingsecrets.Otherwise,
you’llspoilthesurpriseforhim.”Thepitchinhervoiceistoohigh,hersmiletoofake.
“Anna,thisisreallyimportant,okay?”

I don’t like what I see. Liar, liar, her expression reads. But I can’t work up the

couragetocallheroutonit.

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod my head once, silently agreeing to

somethingIdon’twanttodo.

“Good.”Sheloosensupasshepullsontotheroad.“Iloveyou,Anna.Youknowthat,

right?”

“Yeah,”isallIsay.
“Good.”Sheponderssomethingforamoment,amixtureofemotionsfloodingher

eyes. “I think one day soon you and I should go on a little trip together… There’s

somethingI’dliketotellyou.”

“Whycan’tyoujusttellmenow?”
“Becausetodayisn’ttherightday.”
Crypticmuch.
Idon’tspeaktoherduringthetenminutedrivetomyfather’sstore,guiltknotting

inmystomachwitheverypassingsecond.

Mymomwouldn’thaveanaffair.
Shelovesmyfather.
Myfamilyistoohappy.
Right?
Butwhatdoesshewanttotellme?Thatshe’sgettingadivorce?
Howdidthedaygofrommagicalandglitterytoguiltyanddisgusting?
By the time my dad ducks into the backseat, that guilt and disgust has formed a

giant,twistedknotinmystomach.

“How’smygirl?”heasks,shakinghishead,makingrainsprayeverywhere.
My mom squeals, shielding herself from the water, even though her clothes and

hairarestilldamp.“Sweetie,easyonthedogshaking.”

“Why?Youknowyousecretlylikeit.”Mydadslidesforwardandkissesmymom’s

cheek.

Shesubtlywincesfromthekiss,somethingshe’sneverdonebefore.Ormaybeshe

hasandIneverhadareasontopaycloseenoughattentiontoherreaction.

“Didyou two have funrunning errands this morning?”he asks, sitting back. “You

neverdidsaywhereyouweregoing.”

My mom gives me a discreet sidelong glance, and panic flashes in her eyes. “I

actuallyjusthadtostopanddropoffsomebills.”

“Really?Onherbirthday?”Mydadlooksatme,andIswearIseeaquestioninhis

eyes,likehe’swaitingformetodisclosethetruth.

Iforceasmile.“Ididn’tmind.”
“Thatdoesn’tsoundlikeaveryfunbirthdaymorning.”Mydadwinksatme.“Good

thingyou’reabouttogetoneofthebestbirthdaypresentsever.”

I feel sick to my stomach as my mom maneuvers the car onto the street. I want

nothingmorethantoblurtoutwhathappened.Tellmydadthatsomethingdoesn’tfeel
right.ThatIhaveagut-wrenchingfeelingmymommightbehavinganaffair.

But I fear that I might be wrong. Or that I might be right. That my wonderful life

couldchangeifIopenmymouth.

Despitemyinternaltugofwar,Inevergetthechancetosayanything.Don’tgeta

chancetosayanythingtothemeveragain.

Asmymommergesthecarontothehighway,theearthispracticallydrowningin

the rain. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t see the car coming. Or perhaps she was
distracted by whatever happened in the blue house. But moments later, our car is
sideswiped.

Theimpactknocksthewindoutofme,andmyheadbashesagainstthedoor.The

car flips over. And over. And over. The metal caves against the impact and glass
shatters everywhere. Someone screams. Maybe me. Maybe my mother. Maybe my
dad.

When the car finally stops moving, it lands on the roof. I’m still strapped in the

passenger seat, hanging upside down. Thunder booms and lightning claps. It’s dark,
cold,wet.Thestereoisstillworking,butthespeakersarecuttingoutsoIcan’ttellwhat
songisplaying.Bloodrushestomyheadanddripsintomyeyes.Myentirebodyaches,
and my leg is wedged under the concaved dash. My pulse pounds. The world spins
around.Strangely,though,Ican’tfeelanypain.

“Mom...Dad...”Icranemynecktowardthedriver’ssidethenatthebackseat.

Theleftsideofthecarissmashedin,andallthatremainsisballedandbrokenmetal.

Shock seeps deep into my bones. I don’t cry. I can barely breathe. I wait for my

parentstoanswerme.Iswearthesunfleetinglypushesthroughthecloudsandreflects
againsttheshardsofglassandrain,causingtheworldtobrieflysparkleliketheglitter
thismorning.Butasquicklyasthesunshinesurfaces,itfades.

Andallthat’sleftisarainstorm.

Chapter2

Light.Dark.Rain.Sun.

“Staywithus.”
Beep...beep...beep...
“Staywithus.Comeon.”
“Anna,canyouhearme?”
Loki,isthatyou?
“Anna,pleasedon’tgo.Wecan’tloseyou,too.”
Whoelsedidwelose...Loki,pleaseanswerme.
“God,Ican’tdothis.”
Sobbing,sobbing,somuchsobbing.
“WhatamIgoingtodo?”
I want to hug my brother, throw my arms around him and tell him everything’s

fine,butIcan’tseeanything.AndIdon’thaveanyideawhat’smakinghimsad.Plus,
I’msotired.Sovery,verytired.

IthinkI’llgotosleepnow.
Beep...beep...beep...
Beep...

***

I feellikeI’mswimminginaseaofglitter.

Iopenmyeyesandseethemonitors,tubes,andcordsattachedtovariousplaceson

mybody.Shockripplesthroughme.WherethehellamI?

“You’reinthehospital,sweetie.”Anunfamiliarvoicescaresmehalftodeath.“Just

relax.Everything’sgoingtobeokay.”

Ijerktotherightbutimmediatelyregretitaspainradiatesthroughmyskull.
A woman is standing beside the bed that I’m lying in, holding a clipboard. She’s

wearingscrubswithpenguinsonthem,herauburnhairispulledintoatightbun,anda
stethoscopehangsaroundherneck.

“Youneedtotakeiteasy,”shesays,settingtheclipboarddown.
“Whoareyou?”Icroak,mythroatfeelingasdryassandpaper.
“I’myournurse.MynameisMarcia.”Shepointstothenametagpinnedtohershirt.

“I’vebeentakingcareofyouforoveraweek.”

Myeyessnapwide,andtheheartmonitorbeepswildly.“Foroveraweek?”
She nods, studying the monitor. “Sweetie, you need to relax. Your body’s been

throughalot.”

Mybody?Beenthroughalot?
Ithrowtheblanketoffmybody,butthemovementyankstheIVinthebackofmy

hand. I cry out but, determined to see the damage, use my other hand to lift off the
blanket.Mykneeandthigharewrappedinabandage,andmylegiselevated,butmy
toesandeverythingelseappearintact.

“Thank god.” My hand falls to my stomach, and I relax against the pillow. “For a

momentthereIthoughtIwasmissingalegorsomething.”

Marcia smiles rigidly. “No, everything’s still there. You did have to have surgery,

though.”

“ButI’mgoingtobeokay,right?”
Her smile dwindles. “I think I’m going to go call your brother and tell him you’re

awake. The sweetheart’s been here day and night waiting for you to fully wake up.”
Her shoes squeak against the floor as she heads for the door, and she forces a high-
pitchedlaugh.“Figuresthemomentheleft,youfinallydecidetowakeup.”

“Mybrother?Whataboutmy—”
ShehurriesoutoftheroombeforeIcanfinish,leavingmealonewithmonitorsand

cords and a ton of questions. I try to recollect the last thing I can remember. My
birthday.Glitterrainstorms.Thecarridetothestore.Realrainstorms.Mymomlyingto
me.Mydadlookingsohappytobeintheworld.Deadlyrainstorms...

Alumpformsinmythroat,mypulseaccelerates,andthemonitorannouncesmy

panic.Panicthat’spainful.Hot.Sweltering.

“Ican’tbreathe,”Igasp,claspingthebaseofmyneck.“Ican’t...”Myvisionspotsas

theroomcrumblesandfades.

Ihearthethuddingoffootsteps.Someonemutterssomethingaboutasedative.Cold

liquidspillsintomyveinsandsubmersesthepanicinside.

Lifefeelslikeadream.
Ikindofwishitwere.

***

When I open my eyes again, my head feels groggy and my eyes are droopy. But the
panic has dissipated, and I calm down even more when my brother’s face appears
aboveme.

Loki’shere.Everything’sgoingtobeokay.
ThisisalladreamI’mgoingtowakeupfrom.
“Thank god, you’re awake.” He lowers his head into his hands, and his shoulders

tremble.

I think he’s crying, but that can’t be right. Loki doesn’t cry. Loki, the philosopher

whooncesaidthatcryingwasapointlessemotionpeopleusewhenthey’relost.

Isthatwhyhe’scrying?
Ishelost?

“It’sgoingtobeokay.”Myvoicesoundsfaraway,likeanecho.
Ireachouttohimandputmyhandonhisshoulder.
Hetremblesevenmore.
Themonitorbeepsnumeroustimesbeforehesucksinabreath,mutterssomething

about sucking it up, then wipes his eyes with his hand and lifts his head back up. He
lookslikehasn’tsleptindays,makinghimappearolderthanhistwenty-oneyears.

Hetakesmyhandinhis.“Howareyoufeeling?”
Suchasimplequestion,butitthrowsmeoff.
“Good...butwhereiseveryone?”
Astrangledsoundgetscaughtinhisthroat.“Zhara,Alexis,andNikareathomewith

Jessamine.

“Oh,good...Shemadeithere.”Iskimthewhitewallsandceiling,tryingtopiece

togetherwhathappened.“ButwhyamIhere?”Inoddownwardatthefootofthebed.
“Andwhathappenedtomyleg?”

“You don’t remember what happened?” He rubs his red, puffy eyes with his free

hand.

“Iremembertherewasanaccident.AndthenursesaidIhadtohavesurgeryonmy

leg, but she never explained why. She also said I’ve been out for, like, over a week,
which just seems crazy. I mean, it’s just a leg injury, right? How the hell does that
knocksomeoneoutforoveraweek?Andwhythehellaren’tMomandDadhere...
Wait,aretheyinthehospital,too?”Animageofamangledcarbrieflyflashesthrough
mymind.“Aretheyokay?”

“You weren’t knocked out, Anna . . . They had to keep you heavily sedated for

surgery and then again after you woke up because you . . .” He summons a deep
breath,dragginghisfingersdownhisface.“Idon’tevenknowhowtotellyouthis.”

Hisvoicecracks,andmyheartraces.Lokifrownsatthemonitorthengivesmethe

samelookheworewhenhehadtotellmeourdoghadbeenrunover.

Tearsspilldownmycheeks.“Justspititout,”Iwhisper.“Justsayit!”
“I’msorry,Anna.I’msofuckingsorry.”
Heneveractuallysaysthewordsaloud,butIfigureoutwhathappenedonmyown.

I think I might have known the moment I heard the semi truck hit our car, but my
head was crammed with glitter and rainbows and unicorns, fairytales and illusions. I
didn’twanttobelievewhatIsawandheard.Thatmyparentscouldbedead.

“I don’t even know what I’m going to do,” Loki whispers. “I don’t think I can do

this.”

“Dowhat?”Myvoiceishollow,empty.
“This...takecareofNikoli,Zhara,Alexis,you...”Heslipshisfingersfrommineas

hisheadfallsforward.

“Whywouldyouhavetotakecareofus?”
“Because,”hesays,hisvoicecracking,“there’snooneelsebutme.”
There’snooneelse?
Noone.
Else?
Realityisbrutal.Mean.Harsh.Therealityismyparentsaregone.Inevergottotell

mymomaboutBen.I’llnevergettotellheraboutanotherboyagain.I’llnevergetto

pick out outfits with her or hang out with my dad at his store, listening to old rock
songs and chatting about books. The last memory I’ll ever have is my mom lying to
me.ThelasttimeIeverlookedmydadintheeyeswaswhenIwithheldthetruthfrom
him—whenIbetrayedhim.

There’snooneelse.
Nomoreglitterrainstorms.Nomoreburntbreakfasts.NoFourthofJulypicnicsor

crazybirthdaytrips.Nocatchingimaginaryfireflies.

I want to scream. Cry and yell until there’s nothing left inside me. Get out all the

angerandguiltthatIcanfeelrottinginsideme.

Thiscan’tbereal.
Itjustcan’t.
Insteadofscreaming,mylipsremainsealed,andthepain,guilt,andangerremains

stuckinsideme.

Chapter3

SixMonthsLater

“A nna,openthedamndoor!”Nikolihollers,bangingonthebathroomdoor.“I’mgoing
tobelateforpractice!”

I crank up the volume of my iPod so the lyrics of Rise Against suffocate his

hounding. Definitely not dancing music, which makes the song that much more
perfect.

Leaning over the sink, I check my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are heavily

framedwithliner,butIneedmoretocoverupwhoIusedtobe.Ipopthecapoffand
tracethepencilaroundmyeyesafewmoretimes.Satisfied,Imoveontothelipstick—
darkpurpletomatchthestreaksinmyhair.ThenIsliponaleatherjacketandsitdown
on the closed toilet seat to lace up my combat boots. The car accident left me with a
shitty knee scarred from surgery and a thigh with muscle deterioration thanks to a
smashed artery and a blood clot. I don’t dance, and I can’t walk without a limp,
somethingthedoctorsandtherapistsayisprobablypermanent.

Iwaslucky,though,orsoeveryonesays.Luckytowalkawayfromsuchanaccident

withonlyminorinjuries.Lucky.Lucky.Lucky.Sometimesitfeelslikemyentirebody
isascarthatwillneverheal.

Shifting my weight, I clutch onto the edge of the counter and hoist myself to my

feet.

“Whatthehelliswrongwithyou?”NikolisnapswhenIopenthedoorandhobble

pasthim.

Itripoveralipintheflooringandbracemyhandsonthewalltostopmyselffrom

fallingonmyface.Igrindmyteethinfrustration.God,Ihatethis.

“I’ve been knocking for, like, ten minutes,” Nikoli whines. “I’m going to be late

now.”

“Goodforyou,”Isnap,squeezingmyeyesshut.
After a night of partying, I’m too drained to hash anything out with anyone. My

head feels like it’s been drilled into, and my stomach is temperamental, every
movement making it churn. I’m hungover, worn out, and in so much physical pain
thatIcanbarelyfocusonanythingelse,includingthegrief,anger,andsadnessinside
me,whichisexactlyhowIwanttofeel.

Pushingawayfromthewall,Ilimpdownthehalltowardthestairway.
Nikoliyellsafterme.“Niceoutfit!Halloweenwastwomonthsago!?You’reseriously

gettingcreepierbytheday!”

He’sright.Inallblackclothes,exceptforaneonpinkbelt,Istandoutlikeacloudin

a sky covered in rainbows. But that’s okay. Rainbows suck. Lie. Disappear when you
reallyneedthem.

I flip him the middle finger from over my shoulder then begin the excruciating

journey downstairs. By the time I make it to the kitchen, I’m panting, my leg is
throbbing,andmybrainispoundingfromallthememorieshidingineverynookand
crannyofthehouse,remindingmeofwhatwasandwhatwillneverbe.

Wereceivedenoughinsurancemoneyfromtheaccidenttopayoffthehouse,and

Lokidecidedtokeepitbecausehethoughtitwouldhelpusallcopebetter.Samehouse,
samelives,right?Despitethatthewalls,floors,doors,andcountersalllookthesame,
everythingfeelsdifferent.Colder.Emptier.Hollow,likeanemptygrave.

ZharaandAlexisareloungingatthetable.Alexis,whousedtobeascheeryasme,is

nowthe biggest downer Iknow. She never smiles.Never says anything positive. The
girlwholovedexpressingherhappinessthrougharthasdied.

Zharadecidedtogotheoppositeroute,tothepointwhereyoucan’teventellthey’re

twinsanymore.She’supbeatallthetime,likesunshineoncrack.She’salwaysbeena
littleextremeonthepositivity,butshe’sevenmoreintensenow.Ithinkshebelieves
she’ssupposedtotakeontheroleofourmotherorsomething.Shelooksalotlikemy
mom, too, with her brown curls and cat-shaped eyes. Sometimes it’s hard to look at
her.

“Youlooklikeshit,”Alexissaystome.“No.Itakethatback.Youlooklikesomeone

whohadwaytoomuchfunlastnight.”

“I look like I always do.” I get a few painkillers from the cupboard to take for my

hangoverandleg.

Zhara glances up at me with a cheerful smile plastered across her face. “Are you

feelinganybetterthanyoudidlastnight?

“I’mfine,”Imumble.
“Anna,you’renotfine.Yourscreamingwokemeupagain.Ithinkyournightmares

arehappeningmoreoften...MaybeyoushouldtellLokiaboutthem.”

“You need to chill out and stop worrying about me.” I swallow the pills then rest

againstthecounter,waitingforthemtokickin.

“Oh, all right then.” She fights to keep the smile on her face. “Did I tell you

Jessamine called last night and said she’s coming home this summer? Isn’t that
exciting?Anentiresummerwithallofustogether.It’llalmostbelikeoldtimes.”

IturnmybacktohersoIdon’thavetowatchherpretendshe’sokaywhenshe’s

not.“No,itwon’t.”

Even when Jessamine is here, the life we knew no longer exists. So she might as

wellstayoffatcollegewhereshedoesn’thavetobearoundthefightingandstressand
completeandutterchaosourliveshaveturnedinto.

“Idon’tknowwhyshe’scomingback,”Alexismutters.“Shechosetoleaveus.”
“She didn’t choose to leave us,” Zhara insists. “She just didn’t want to drop out of

school.Youcan’tblameherforthat.”

Idon’tdareturnaround,knowingthey’regoingtobeatitforawhile.
“I’m not blaming her for anything. You’re just freaking out.” Alexis rolls her eyes

thenviolentlyflipsthepageofthebookshe’sreading.“Haveyoubeensnortingcrack
againorsomething?”

“Hey,Idon’tdodrugs,”Zharagripes,slumpingbackinthechair.“God,Ican’teven

benicewithoutyouinsultingme.”

“Maybeyoushouldstopbeingnicethen,”Alexissuggests,flippingherhairoffher

shoulderandsmirking.“There.Problemsolved.”

They start arguing. Alexis says something mean, and Zhara bursts into tears and

runsoutoftheroom.

“Goodriddance,”Alexismuttersunderherbreaththenredirectsherattentionback

tothebookinfrontofher.

I should probably tell her to be nice. It’s kind of depressing to see them this way

whentheyusedtobesoclose,butIdon’t—can’t—findthewilltocareanymore.Just
likeIdon’tcareenoughtobotherwakingLokiupeventhoughhe’llbelateopeningthe
storeifIdon’t.Wakinghimupmeanstalkingtohim,andifIhadmyway,I’dbeaghost
inthisfamily,deadwithmyparentswhereIsometimesfeelIbelong.

After grabbing a granola bar from the pantry, I leave the house without making a

sound.

It’s a late Saturday morning. The cool December breeze nips at my skin, and the

cloudy sky above me makes silent promises of rain. I’m supposed to be going to
physical therapy to help regain more mobility in my knee, but I’m not feeling it, just
like I wasn’t last weekend. It doesn’t really matter if I go. Yeah, maybe I’ll be able to
walk better, but because of the injures to my thigh that deteriorated my muscles, I’ll
neverbeabletodanceagain,atleastnotlikeIusedto,andtherapyremindsmethat
mydancing,ballerina,dreamerlifeisover.

Itrudgedownthedriveway,notingalargeyellowmovingtruckparkednextdoor.

I’mcuriouswhatkindofpeoplethey’regoingtobe.Iftheyhavekids.Ifit’safamily.

Awomaninhermidfortieswearingahotpinkdressandaleatherjacketsuddenly

appearsatthebackofthemovingtruck.Heroutfitremindsmealotofmymom,andI
momentarily feel angry as a web of memories spin around me. She lied to me and
made me lie for her and part of me hates her for that, which only makes me hate
myselfevenmore.She’sdead.Ishouldn’thateher—shouldn’tbeangrywithher—yetI
am.

The woman jogs down the ramp with a box in her hand and a huge nice-to-meet-

yousmileonherface.“Hithere,”shesays.Shesetsdowntheboxandroundsthechain
linkfence.

I contemplate bolting back to my house, but not wanting to go back inside there

either,Ipickupthepaceandmakeabeelineforthesidewalk.

Sheblindsidesmeattheendofthedrivewayandsticksoutherhand.“I’mTammy

Benton,yournewneighbor.”

Begrudgingly,Ishakeherhand.
“Andyouare?”sheasksasIpullaway.
“Annabella,”Ireplydryly,hopingshe’lltakethehinttoleavemealone.I’mnotin

themoodtotalk,neveram.

“Annabella. What a pretty name,” she says thoughtfully. She stands on her toes,

waving at someone over by the moving truck. “Luca, come meet our new neighbor.
Shelooksaboutyourage,”shelooksbackatme,“seventeen...oreighteen?”

Ialmostsaytwenty-onesoshewon’ttrytoforcehersontobemyfriend.Butshe

reminds me so much of my mom that I get a little lost in the moment and end up
utteringthetruthforthefirsttimeinmonths.“Seventeen.”

“What a crazy coincidence. Luca’s seventeen, too.” She seems so elated about the

factthatIhavetoquestionifmaybeshe’sblind,since,rightnow,Ilooklikethekindof
girlmothersdefinitelydon’twantaroundtheirsons.

Lucawalkstowarduswithhishandsstuffedinhispockets.He’stallandleanwith

softly tousled brown hair. He’s rocking a plaid shirt and jeans with square framed
glasses. He’s cute, sure. Completely crush worthy for someone normal. And I’m sure
myparentswouldapproveofhim,thatis,iftheywerehere.

Iclearmythroatatthepainfulreminder,ignoringthewaymychestconstricts.
“Luca,thisisAnnabella,”Tammysays.“Ournewneighbor.”
Whenhegetsagoodlookatme,shockflashesacrossLuca’sface,butItendtohave

thateffectonpeople.Butthelookpromptlyerases,andheoffersmealopsidedsmile
andatentativewave.“It’snicetomeetyou.”

Iforceagrinthat’sasfakeasmydyedhair.“Sure.”
“So, you’re a junior at Honeyton High?” he asks, crossing his arms, seeming the

slightestbitnervous.

EvenwiththepainkillerItook,mylegisstillkillingme,andIhavetoreadjustmy

weight.“Yep.”

“That’s cool. I’ve heard it was a small school,” he says. “Like, maybe five hundred

people,whichseemscrazytomeconsideringtheschoolIusedtogotohadtriplethat.”

“Triple?”Iask,takenaback.“Wherethefuckdidyoumoveherefrom?”
Tammywincesatthef-bomb.
Thereyougo.Youcanseemenow.SeemeforwhoIreallyam.
Butherwincehastilyshiftstoasmileagain.
Seriously,whatissheon?Ormaybeoneoftheneighborshaswarnedheraboutme.

Toldhermyfamily'ssobstory.

“WemovedherefromLA,”Lucaexplains,slidinghisfingerupthebridgeofhisnose

topositionhisglassesbackintoplace.

“Oh...okay,IgetwhyyouthinkHoneytonissmallthen.”Ituckafewstrandsof

hairbehindmyearandstealapeekatthecornerofthestreet,calculatinghowlongit
wouldtakemetogetthereif—when—Idecidetofleefromthisconversation.

“Your hair’s cool.” He extends his fingers toward my head and pinches a strand,

totallyinvadingmypersonalspaceandsendingmyheartintoafitfulfrenzy.“Itkindof
remindsmeofgrapeSkittles.”

I tell my heart to chill the hell out, that I’m not that silly girl who gets giddy over

guys anymore. Then I drop my head and the strand falls from his fingers. “No, it
doesn’t.”

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” he adds hastily. “In fact, the grape ones are my

favorite.”

“Grapeisn’tanyone’sfavorite,nomatterwhatkindofcandyyou’reeating.”Ready

togetthehellawayfromthem,Iopenmymouthtotellthembye.

“I have an idea.” Tammy’s eyes light up as she turns toward Luca. “Maybe

Annabella could show you around town. You said you wanted to have an adventure
andgoexploring.”

“Ididn’tsayexploringoradventure.”Hischeeksredden.“Ijustsaidit’dbeniceto

walkaboutandseewhat’saround.”Hesmilesatme,asifwaitingformetoagreetogo
exploringonanadventure.

“Maybe...ifIhavetime.”Iwon’tmakeanypromisesIcan’tkeep,andIknowI

won’t be doing anything with Luca because he seems too nice, and nice isn’t what I
needanymore,whatIdeserve.

“Oh, okay . . . Well, hopefully you can find the time.” She fiddles with a silver

hoopedearringinherear,growingfidgety.“It’dbereallygreatifLucahadsomeoneto
hangwith.”

I search for an out while Luca stares at me, his eyes roving all over my body,

unsubtlycheckingmeout.Iloathethathe’snoticingmeandIdespisehowmuchIlike
theattention.

“Are your parents around? I’d love to meet them.” Tammy looks at my two-story

homethatresembleseveryotherhouseonthestreet

Theregoesmytheoryofheralreadyknowingmyfamily’shistory.
Mylipsparttotellhermyparentsaredead,tojustthrowitoutthereandwatchher

squirm.ButthewordsgetlodgedinmythroatalongwithathousandemotionsIrefuse
toletout.

Ilimpawaywithoutsayingaword.Someoneelsecantellher.
IfeeltheireyesonmeasIhobbledownthesidewalk.Attheendofthestreet,Iveer

totherighttowardthebusstop.BythetimeImakeittothebench,mykneeissoreand
myphonehasrangatleasttentimes.

Iwaitforthebus,lettingthephoneringabouttenmoretimesbeforeansweringit.
“Wherethehellareyou?”LokifumesbeforeIcanevengetoutahello.
“GoingtophysicaltherapylikeI’msupposedto,”Ilie,slumpingbackonthebench.
“Andhowthehellareyougettingthere?”heseethes.“Youcan’tdrive.Notwiththat

leg.Youknowthat.”

“I’mnotstupid.I’mtakingthebus.”
“You’renotsupposedtobewalkingaroundlikethat.You’regoingtofuckupyour

legevenmore.”

“IjustthoughtI’dtakethebussinceyou’regoingtobelateopeningthestore.”
Hefiresoffasequenceofcurses.“Dammit,Iforgotaboutthestore.”
Lokiforgetsaboutthestorealot.Betweentakingonlinecollegeclasses,payingthe

bills,andkeepinganeyeonthefourofus,he’slosinghismindandiscompletelyunlike
the Loki before the accident. We’ve all changed. Me, the rainbow turned raincloud.
Alexis,thethundergrumblingateveryone.Zhara,thesunshinerefusingtofadedespite
alltherain.Nikoli,thelightningshoutingoutateveryone.Jessamine,thedistantwind.
AndLoki,therainstrugglingtowashallourpainaway.

“Whydon’tyoujustsellit,then?”Iungracefullystaggertomyfeetasthebusrolls

uptothecurb.

“You’rejoking,right?”heasks.“Please,pleasetellmeyou’rejoking.”
“WhywouldIjokeaboutthat?”Thebusdoorsswingopen,andIstruggletogetup

thestairs.“It’sjustastore,andit’sstressingyouout.”It’snotjustastore,though.It’s
myfather’sstorethatremindsmeofthelasttimeIsawhim,lookedhimintheeyes,
andliedtohisface.

Swiping my bus card more violently than necessary, I limp down the aisle to the

back,notingeveryone’sstares.

Who are they staring at, though? The girl with purple hair wearing too much

makeup?Orthegirlwithalimp?Whichoneisit?Whodotheysee?BecauseIhaveno
ideaanymore.

“WillIeverdanceagain?”Iaskthedoctorwithfalsehopeinhiseyes.
Helooksatmewithpity.“Let’sjustworryaboutgettingyouwalkingproperlyagain,

okay?”

“It’s Dad’s store.” Loki’s stressed voice shatters apart the memory of the day my

dreamsofdancingprofessionallyvanished.“Andheleftittome.”

“He also left us to you, which seems like more of a burden than anything.” I sink

intoaseatatthebackandpinchthebridgeofmynose.

“Don’tsaythat.”Hisvoicecrackslikeglass.“Youguysaren’taburden.”
He’slying.Havingfourteenagers,onefourteen-year-old,twosixteenyear-olds,and

oneseventeen-year-oldwouldbeaburdentomostpeople.

I’m not exactly sure why my parents left guardianship to Loki, other than maybe

theyweren’texpectingtodiesosoon.Wedon’thaveanylivingfamilyotherthanmy
mom’s sister, who lives in California and smokes a lot of pot. They both had friends,
though,thatweremoreequippedtoraisingfourteenagers.

After the funeral, Loki said something about a note with the will that stated the

reasons why my parents wanted him to raise us. He wouldn’t let anyone read it. Not
evenJessamine,whoheusedtobeclosetobeforetheaccident.Saiditwassolelyfor
him.

“Ithinkyoushouldcomehomenow.Icantakeyoutotherapyandthengotothe

store. I don’t like you walking around more than you have to. Plus, you’re on
probation.”

“Yeah,thatdoesn’tmatter.”
“Youcan’tseriouslybelieveitdoesn’tmatter?”Heleavesthestatementhangingin

the air, but I don’t utter a damn word—can’t—since I have no idea what I believe
anymore. “Anna, you’ve been arrested twice in the last four months. And the police
havebroughtyouhometwoothertimesontopofthat.Yousneakoutofthehouse,go
toparties,steal,andthosefriendsyouhangoutwitharebringingyoudown.Youskip
out on school, and you’re barely passing your classes. You won’t go to your therapy
sessions,andyourleg’snevergoingtogetbetterifyoukeepitup...Don’tyouwantto
danceagain?”

Dance?I’llneverdanceagain.“I’llneverdanceagain.Youknowthat.”
Silence stretches between us, and it’s painful, aching, just like the scars on my leg

andtheholeinmyheartputtherethedaymyparentsdied—thedaymylifechanged.

I’mjustabouttohangupwhenhesays,“Ireallythinkweshouldstartlookingfora

therapist,someoneyoucantalktosinceyouwon’ttalktome.”

“I don’t need your help, or anyone else’s.” My knee literally twitches as the scars

burnfromunderneathmypantleg.“Ijustneedtobeleftalone.”

“They’regoingtotakeyouawayfrommeifyoukeepitup,”hesaysinadesperate

attempttogetmetocleanupmyact.“Youknowtheycandothat,right?”

I smash my lips together, battling back the guilt and tears that cram their way up

mythroat.“Maybeit’dbebetteriftheydid.”

“Youdon’tmeanthat,”hewhispers.“Iknowyoudon’t.Youcareaboutthisfamily

toomuch.You’rejustgoingthroughsomestuff...becauseoftheaccident.”

Maybemybrotherandsistersdon’tdeservethat,butIdo—Ideserveworseforlying

tomydad,themanwhowasalwaysthereforme,whoreadmebooks,whotookmeon
fishingtrips,whowasateveryrecital.

“Ialreadygotonthebussoyoucan’tdrivemetomyappointment,”Isay,steadying

myvoice.“I’llcallyouwhenIgetoutofit,though.”

“Don’t hang up on me. I’m not done talking yet.” He aims to sound firm, but he’s

only four years older than me, and I have a hard time taking him seriously. “I don’t
wantyougoingoffanywherebyyourself.Wehadadealthatyouweregoingtostay
awayfromyourfriendsforalittlewhile.EspeciallyMiller.”

Miller’s the guy dads warn their daughters about, and even though Loki isn’t my

dad,hetriestotakeontherole.HehatesMiller.Probablybecausehe’sbeenarrested
many times, mostly for breaking and entering and drug possession. Or maybe it’s
becausehedoesn’thaveajob,likestoparty,andhasnumeroustattoosandpiercings.

WhichareallthereasonswhyIlikespendingtimewithhim.
“I’mnotgoingtoseemyfriends.”TechnicallynotaliesinceIhaven’tdecidedwhere

I’mgoingyet.IusuallyjustwanderarounduntilIendupsomewhere,becauseIcan’t
figureoutwheretogoorwhattodowithmyself.

“Youknow,Cececameintothestoretheotherdaytopickupsomebooks.Sheasked

about you. Said she misses spending time with you. Your dance instructor even
stoppedbyandsaidyoucouldgohangoutatthestudioanytimeyouwant.There’sa
tonofotherstuffforyoutodo,Anna,otherthangetintotrouble.”

“Idon’twanttotalktoCeceandthelastthingIeverwanttodoishangoutatthat

studio.”Justthinkingaboutitmakesmyeyeswaterup.Isuckinadeepbreath.Iwon’t
cry.Ican’t.OnceIdo,Iwon’tbeabletostop.“Youkeepsayingallthesethingstome,
tryingtogetmetowantstuffagain.Butallthatstuff...Cece...dancing...that’snot
whoIamanymore.”

“It’s okay to miss things, Anna.” His voice softens. “And I get that you’re not the

sameperson,butyoucanstillbehappy—”

Alexissuddenlyyellssomethinginthebackground.
“Whatthehellwasthat!?”Lokishoutsather.
I hear Alexis blame Zhara for eating all her favorite cereal. Since the two of them

could go on forever, and Loki always gets sucked into their fights, I hang up without
sayinggoodbye.Isitbackintheseatandstretchoutmylegsasthebusbumpsdown
the road. My phone rings again, but not wanting another lecture from Loki, I don’t
answer. Everything he insists on reminding me, I already know, and hearing it over
again isn’t going to change my life. At the end of the day, I’ll still be crippled with
absolutelynoideawhattodowithmylife.OrifIevenwanttodoanythingwithmy
life. Maybe I’ll just lay down next to my father’s grave and stay there until my body
givesuponme.

Whenmyphonefinallystopsringing,IdecideI’vebeenonthebusfortoolongand

get off at the next stop. I should’ve paid more attention to where I was getting off,
though,becauseIendupnearthetowncemetery.

It’snotlikeIhaven’tvisitedmyparents’gravessincethefuneral—Lokimakesusgo

everyotherSundaytotakeflowers—butwithoutmybrothersandsistersaround,the
silenceintheareaismaddening.

Theirgravesareside-by-sideoutbythefarthestoaktree,andtheirheadstonesare

engravedwith“everlastinglove.”EverytimeIvisit,itfeelslikeI’mvisitingalie,where
I thought my parents were happy, that my mother wasn’t a liar—that I wasn’t a liar.
Butthatlifewasnothingmorethananillusion,justlikeAlexiswhensheusedtobea
niceperson.OrlikeZhara,thenowturnedhumanrobotwhousedtofeelsomething
other than overly fake happiness and positivity. Or like Loki, the philosopher turned
parent. And Nikoli who barely talks anymore. Which parts of them were real and
whichpartswerehidingunderamask?

After the bus drives away, I cross the street as quickly as my leg will allow me to,

wanting to get as far away from away the iron gates as I can. I head north in the
directionoftheVictorianhouse.Idon’tknowwhy,butIsometimesstandattheendof
thedirtroadthatleadstotheantiquestore.Rain,sunshine,cold,warm,I’llstaythere
forhours,juststaringatthehouse.Occasionally,IdeliberatewhetherornotIshould
marchuptohisdoorandknock,demandhetellmewhymymomwastherethatday.
ButIcan’tmarch,canbarelywalk,andI’mhonestlynotsureIactuallywanttohear
thetruth.

Today,Igrowtiredfast.Fiveblockslater,I’moutofbreathandexhausted.Makingit

to the Victorian house is impossible, so I take a break, leaning against the side of an
apartmentbuilding.Minuteslater,thecloudyskyfulfillsitspromiseandstartstorain
down on the world. The past crashes down on my shoulders—of dancing, birthdays,
rainstorms,carcrashes,andsecrets.Idon’twanttofeelanyofit.Thewater.Thepain.
The loneliness. The confusion of my place in life and how nothing makes sense
anymore.

I turn and head the opposite direction of the Victorian house and toward Miller’s

apartment.BythetimeImakeittotherundowntwo-storybrickcomplex,myclothes
aresoaked,myhairisdrenched,andmylegissounsteadyIcanbarelykeepmyfoot
underneathme.

Iknockonhisdoorafewtimesbeforewalkingin.Musicisblastingandthestench

of cigarette smoke and alcohol hits my nostrils. Crumpled beer cans are piled on the
cracked coffee table along with an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and a
mirrordustedwithfragmentsofwhitepowder.WhenIfirstmetMiller,hewasn’tinto
theheavierdrugs,butaboutamonthago,hestartedexperimentingwithstuffstronger
thanpot.

“Hey.”Millergrinsatmefromthesmall,danklivingroom.
He’splayingavideogamewithoneofhisfriends,whoeveryonecallsBigJay,and

leans over the armrest to turn down the volume of the stereo. The singer, who had
beenscreaminglyrics,silences.PartofmewishesMillerwouldturnitbackup,letthe
screamingdrownoutmythoughtsforawhile.

Instead,heputsouthiscigaretteintheashtraywithhisbrowsfurrowed.“Whyare

youwet?”

Ihitchafingerovermyshoulderatthedoor.“It’srainingoutside.”
Hiseyessweepacrossmybody,andhisattentionmakesmefeelnumblycalm.”It’s

agoodlookforyou,”hesayswithasmirkashesetsthecontrollerdownonthefrayed
armrest.“Youshouldrockitallthetime.”

“Youthink?”Ipretendtobebored,pretendIfitinhere.

“Definitely.”Hisgrinbroadensashegetstohisfeet.
Milleristallandkindofganglywithspikyblueandblackhair.Helooksolder,but

he’sonlyaboutayearandhalfayearolderthanme.Imethiminamallofallplaces,a
little over a month after my parents’ funeral. I was with Cece on one of the last
shopping trips we ever made, using crutches that hurt my armpits. The entire three
hours we spent there were awkward and exhausting. She kept talking about school,
music, dancing, cheerleading, and Ben. She was stuck in the past, while I had been
thrownintothefuture.Nothingmadesenseanymore,notevenourfriendship.

IendedupshopliftingaboxofpurplehairdyewhileIwaslisteningtoCecedrone

onandonabouthowpromwascomingup,andhowshedidn’tknowhowonearthshe
wasevergoingtogetadress.ThenshemovedontodancingandhowIshouldreally
comewithherandhangoutatthestudio,thateveryonemissedseeingmearound.

Ijustwantedtofeelagain,somethingotherthanheartache,pain,loss,confusion,so

whileshewasyammeringonandonaboutherlife,Isnuckaboxofpurplehairdyein
myjacket,thinkingmaybeI’ddyemyhair.Perhapsitwouldgowellwiththenewscars
onmylegandhelpmegetsomesortoffootinginthishellishlifeIfeltlikeIwasdying
in.

Just stealing the box sent my adrenaline soaring. I’d never stolen anything ever—

neverwantedto.Rebellionhadneverbeenmything,butmaybeitcouldbe.

Ofcourse,themomentIgotawaywithit,theexcitementoverstealingfizzledout,

and I just felt guilty and lost again. Then Miller had strolled up to me, all pierced out
andtattooedwithhiscrazybluehair,completelydifferentfromtheguysIusedtolike.

Dangerous,Ithought.AndnothinglikeBen.MaybethisiswhatIneednow.
“Agoodgirllikeyoucouldgetaguylikemeintoalotoftrouble,”washislamepick

upline.

“Oh,mygod,doesthateverworkonanyone,”Cecereplied,staringhimdownwith

disgust.

IglancedbackandforthfromCecetohim.Knowntounknown,pastto...Well,I

wasstilltryingtofigureoutwhatlayahead.“Maybeyou’realreadyintrouble.”Ihave
noideawherethecouragecamefrom.Itwasreallyunlikeme,andmaybethatwasthe
point. I didn’t know who I was anymore without my parents, the idolization of my
mother,andwithoutthedancerthatusedtobreathelifeinsideme.

Ihadtobesomeone,though,andIcouldbeanyone,evendaring,bold,andblunt.
Aftermyoutofcharactermove,Milleraskedmetohangoutwithhim,andagainst

Cece’sprotest,Iagreed.Wesnuckintoseeamoviethenwanderedaroundthestreets,
talkingaboutnothingthathadtodowithmyoldlife.Foramoment,Ifeltaliveagain.
Then he gave my first kiss, and I wondered if he could taste the guilt, anger, and
confusionrottinginsideme,becauseIsureashellcould.

“Thatwasnice,”hesaidwhenhepulledaway.
Inodded,butitwasn’tnice.Itjust...was.Likeeverythingelse.AndIfeltatwinge

ofsadnessthatIdidn’tgetmyfirstkisswithBenonthenightofmybirthdayparty.But
as quick as the thought came, I smothered it, knowing it was pointless to dream of
anything.WhenIgothome,IdyedmyhairwiththeboxofpurpledyeIstole.

“Comeon,let’sgotomyroom.”Millerinterruptsmythoughts,noddingtowardthe

hallway.

Hisfriendsnickers,andMillersmackshimupsidethehead,laughing,thenturnsto

me.“Yourlegfeelingokay?”

Igentlyplacemypalmonmythigh.“Yeah,I’vejustbeenwalkingonittoomuch.”
“Istillcan’tbelieveahorsefuckedupyourlegthatmuch,”hesays,kickingclothes

thatlitterthehallwayoutoftheway.“Thatfallmusthavebeenkillerwicked.”

“Yep,hurtlikeabitch.”Notwantingtotalkaboutmyleganymore,Icrashmylipsto

his.

“Whatwasthatfor?”heaskswhenIstepback.
Inonchalantlyshrug,beingthecoolversionofmyself.Theonethatdoesn’tgivea

shitaboutanything.“Doesitreallymatter?”

Doesanythingreallymatteranymore?
He considers what I said with his head slanted to the side. “You’re always so

mysterious.”Aslowgrinspreadsacrosshisface.“Ilikeit.”

MysteriousAnnabella?
NomoreOpenBookAnnabella.NoSunshine-in-the-RainorChasing-Rainbows-and-

Dreaming-ofGlittery-DaysAnnabella.IsthatwhoI’vebecomenow?

Dodgingthedirtyclothes,shoes,andemptybottlesonthefloor,Igingerlymakemy

way to his bed while he rummages in his dresser for something. I flop down on the
lumpy mattress, adjust my leg, but roll to my side when I feel something lumpy
beneathme—Miller’sfavoritepipe.Isetitonthefloorthenliebackdownonthebed.

“So,whatdoyouwanttodotonight?”heasks,closingthedresserdrawer.
“Anythingthatdoesn’trequirebeingathome.”Ispreadoutmyarmsandstareupat

thewater-stainedceiling.

Hechucklesashescootsontothebedbesideme.“Youbetterbecarefulgivingme

fullreintodowhateverthehellIwant.”Heleansintokissme,andItraptheairinmy
chest,mentallypreparingmyselfforthenumbness.“Wecouldfinally,youknow,take
thistothenextlevel.”

As deep as I am into this lie, I still haven’t worked up enough courage to lose my

virginitytohim.“ItoldyouIhadafivemonthdatingminimumbeforewedidthat.”

“Butit’sbeenfivemonths,”hegripes.“Comeon.I’vebeensuperpatient.”
“Fine,”Iagree,eventhoughitmakesmefeelsicktomystomach.Hegrins,hisgaze

zeroinginonmylips.Heleansin,butIplacemyhandoverhismouth,stoppinghim.
“Notrightnow,though...Latertonight.”

HesearchesmyeyesforasignI’mlying,butI’vebecomesuchagoodliarthateven

Ican’ttellifIamornot.

WhenIlowermyhand,hesealshismouthtomine.
Our kisses aren’t magical, but I’m starting to believe kisses aren’t supposed to be.

They’rejustlipsandmovements,promisingliesthatmeannothing.

Afterseveralminutesofhimkissingandrubbinghishipsagainstme,Millerpullshis

handoutofmyshirt,lookinghighfromthekiss.KnowingMiller,hemightjustbehigh.
“Youseemtensetoday.What’sup?”

“IseemthesameasIdoeveryday.”Istarepasthim,focusingonajaggedcrackin

the wall. Every time I look at it, it seems to have grown. One day, I swear the entire
wallisgoingtocrumble.

“No,it’ssomethingelse...Youseemoutofit.”Hestatesitlikeheknowssomuch

aboutme.ButhowcouldhewhenevenIdon’tknowanythingaboutmyself?

Hisendeavortodelveintomypsychemakesmeregretcominghere.Millerisgood

foronething—takingabreakfrombeingtheAnnaeveryonescrutinizesandconstantly
worriesabout.

Ipushuponmyelbows.“MaybeIshouldgo.”
Hesplayshisfingersacrossmychest,pinningmedown.“Don’tgetpissy.Iwasjust

pointingoutyouseemoutofit.”Hesquintsatmyface.“Youaren’thigh,areya?”

“No,I’mjust...”Isigh.“Look,Idon’twanttotalkaboutme,okay?I’vehadashitty

day,andIjustwanttorelaxandhangoutlikeweusuallydo.”

“Relax, huh? I think I might have something for that.” He jumps off the bed and

stridesoutoftheroom.Whenhereturns,hehasplasticcupinonehandandasmall
plasticbagintheother.“Pickahand,”hesays,eventhoughIcanseewhat’sinboth.
He’sgivingmeachoice:temporarilyescaperealityandbeleftfeelingtiredandachyor
plummetintoanunknownworldthatImightneverfindmywayoutof.Howfastand
fardoIwanttofall?HowharddoIwanttocrash?

Iwanttofallhard.
Iwanttofallfast.
Iwanttocrashandburnandneverfeelanythingeveragain.
PastthepillsItakesometimestokillthepaininside.Pastthealcohol.PastthescarsI

alwayshavetocarrywithme.

But the faint memory of Dancing-Dreaming-Good-Girl Annabella clutches onto the

ledge.

“I’ll take the cup,” I say, trying to figure out what my choice means. Am I good?

Bad?What?

Heseemsmildlydisappointedbutstillhandsmethecup.“This’lltaketheedgeoffa

little.”

I inspect the brownish liquid that smells like gasoline. “What’s in it? Just whiskey,

right?”

“Justdrinkupandfindout.”Hekicksthedoorshutandclimbsbackontothebed,

tossingtheplasticbagonthemattressbesidehim.“Ipromiseit’llblowyourmind.”

My parents’ words of wisdom race through my head. Don’t do drugs. Don’t drink.

Don’tgiveintopeerpressure.You’resuchagoodgirl,Annabella.

“You’rewrong.Idon’tknowwhoIamanymore,”Isayaloudtomyself.Millergives

meaconfusedlook,butIraisetherimoftheglasstomylips.ThisiswhyIcomehere.
ThisiswhatIneed.“Goodbye,Anna.Goodbye,rainstorm.”

Chapter4

A fter I down half the cup, Miller finishes the rest off, does a line, then goes to get a
refill. As the alcohol flows through my veins, I sink onto the mattress and drift from
reality.Nottoomuchlater,Millerjoinsme,andwelayside-by-side,floatinginandout
ofmeaninglessconversation.

Ican’tseestraight.Canhardlythink.MybodyissonumbthatIcan’tevenfeelmy

messed up leg, think about my crappy life, how my mother was a liar, or what she
wantedtotellme,butnevergottobecauseshedied.

“See, much better, right?” Miller asks as he stares up at the ceiling with his arm

drapedacrosshishead.

“Yes...much...”Isitreally,though?AmIlyingtomyself?
Myphonerings,butIdon’t—can’t—movetoanswerit.
“Good.”Millersmileslazilyasherollsonhissideandpropsuponhiselbow.
Minutes,maybehours,passbeforetheeffectsofwhateverIdrankbegintowearoff.

Ibecomerestlessagain.Startthinkingtoomuch.Regretdrinking.Beinghere.Choosing
to be this person.I don’t like the feeling at all. Don’t like that the old me still resides
somewherebeneaththepurplehairandgothclothing,theonewhowantstodance,be
good—theonewhoshouldhavejustdiedinthecaraccident.Foronce,Ijustwantto
forgetwhoIwas,whoI’vebecome,theangerIfeeltowardmymother,theguiltIfeel
forfeelingtheanger.TheguiltIfeelfornottellingmydad.That’swhatIcamehereto
do.

“Wanttodosomething?”Millerasks,playingwiththehemofmyshirt.
Iknowwhathewantsfromme,butIstillcan’tseemtogiveittohim.
Ibobmyheadupanddown.“Yeah,let’sgosomewhere...Dosomething...Livea

little...”

“Butit’srainingoutside.”
“Sowhat?”Isitupandrubmyeyes.“Alittlerainneverhurtanyone.”
Liar.Raincandoalotofdamage.
Millerunenthusiasticallylooksatthewindow.“Actually,ifyou’redownforalittle

adventure,Imightknowofsomethingwecoulddo.You’dhavetobeupforanything,
though. And I mean anything, Anna. None of that girly bullshit where you back out
whenthingsgetsketchy.”

I’vespentenoughtimewithMillertounderstandwhatthelookinhiseyesmeans.

Hewantstogetintotrouble,walkthelineofdanger.TheoldAnna,thegoodgirlher
parentsraised,theonewhoworshippedhermother,would’verunaway.

Lightningzapsacrossthesky,thundergrumbles,andtherainsuddenlypicksup,as

thickasthedayoftheaccident.Thedayseemedsosunny,everythingsocrystalclear,
untiltheraincameandwashedthatlifeawayinaninstant.

“Let’sgothen.”Lightheadedanddizzy,Istaggertomyfeet.
Millerplacesahandonmyarmtosteadyme.“Wait.Don’tyouwanttohearwhat

we’redoing?”

Iweavearoundthedirtyclothesonthefloor.“Ireallydon’tcare.”AllIknowisthat

Iwantthefadingnumbnesstoreturntomybody,andI’lldojustaboutanythingtoget
itback.

He grins as he tosses me a hoodie. “All right. I like this side of you. Dangerous

Anna,”hepondersashetapshisfingeragainsthislips.“Ithasaniceringtoit.

“Itdoes?”IleanagainstthedoorframewhileIputthejacketon.
“Yeah,sure.”Hegrins,meetingmygaze.“Let’sgo.”
Onourwayout,MillergrabshiscarkeysfromthecoffeetableandtellsBigJaywe’ll

bebacklater.Heoffersmetherestofhisdrinkbeforeweheadout,andeventhoughI
alreadyfeelwoozy,Iguzzleitdown.

Outside, rain puddles the pavement, the sky is darker than it was when I walked

here,andthetemperaturehasplummeted.Idrawmyhoodieupandmoveasquickly
asIcantowardMiller’struckthathasmorerustthanpaint.Hejogsaheadofme,his
bootssplashingthroughthepuddles,andopensthedoor.

I heave myself inside, close the door, then watch the rain stream down the

windshield.Memoriessurface—thesoundofmetalcrushing,myparents’screams,my
dadlookingatmeasifwaitingformetotellhimthetruth.Mygutclenches.Ishould
havejusttoldhim.

“Youreadyforthis?”Millerasksasheslamsthedoor.
Ijerkfromthememories,cravingwhateverescapeliesahead.“Yep.I’mreadyfor

anything.”

Millerchatsonhisphonewithoneofhisbuddiesforhalfthedrive,andIonlypick

uponfragmentsofhisconversation.HekeepsmentioningahouseonFairfieldLane,a
streetonthericher,morelavishsideoftown.

“So,youknowtheotherdaywhenBigJayandIweretalkingabouttryingtofinda

way to get some extra cash,” Miller says after he hangs up. “You remember Jeremy,
right?” he asks, and I nod, even though I don’t. “He found out about this house on
Fairfieldthat’sbeenvacantfor,like,amonth.”

“Sonoonelivesthere?”
“No,someonelivesthere.They’vejustbeengoneforamonth.Andtheydon’teven

haveanalarmsystem.”Hesnickers.“Whatabunchofstupidfucks.Seriously.”

Iscrapeatmyblackfingernailpolish,pretendingtobemoreblaséthatIreallyam.

“Areyouplanningtobreakinorsomething?”

Heflashesmeadeviousgrin.“That’sexactlywhatIplanondoing.”
EventhoughIdon’tlikethatIdo,Istarttogrowworried.Idon’tknowhowhegot

theinformation,butIdoknowisthatMilleriscurrentlyonprobationforbreakingand
entering.

Is that what’s going to end up happening to me? Do I care? What do I care about

anymore?Ivibratewithanger.HowamIsupposedtobetheDangerousAnnabellaI’m
pretendingtobewithallthesethoughtsinmyhead?

Shovingthethoughtsfrommyhead,IlookoutthewindowasMillermakesaturn

downFairfieldLane.

Extravagant two and three story homes border the quiet street lined with cherry

blossom trees, and the grey sky casts shadows across the perfectly landscaped yards.

Thesceneisalmosttooperfect.LikeIknowalltoowell,though,nothingisperfect,and
Iquicklyspottheflaw—themurkystreamsflowingthroughthegutters.

Iglanceupatthecloudyskyasuneasinessseepsintomybones.“It’snotevendark

yet.Peoplemightseeus.”

“It’ll look more suspicious if we show up at night,” he replies as he turns into a

paveddrivewaythatleadstoabrickmansion.

He parks in front of the garage and shuts off the engine. The rain has turned the

yardandsidewalksintoagiantpuddle,completelyruiningeverythinginitspath.

Maybe that’s where I’m headed. Perhaps I’m becoming as destructive as the rain,

ruiningmylife,myfamily’slife.

“Yourtruckkindofstandsout,”Isay,anxiouslyglancingatalltheexpensivecars

parkedinthenearbydriveways.

“As long as we pretend like we belong here, we’ll be fine. Besides, it’s raining so

goddamnhard,youcanbarelysee.”Herotatesintheseat,rakinghisfingersthrough
hisbluehair.“Youdon’thavetodothisifyoudon’twantto.Iknowyousaidyouwere
up for anything, but you always say that, and sometimes I can tell you don’t really
meanit.”

Hiswordspissmeoff.Idon’tlikethathe’sright.Thathecanseethatsideofme.See

thegoodgirlIusedtobe.

I’mnotheranymore!Ican’tbe!
Allriledup,Istretchmyarmtowardthedoorhandle.Grinning,Millerhopsoutinto

therainastheskyboomsandtherainquickens.Ignoringmymother’svoiceinsidemy
head,tellingmethisiswrong,IfollowMillerupthedriveway,staggeringfromleftto
rightastheliquidconcoctionIdrankearliersloshesaroundinmybrain.

Squeezing between the garage and the house, we sneak around to the back door.

Millerjigglesthedoorknob,butit’slocked.

“Standback,”hesaysasheshucksoffhisjacketandwrapsitaroundhisfist.
I briefly contemplate running away, just disappearing into the rain. Push through

thepainandrunacrossthegrass,keepgoinguntilmylimbsacheandgiveoutonme.
ButthenMiller’sfistslamsthroughthewindow,andmychanceatbackingoutshatters
liketheglass.

Shootingmeanexcitedlookfromoverhisshoulder,hesnakeshisarmthroughthe

brokenwindow,flipsthelock,andpushesthedooropen.Iholdmybreath,waitingfor
analarmtogooff.Whenitdoesn’t,I’mdisappointed,butfearbackingout.IfIbacked
out,whatdoesthatsayaboutme?HowwouldMillerseeme?Wouldhestillwanttobe
withme?IfIdidn’thavehimtohangaroundwith,thenwherewouldthatleaveme?
Withnowheretoescapetoanymore.

We enter the house, stepping into a massive kitchen filled with stainless steel

appliancesandmarblecountertops.Myheadswirlswithconfusionaswewanderinto
thehome.Ilosetrackoftimethedeeperwego,thealcoholIdrankblurringmymind
evenmore.Ican’tfigureoutwhoIam.HowIgothere.HowtogetoutorifIevenwant
to.It’snotlikeIactuallyneedtostealanything.Still,Ipickupacrystalswanfigurine
offoneoftheshelves,stuffitintomypocket,thenheadthroughthefoyerandupthe
winding staircase, like a lost little girl drifting through a meaningless life with no
direction.

Hangingonthewallonthesecondfloorisalargeportraitofafamilyoffoursitting

onabeach,smilinginthesunshine.Theyalllooksohappy.There’sasimilarpictureof
myfamilybackatmyhouse.Weappearhappy.Dotheyrealizelifeisn’tallsunshine?

Assomeofthenumbnessevaporatesfrommybody,angerigniteslikethunderand

lightning.Tremblingwithrage,Isnatchthepicturefromthewallandchuckitashard
as I can at the bottom of the stairway. Glass shatters all over the marble floor like
raindrops. I want to forget about all of it. The lies. The pain. The anger I always feel
towardher.Whycan’tIjustforget?

Miller runs back to the stairs, panting heavily and looking scared out of his damn

mind.“Whatthehellwasthat?”

“A picture fell off the wall,” I lie, gripping onto the banister as I battle to calm the

fuckdown.

Millerglancesfrommetothebrokenpictureatbottomofthestairsandopenshis

mouthtosaysomething.Butthesoundofsirenscutshimoff.

“Shit. We have to go.” He pushes by me, bumping me into the wall, and sprints

downthestairway.

“I can’t move that fast,” I hiss in a panic, dragging my leg along with me like the

uselesslimbitis.

BythetimeI’vemadeittwostepsdownthestairway,he’salreadytothefoyer.
He skids to a halt in front of the door, his gaze darting between the flashing lights

outthewindowandme.“I’msorry,”hesaysinapanic,thentakesoff,leavingmeto
fendformyself.

Idon’tknowwhyI’msurprised,butIam,asifI’veregressedbackintothatnaïve

girlwhobelievedthatpotsofgoldreallyareattheendofrainbows—thatallpeopleare
good. That danced around her room and dreamt of kissing her crush at her birthday
party.

Havingnootherchoice,Ipickupthepace,butbythetimeImakeittothebottomof

thestairs,thefrontdoorswingsopens.

Withthewindhowlingbehindhim,anofficerbarrelsinsidewithaguninhishand

andhiseyeslockedonme.“Putyourhandsup,”heorders.

Idowhathesaysandputmyhandsintheair.Iwaittobecuffed,knowingIshould

beafraid—thatthat’showI’msupposedtofeel.Butwiththealcoholstillswimmingin
myveins,Ican’tfeelthefear.

Can’tfeelanythingatall.

Chapter5

Miller got caught, anyway, and we both end up being hauled down the driveway by
officers.

Handscuffedbehindhisbackandjeanscoveredinmud,he’sforcedtowardoneof

thethreepolicecarsparkedoutfront.Neighborshavegatheredtowatchthescene.I
wonderifanyofthemknowme,ifthey’veeverseenmeintownatholidaygatherings
inthepark.

“I’m so sorry, Anna. I just didn’t know what to do,” Miller pleads with me as an

officerguideshimintothebackseat.

I concentrate on the raindrops streaming down the glass until the officer drives

towardtown.IknowI’minatonoftrouble,waymorethanIeverhavebeen.

IspendthenexttwohourstryingtofigureouthowIfeelaboutwhathappened.I

want to feel indifferent, but under the sea of numbness, I still care that I’m ruining
what’s left of my life and putting more stress on Loki. He’s always been a great big
brotherandlikemyfather,hedoesn’tdeservetobetreatedlikecrap.

When Loki shows up at the police station to pick me up, he’s wavering between

disappointment and anger. He hardly says more than three words during the drive
home and only acknowledges my existence when he parks the truck and shuts the
headlightsoff.

Hisjawissettightashestranglesthesteeringwheel.“Ihavenoideawhattheheck

tosaytoyou,”hesaysquietly.

“Meeither,”ImumbleasIstareupatthestars.Oddlyenough,afteralltherain,the

nightskyiscrystalclear,thecalmafterthestorm.

Ifonlythatweretrueinlife.
Hescowlsatme.“Doyourealizehowmuchtroubleyou’rein?God,you’regoingto

havetogotocourt,andsincethisisn’tyou’refirsttimegettingintotrouble,they’renot
goingtogoeasyonyou.”Heshakeshishead,puffingoutafrustratedbreath.“You’re
grounded.”

“Okay.”Mysimpleresponseseemstorilehimupmore,whichwasn’tmyintention.
“I’m serious. No going out unless it’s to therapy. And no more hanging out with

Miller.” He grits his teeth. “I know he played a huge part in this, even if you won’t
admitit.”

IbitemytongueuntilItasteblood,butmyrefusaltosayanythinghasnothingtodo

with Miller. I’m not even sure how I feel about him now. Never really did. He was
supposedtobeanescapefrommylife,theoppositeofthekind,caringboysthatIused
towanttospendtimewith.IknewwhohewaswhenImethim,thatchivalrywasn’t
histhing.Whenhebailedonmetosavehisownass,hewasonlybeinghimself,which
ismorethanIcansayaboutme.

“DidyouhearanythingIjustsaid?”Lokiasks,growingevenmorefrustratedwhen

mylipsremainedfused.Iwanttosaysomething,butIcan’tfigureoutwhattheright

thing is. Right and wrong? Do I even know the difference anymore? “Goddammit. I
can’ttakethisanymore.”Jerkingthekeysoutoftheignition,heshovesopenthedoor.

Ifeelbadforupsettinghim,butIalsofeelsohollow.Empty.Deadinside,rottinglike

corpse.

Isilentlywaitforhimtogetoutofthecar.KnowingLoki,he’llstormintothehouse

andlockhimselfinhisroomuntilhecoolsoff.Maybebytomorrow,Icanfigureout
somethingtosay.

Buthepausesbeforegettingout,throwingmeforaloop.
“Ihatetosaythis,becauseIknowhowmuchithurtsyouwhenIbringupMomand

Dad,”hemutterswithhisbacktome,“butthey’dbesodisappointedinyou.”Hisfinal
wordsbeforehestormsintothehouse.

Sorrow, rage, remorse, and so much more chips through my shield of numbness,

andpainengulfsme.He’sright.Ifmyparentswerealive,they’dbesodisappointedin
me,andasmuchasIhatethatitdoes,theiropinionmattersalot—evenmymom’s.

No longer wanting to feel the aching sadness, I punch the side of my leg until the

musclesaresore,untilthephysicalpainoverpowerstheemotionalpain.ThenIgetout
ofthecaranddragmylegbehindmeasIheadupthedriveway.

AsInearthebackdoor,amuffledvoicecatchesmyattention.It’spastmidnightand

therestoftheneighborhoodisfastasleep.MorecuriousthanIwanttobe,Igriponto
therailingandcranemynecktopeerintothenewneighbor’syard.

Someone is sitting on the porch beneath the deck light, talking on the phone. The

voiceislow,baritone,anddoesn’tbelongtoTammyorLuca.

“Look,youcan’tcallhereanymore,”hesaysinalowtone.“Iknow.Iknow.Butthat

was the deal—that’s why we moved here.” He presses his fingers to the bridge of his
nose and lowers his head. “Fine. I’ll send you more money, but I have to go now.
Pleasedon’tcallhereanymore.”

Hehangsupandstaresattheroadwithhisphoneclutchedinhishands.Moments

later,hisbodystartstoshakeashesobs.

Abouttwomonthsago,IcaughtLokidoingsomethingsimilar.Itwaslateatnight,

andIwastryingtosneakoutofthehousewhenIsawLokicryingonthebackdeck.He
didn’tknowIwasstandingintheshadows,spyingonhim.Ihaven’treallycriedsince
the accident and seeing Loki so openly emotional like that made me uncomfortable,
morewithmyselfthananything,becauseIcan’tseemtocryanymore,letmyselffeel
the pain. It’s been so long since I let it all out that I wonder if maybe my tears are
broken.

Ifiguredhewascryingoverourparents,butIfoundoutthenextmorningthathis

girlfriend of three years dumped him, said she couldn’t handle his new, complicated
life.

“Whatabitch,”AlexisgrowledwhenLokitoldusCamilawouldnolongerbecoming

around.

“I’msosorry.”Zharagavehimabighug.
EvenNikoliofferedafewwords.“Ididn’tlikeherthatmuch,anyway.”
EventhoughIwitnessedhispain,Isaidnothing.Ifeltbadforhim,andtheoldAnna

wouldhaveopenedherheartandtriedtoconsolehim.ButthisAnna,theonerotting
awayinherlifewithonegoodlegandabunchoflies,couldn’tfigureouthowtodothat

withoutfallingapart,too.

Whentheneighbor’scryingfades,Igoinside,forcingmyselftoforgetwhatIheard

andsaw.

Chapter6

Ever since the accident, whenever I wake up, I can’t remember anything I dreamt.
SometimesIwonderwheremymindgoeswhenmyeyelidslower,especiallybecause
Zhara insists that I scream almost every night. Sometimes I wonder if I relive the
accident or maybe I dream of perfect first kisses and dancing onstage, stuff that no
longerholdsaspotinmylifeanymore.

Ispendthenexttwodaysandnightslounginginbed,stirringinmyownfilthand

dreamingofnothing.Ireekofdirtysweat,myhairismattedtomyforehead,andmy
leghurtsmorethanitusuallydoes.

OnTuesday,Lokiforcesmetogetoutofbedandgotoschool.Notbotheringtotake

ashower,Ibrushmyhairintoamessybun,pullonahoodie,andgoouttothekitchen
whereIpoptwopainpillsbeforeheadingtothetruckwheretherestoftheBakerclan
iswaitingimpatientlyforme.

“Headed to school?” Luca appears seemingly out of nowhere. He charms me with

thatlopsidedgrinashestrollsuptothefence.

Myheartbetraysme,missingabeat,andIglimpsefromlefttoright,prayinghe’s

talkingtosomeoneelse,butnooneelseisaround.

“Um,yeah.”Islingthestrapofmybackpackovermyshoulder.“Aren’tyou?”
He glances down at the plaid pajama bottoms and faded grey t-shirt he’s wearing.

“Sincethere’sonly,like,aweekleftuntilChristmasbreak,mymom’slettingmestartin
January.”

“Luckyyou.I’dkilltobeabletositaroundinmypajamasallday.”
“Ithasitsdownfalls.”
“Likewhat?”
A flirty smile rises on his lips, and I immediately fear where the conversation is

going. “Like it’s making me a slob. I mean, look at me. A few days of freedom from
school,andI’vealreadygottensolazythatI’mstandingheretalkingtoaprettygirlin
mypajamas.”

Imissabeatandendupstandingthere,staringathimlikeanidiot.Butnoone,not

even Miller, has called me pretty before. And how I look now, dressed in wrinkled
clothes, smudged makeup, and messy hair, there’s no way Luca could think I look
pretty.

Hehastobelying.I’mnotthekindofgirlsomeonethinksispretty.
Unabletofindmyvoice,Iturntoboltforthetruck.
“Hey,Anna,”hesaysbeforeIcanmakemyescape.
Ipause,myadrenalineracing.“Yeah?”
“I was being serious yesterday.” Nervousness edges his voice. “It’d be cool if you

couldshowmearoundtown.”

I glance back at him, my gaze sweeping up and down his body. I try to convince

myselfthatI’mnotcheckinghimout,thatI’mjustreadinghisvibe.That’sall.ButI’ve

becomesuchagoodliarthatIevenlietomyselfnow.

“Ican’trightnow...I’mgrounded.”
Hiseyessparklewithinterestasherestshisarmsontopofthefence.“What’dyou

do?”

“Something terrible,” I say evasively. “Look, Luca, you seem nice. But you don’t

wanttobefriendswithme.”AndIcan’tbefriendswithyou.LikeCece,youremindme
toomuchofthepastwithyourlopsidedsmilesthatturnmeintothatdreamygirl.

“Youmustbereallyunperceptive,”heteases.“Becausethat’sexactlywhatIwantto

do.”

“Youdon’tevenknowme,though.”
“Butisn’tthatthepointofbecomingsomeone’sfriend?Thewholegetting-to-know-

the-otherperson.Infact,it’soneofmyfavoriteparts.”

Ielevatebybrows,questioninghiswords.“Really?Ithinkthatpartsucks.Imean,

it’ssuchanawkwardphase.”

“Awkwardcanbefun.”HissmilegrowswhenIfrownindoubt.“Don’ttrytotellme

thatyou’veneverbeenentertainedbysomeoneactingawkward.”

Iopenmymouthtotellhimno,Ihaven’t,butthenIrememberthedaysoflaughing

atlosttourists,lookingsooutofplaceinourtown.Infact,Iwasdoingitthedayofthe
accident.

“Nope.Never,”Ilieforatleastthetenthtimetoday.
“Liar,Icantellbythelookonyourfacethatyoutotallydo,”hecallsmeoutonmy

bullshit,justlikethat,anditthrowsmeoff.

Hardlyanyoneeverputsmeinmyplaceortellsmelikeitis.EvenwhenI’macting

like a brat, everyone that knows me looks at me with pity, carefully choosing their
words.

“Ihavetogo.”Openingthetruckdoor,Ipropmyfootontotherunningboard.
“Seeyouaround,Anna.Can’twaittogetstartedonourawkwardfriendsphase.”He

usesmynicknameeventhoughIdidn’tevengivehimpermissionto.

I hate that he just does it so causal, like he’s supposed to be using it. Most of all, I

hatehowmuchIlikehearinghimusemyoldname.

Shakingmyheadindisbelief,IhoistmyselfintothebackseatwithNikoliandZhara.
“Wasthatoneofournewneighbors?”LokiasksasIclosethedoor.
Iunzipmybackpacktogetastickofgum.“Yeah,Iguess.”
“Heseemsnice,”Lokisays,lackinganyformofsubtly.“Isheyourage?”
“He’s in my grade, but he’s definitely not anyone I’ll hang out with,” I tell him,

needingtogetthatthoughtoutofhisheadnow.

ThelastthingIwantisforLokitopushmeintobeingfriendswiththesweet,nice

guynextdoorwho,backintheday,Icouldhaveeasilyhadacrushon.Ican’tgoback
to that place in my life. I don’t belong there anymore—don’t deserve to belong there
anymore.

“Dotheyhaveanyotherkids?”Zharaasks,aligningtherowofblueandgreybeaded

braceletsthatmatchthecheerleadinguniformshe’swearing.

Ipopapieceofgumintomymouthandlookoutthewindow.“Beatsme.Ididn’t

ask.”

“So,thenyou’vetalkedtothem?”Lokiasksashebacksoutontothestreet.

“No,theytalkedtome.”Idropmybagontothefloor.“Themomcamestrollingup

tomeyesterdayandchattedmyearoff.”

Heshootsmeasternlookfromoverhisshoulder.“Ihopeyouweren’trude.”
Alexissnortsalaughasshepropsherunlacedsneakersonthedash.“Whenisn’tshe

rude?”

“You’re one to talk,” I retort. “You know people at school call you an evil bitch?

Everyone’safraidofyounow.”

Sheshrugsnonchalantly.“Sowhat?It’sbetterthanbeingcalledFreakyGimpGirl.”
EventhoughIknowtheyalreadydo,herwordssting.
“Alexis,”Lokiwarns.“Don’tevengothere.”
“Why? She started it,” Alexis gripes. “You always take her side because you feel

sorryforher,andit’sturningherintoaspoiledbrat.”

“Alexis,benicetoAnna.She’sbeenthroughalot.”Zharachimesin,tryingtoplay

theroleofourmomagain.

“We’veallbeenthroughalot,”Alexissnaps,herhairwhippingaroundassheaimsa

deathglareatZhara.“AndcoddlingAnnaisn’tgoingtohelpanyone.”

I’ve somehow turned into Invisible Girl, and I seize the opportunity and keep my

lipszipped,wishingIcouldvanish,evenifonlyforadayortwo.Ifnoonenoticedme
thenmaybeIwouldn’thavetobeanyoneatall.Icouldjustblendintothewallsand
vanishfromthisworld.

“Oh,mygod,Ican’tstandthisanymore.”Nikolitugshisredbaseballcaplowerashe

slouchesintheseat.“Allyouguysdoisargue.WhenMomandDaddied,youalllost
yourfreakingminds.”

No one speaks for the rest of the drive. When Loki pulls up to the drop off area,

Alexisbailsoutbeforethetruckevencomestoacompletestop.Ittakesmeacoupleof
minutestogathermythings,andbythetimeIgetout,mysistershavealreadymadeit
totheentranceoftheschool.

Nikoli goes to the middle school, so he stays in the backseat but doesn’t wave

goodbyetome.

“I’llpickyouupatexactlythreeten,”LokihollersatmeasIclosethedoor.“And,

Anna,youbetterbehere.I’mserious.IfyouwanderoffandIhavetotrackyoudown,
I’mgoingtobesuperpissed.”

Inodandshutthedoor.
Honeyton’s weather has its up and downs, but mainly there are a lot of ups. We

don’treallyhaveawinter,butwedogetoccasionalsporadicrainstormsandburstsof
heat. Even though it’s December, a heat wave has rolled in over town. The campus
yardispackedwithstudentsloungingonthegrass,soakingupthesun.

EnoughtimehaspassedsinceI’vetakenthepills,andIfeelsublimelysedatedasI

pushthroughthegrowingcrowdtowardtheschoolwithmychintuckeddown.ButI
canfeelpeople’seyesonme,whichisnormalthesedays.Occasionally,someonedares
tobringuptheaccident,likeIactuallywanttotalkaboutmyparents’deaths.

“Hey,Anna.”CececoylywavestomeasIpassherlocker.
It’soddseeingheractsoreservedtowardmewhenshe’ssuchaspunky,outgoing

person. But what’s really mind-boggling is that I used to fit in with her smiles and
giggles,prettyhairandoutfits.I’dgetallcleaneduptoimpressguysandactedsillyover

firstkisses.That’swhoIwas.

Was.
Ilookdownatmylegthatdoesn’tbendrightasIwalk.
Anothertime.Anotherlife,Anna.
IfixmyattentiononthedingeduplockersuntilIreachmyown,butunfortunately,

Cecefollowsme.

“Ineedtotalktoyouaboutsomething,”shesays,glancingaroundthenearlyvacant

hallway.“Maybeinprivate.”

Like Zhara, she’s wearing a cheerleading uniform and a perky smile; she’s all

positivityandrainbows,andIcan’tevenbringmyselftolookherintheeye,soIfocus
onspinningthecombinationtomylockerbecauseit’seasierthanfacingreality.

“This isn’t fair, Anna. I don’t even know what I did. One minute we were best

friends,andnowyouwon’tevenlookmeintheeye.”Shecombsherfingersthrough
her long blonde hair, tapping her foot against the linoleum. “I know it’s because of
Miller.Eversinceyoustarteddatinghim,youwon’ttalktome.”

“I’m not dating Miller. We just hang out.” I open my locker and exchange my

backpackformybooks.

“Isawyouatthatpartytheothernight.”Hercoldtoneimpliessheisn’thappyabout

whateverIwasdoing.“ButIdoubtyou’dremember.Youweresooutofit.”

Slammingmylocker,Iswingaroundherandlimpdownthehallway.
“Thisisn’tfair,”sheyellsafterme.“Ididn’tdoanything.”
Islowtoastopinthemiddleofthehallway.“You’reright.Youdidn’tdoanything.

Allthis...”Igesturebetweenus,“ismyfault.”Hopeflashesinhereyes,butIsquashit.
“ButIcan’tbefriendswithyouanymore,Cece.It’sjusttoo...hard.”

Tearsfloodhereyesasshespinsaroundandracesofftowardthegirl’sbathroom.
Igotoclassearly,sinkingfurtherintomyguiltandwishingIhadmorepainkillers

to take, wishing I wasn’t such a shitty person, wishing she’d just let me go. I meant
whatIsaid.Wecan’tbefriendsbecausetheAnnaCeceusedtoknowdiedandallthat’s
leftisahollowshellofapersonwhocan’tfigureoutwhattodowithherself.

It’s hard to avoid Cece, though, especially when she’s in my first period class. She

entersaboutfiveminutesafterIsitdownandlookslikeshe’sabouttoburstintotears
again when she sees me. Still, she waves shyly at me as she takes a seat. I know her
wellenoughthatIcantellshe’snervous.

About a minute later, Ben, the six-foot, brown haired football player I once had a

crush on, saunters into the classroom. He drops his binder on the desk right next to
Cece’sandgrinsashesitsdownandsayssomethingtoher.Cece,whowasthebiggest
flirtevenbeforewestartedhighschool,smiles,coilingastrandofherhairaroundher
finger. He soaks her attention up like she’s the sun and dazzles her with one of his
infamousdimpledsmiles.Shereturnshissmile,butgrowsapprehensiveasshecastsa
waryglanceatme.

Jealouslybrieflyburnsinsideme.Aretheygoingout?
The feeling fizzles out as I train my gaze on the tattered cover of my notebook. It

doesn’tmatter.

Myphonebouncesonmydeskasitvibrates,andIswipemyfingeroverthescreen

toreadthemessage.

Cece:Idon’tcarewhatusay.We’vebeenfriendssincewewereinkindergarten

andI’mnotgoingtoletyoujustthrowitaway.Please,justtalktome.Afterschool
maybe?

Ican’tevenfigureoutareply,soIshutmyphoneoff.Cececatchesmygaze,andher

eyeswater,asifshe’sabouttocry.Ifeellikecrying,too,butlikethelastsixmonths,
myeyesremaindry.

IcowerinmychairandstudythecracksinthedeskuntilIcannolongerfeelCece

staringatme.WhenIpeekoveratheragain,she’slaughingatsomethingwithBenand
Cadence,who’stakenthepositionofCece’sbestfriend.

Iobservehowshelaughs,howhappyshelooks.IlongforthedayswhenI’dberight

byherside,lookingjustashappy,whichonlymakesmewanttoswallowmorepills.

Cecedoesn’tlookatmeortextmeduringclass.Whenthebellrings,sherushespast

mewithherheaddown.

I’m sorry, I almost say, but bite down on my tongue and bury the grief down,

allowingthepainpillstosuffocatemyemotions.

Chapter7

T heweekfeelslong,mostlybecausealmosteveryoneatschoolgotwordofmyarrest.
Gossipfluttersupanddownthehallways,andpeoplegawkatmemorethanusual.

Friday, Mr. Dalcebee, the school guidance counselor who likes to wear a lot of

smileyfaceties,callsmeinforavisittochataboutmygradesandtrytopryintomy
life,somethinghedoesonceamonth.

“You’rebarelypassingyourclasses,”hesays.“Thisisn’tgood,Anna.”
“Iknow,”Ireply,pickingatthechipsinthewoodenarmrestsofthechairI’msitting

in.

Hegrowsannoyedwithmewitheachquestionheasks.“Iknowyoucandobetter

thanthis.YouusedtobeastraightAstudent.”

“Idon’tknowwhatthebigdealis,”Isay.“I’mnotfailinganyofmyclasses.”
“Thebigdealisthatyouhavethepotentialtobeagreatstudent,andrightnow,I’m

notseeingthatpotential.Look,Iknowthingshavebeendifficultforyou,butIreally
would like to see you focus on school again and maybe apply to some different
colleges,maybeonesyouhaven’tlookedintoyet.”

Iknowwheretheconversationisheading,andmybackstiffens.
Oneofthemanydownfallsoflivinginasmalltowniseveryoneknowseveryone.

Mr. Dalcebee has known me since I was four. His wife used to attend the same book
clubasmymom,andthey’dgoshoppingandwinetastingontheweekendswhilehe
andmydadwouldhangoutintheirmancave,akathebasement.

I hate that he thinks he knows my story because he occasionally drank beer and

playedpoolwithmydad.Hedoesn’tknowanything.Noonereallydoeswhenitcomes
tomyfamily,notevenmyfamily.Mybrothersandsisters,theydon’tknowthetruth
abouteverything.SometimesIgetsoangrythatI’mtheonlyonethatknowsaboutmy
mom, which only makes me hate myself even more for becoming this cruel person
thatwantsotherpeopletosufferwithme.

“Can I go?” I rise from the chair. “I don’t want to be late for math or my grade’s

goingtodropevenmore.”

Thoseseemtobethemagicwords.
“Fine, we’ll talk later,” he says, stuffing my folder back into the file cabinet. “And,

Anna.Ifyouneedanything,youcanalwayscometome.Evenifit’sjusttotalkabout
yourparents.”

“Yeah,sure.”MyskindampensasIgraspthedoorknob.
When I exit his office, I lean back, my head banging against the wooden door.

“Goddammit,thissucks.”

Miss Manerton, the receptionist, glares at me from behind her wire-framed

spectacles.“Watchyourlanguage,Annabella,orI’llwriteyouup.”

Iutteranapologythenlimpoutintothecrammedhallway.Thewhispersinstantly

funnelaroundme,likegnats.Thecalm,drug-inducedhazefromthepillIpoppedthis

morningiswearingoff,sosnubbingthegossiperstakesmoreeffort.Decidingtocutout
early, I sneak out the back doors and head home. It’s only a three-mile walk, but it
takesmeforever,andmylegfeelslikeit’sbeencutopenalloveragain.Butthat’sokay.
Painiseasier.Painissimple.It’severythingelsethatsucks.

WhenImakeittomyhouse,Igostraightuptomyroom,crawlintobed,andpass

out,sleepingallthewayintothenextmorning.

Thankfully its Saturday so no school and no stares. I consider not getting up, just

lyinginbeduntilthesungoesdownandfallingrightbackintoadreamlesssleepagain.
Butsomeoneknocksonmydoor,andtheideadriesupliketherain.

“Areyouawake?”Lokisoundscalmerthanhewasthepastfewdays.“Ineedtotalk

toyouaboutskippingoutonthelasthalfofschoolyesterday.”WhenIdon’tanswer,he
gentlyshakesmyshoulder.“Iknowyou’renotasleep.”

Iopenmyeyesandscowlathim.“Iwasuntilyouwokemeup.”
“Don’t act like that.” He yanks the blankets off me. “Get up. You’re coming to the

storewithme.”

Shakingmyhead,Icrawlmywayuptothepillow.“Noway.I’mnotgoingthere.”
“Yes,youare.Infact,you’regoingtostartcomingwithmeeveryweekend.Andyou

mightaswellprepareyourselftospendahellofalotoftimeatthestore,becausethat’s
whereyou’regoingtospendeveryevening.AndwhenChristmasbreakstarts,youcan
countonspendingthedaysthere,too.”

Icovermyheadwiththepillow.“Ican’tdoit,Loki.Don’tmakemedoit.”
Hesnatchesthepillow,tossesitonthefloor,thenflipsonthelightsandtugsopen

theblinds,blindingmewithsunlight.“I’vebeentalkingtoLaretta,andwebothkindof
agreethatI’vebeentooeasyonyou.Youneeddisciplineandsomethingtofocuson,
andthestore’sagreatplacetostart.It’llkeepyoubusyandhopefullykeepyououtof
troubleuntilyoucanfigureoutwhatyouwanttodowithyourlife.”

What I want to do with my life? I used to have some answers. Dancing. Being

happy. Going to college. Eventually getting married. When I looked into my future, I
sawsomuchhappinessandsunlight.NowallIcanseeisanemptypaththatleadsto
nothing.

Iglareathim.“Whywereyoutalkingtotheneighborsaboutme?”
“BecauseIneedsomeonetotalkto.”Helookssolonely,soveryunliketheoldLokiI

usedtoknow.We’veallchangedsomuch.DoeseveryoneelseseeanemptypathlikeI
donow?Oraretheystrongerthanme?“AndLaretta’snice.Plus,sheusedtobereally
goodfriendswithMom.Besides,shewentthroughsomethingsimilarwithherson.”He
roundsthefootofthebed.“YourememberSteve,right?”

“Vaguely,”Isaythroughayawn,stretchingmyarmsabovemyhead.“ButI’mnot

likehim.”

“You’regoingtobeifyoukeepgoingdowntheroadyou’reheadedon.”
“You’reoverreacting.”Butreally,Lokicouldberight.IcouldbelikeSteve.Idon’t

know myself enough to validly argue that point, but I still try because I really, really
can’tgotomydad’sstore.“I’mnotevenclosetobeinglikeSteveyet.SowhatifIgot
bustedforbreakingandentering.Ihaven’tdoneanythingmajoryet,sochillout.”

“Haven’tdoneanythingmajoryet?”Helaughssharply.“Youwerearrestedforthe

third time the other night, and you’re only seventeen. You have your second court

hearing on Thursday.” He shakes his head in bafflement. “Take a look around you.
You’reruiningyourlife.”

Myguiltbuilds,viningandgnawinginsidemystomach.NomatterhowhardIfight

it,Ican’tseemtomakeitvanish.“Itcouldbeworse.Icouldbedoingdrugs.”

“Couldbeworse?”Hethrowshishandsintotheairexasperatedly.“Noonecaneven

recognize you anymore. I wouldn’t even be surprised if you are doing drugs.” He
pauses,waitingformetoprotest.Ishouldjustlietohim—Idoitallthetime—butthe
wordswon’tcomeoutofmymouth.Hisshoulderssag.“You’regoingtothestorewith
me,andyou’regoingtostartgoingtophysicaltherapyagain.I’mnotgoingtoletyou
wasteyourlifeaway,sogetyourassupandgetdressedinsomethingthatwon’tscare
thecustomersaway.”Hestormsoutofmyroom.

Anger, guilt, and frustration explode to the surface. I haven’t been to my father’s

storesincetheaccident.Toomanymemoriesliveintheshelvesandbooksthatfillthe
building,andifIrelivethem,Imightloseit.AllthatguiltIfighttofeel—everythingI
fighttofeel—mightbecometoomuch.

IpoundmyfistintothepillowuntilIcomposemyself.Draggingmybuttoutofbed,

Ihobbleovertothewindowandpeerdownatthegrassandsidewalkbelow.Howbad
wouldithurtifItriedtojumpout?Probablynotasbadaswhenmylegwascrushedby
thecar.

Iunlatchthewindow,glideitopen,andstickmyheadout.
“Whatareyoudoing?”someoneasks.
I raise my gaze and find Luca standing on the strip of grass behind the fence line.

He’ssportingaplaidshirt,jeans,andhisglasses,andlooksadorableinthatcute,nerdy
sortofway.

IrememberwhenIusedtodreamaboutacuteguyshowingupbelowmywindow

andtossingpebblesattheglass.I’dsneakdownandkisshim,andwe’dkeepkissingall
the way until the sun rose. But like my dreams of dancing onstage, that dream was
shelvedsixmonthsago.

“Lookingoutthewindow.”Isitdownonthewindowsill.“WhatdoesitlooklikeI’m

doing?”

He crosses his arms on top of the fence. “It looked like you were thinking about

jumping.”

“That’dbeaprettystupidthingtodosincethefallwouldprobablybreakmyleg.”I

pretendtheideaisappalling,whenonlymomentsagoIwascontemplatingit.

“Idon’tknow...Itdependsonwhyyouwerejumping.Imean,ifitwasforagood

reason, like say to escape something, then yeah, I’d say that was totally justifiable.
Everybodyneedstoescapesometimes,right?Andthefallisn’tthatfar.Youmightfuck
upyourankleorsomething,butnothingtoomajor.”

I don’t like that he’s looking at me with insinuation, as if he understands me.

Whetherhe’sfoundoutabouttheaccidentornot,hedoesn’tgetme.

“I’mnottryingtoescapeanything,”Ifeeltheneedtosay.
“Ineversaidyouwere.”Hisknowingsmilebugsme.
“Whyareyouwatchingme?”Iaskindignantly.
“I wasn’t watching you,” he replies, unfazed by my feistiness. “I was actually just

talkingtoyoursisterandwasabouttoheadinwhenIsawyoustaringattheground,

thinkingaboutjumping.”HesmileswhenIglareathim.“I’mjustkidding.IpromiseI
don’tthinkyou’regoingtojump.Ijusthaveaweirdsenseofhumor.”

Idon’tknowwhattomakeofhim,knowIshouldn’tmakeanythingofhimatall,

butIfindmyselfasking,“Whichofmysisterswereyoutalkingto?”

“Ihavenoidea.Sheneversaidhername,butshedidlookalotlikeyou.Youseem

reallyhappyincomparisontoher.”

Iwrestlebackagrin,suckingmybottomlipbetweenmyteeth.“Thatwasprobably

Alexis.”

“Well,sheseemedlovely,”hesaysflatly.“Especiallywhenshetoldmeshe’drather

stabouthereyethantalktome.”

Mymouthpleadstosmile.Butsmilingseemsso...wrongintheshamblesofmy

life.Nooneelseseemstosmile,otherthanZhara,buthersarefake.Andmydad,the
lastsmileheeverhadwaswhenhegotinthatcarthatrainyday,thinkinghislifewas
soperfect.

“Don’ttakeitpersonally,”IsaytoLuca.“She’snotmuchofatalker.”
“Yeah, I kind of got that.” He thoughtfully muses over something with his head

tipped to the side, strands of his hair dangling in his eyes. “But you didn’t seem like
muchofatalkerwhenIfirstmetyou,either,andlookatusnow,sittinghere,talkingto
eachotherlikewe’realmostfriends.”

Another smile creeps up on me at his utter adorableness. Damn him. “We’re not

talkingbecausewe’realmostfriends.Ijustgotdistracted.”

“Bywhatexactly?Mygoodlooksormyawesomepersonality?”
Ibitedownonmyliphard.Nolaughing,Annabella.“Areyoulikethisallthetime?”
Hetapshisfingeragainsthislip.“You’llhavetobemorespecific.I’vebeentoldI’m

alotofthingsallthetime.”

I flick my wrist, waving my hand in his direction. “All arrogant and sure of

yourself.”

Hismouthopensashefeignsshock.“Youmakemesoundlikeacockydouchebag.”
“Areyou?”
“Thatalldepends.”
“Onwhat?”
“Ifyou’reintocockydouchebags,”hesayswithaclevergrin.Ialmostloseit,right

then and there, as a smile creeps up on my lips. Thankfully, for my sake, he ruins it.
“I’m guessing no, though, since you don’t really look like the kind of girl who would
be.”

Isthathowheseesme?Assomegirlwho’sintonice,sweetguyslikehim?That’snot

whoIamanymore.OramI?Imean,Iamsittingheretalkingtohim,onthevergeof
smiling.

Panicking,Iduckbackinsidemyroom.“Ihavetogo.”AndIslidethewindowshut

beforehecansayanythingelse.

Desperate to run away from my thoughts, I crank up some music. “Habits (Stay

High)”byToveLocomeson,butIimmediatelyshutitoffastheurgetodancepulsates
throughme.IcrankupsomeFromAutumntoAshesanddigthroughmyclosetuntilI
findtheperfectoutfit;abaggyblacksweater,skin-tightblackjeans,andblackbootsthat
laceuptomyknees.Itopofftheoutfitwithaleatherjacketandkohleyeliner.Ileave

my hair the way it is, letting it run down my back in a tangled mess. I figure my
appearancemightbejustenoughoverthetopthatit’llgetmeoutofgoingtothestore
onweekends.

The kitchen smells like a combo of vanilla air freshener and old trash, and I find

myselflongingforthedaysofburntbaconandeggs.

Loki glances up from the toaster, takes one look at me, and jabs a finger in the

directionthestairs.“Noway.You’renotgoingintoDad’sstoredressedlikethat.”

“ThenIguessI’lljusthavetostayhome.”IgetaPop-Tartfromthepantry.
“It’ssupposedtogetwarmtoday.You’regoingtosweattodeath.”
“I’m sure I’ll live. I always do,” I say, and he freezes, his expression plummeting,

andIfeellikeanasshole.“Canwejustgetgoing?IfIsweat,thenIsweat,okay?It’llbe
myproblem.”

Hegrabsthecarkeysoffthewallhookashestuffshiswalletintohispocket.“Meet

meinthecar.Ihavetogetaboxoutofthegarage.”

Onefootinfrontoftheother.Youcandothis.You’vemadeitthrougheverythingelse.

Sortof.

LikewhenIwalkedtotheVictorianhouse,mylegshaveotherideas,andmyfeet

remain glued to the floor. I think about the last time I was at my father’s store, and
movingseemsevenmoreoutofthequestion.Myheartsqueezes,andmylegbeginsto
shake as my father’s face flashes through my mind. He always seemed so happy. He
couldn’thavepossiblyknownabouttheaffair.

I yank open the cupboard above the sink, fumble for the bottle of pain pills I was

prescribedformyleg,andpoptwoinmymouth.Iswallowthemdownthenhobbleto
thelivingroom,tryingtocatchmybreath.AsI’msteppingoverthethreshold,myleg
buckles.Istumbleandfallfacefirstontothefloor.

PainthrobsthroughmybodyasIstarttopushbacktomyfeet,butsomethingsilver

and sparkly catches my attention. Leaning in to get a better look, the pain in my leg
abruptlyvanishes,andtheacheinmyhearttakesover.

Remnants from the glitter rainstorm are embedded into the cracks of the

floorboards.Panicking,Itrytodigthemout,butmyfingerswon’tfitintothecracks.
Tearsstingmyeyes.

Don’tcry.Don’tcry.Onceyoudo,youwon’tbeabletostop.
Ipressmycheektothecoolhardwoodfloor,squeezemyeyesshut,andtakeafew

measuredbreaths.Thefoggymemoryoffaintgigglessurroundsme,andIcanalmost
feelglittershoweringacrossmyskin.

Thelastperfectday,whereeverythingseemedpossible...
“Didyoustealmyshirt!”AlexisshoutsatZharafromupstairs,soundingasangryas

shehasforthelastsixmonths.“Seriously!”

Myeyessnapopenasthememoriesofhappierdaysfizzleout.
“Why would I steal your shirt?” Zhara asks. “We don’t even have the same taste.

AndIwouldneverjusttakeyourclotheswithoutasking.”

“Oh,yes,becauseyou’reperfect.”Alexissnortsacondescendinglaugh.
“Wouldyoutwoknockitoff!”Nikolishouts.“I’mtryingtowatchthegame.”
Loki’swornsneakersappearinmylineofvision.“Shit,didyoufall?”
“No.”IgripontotheendtableforsupportasIgetmybalance.

“Thenwhathappened?”Heinspectsmeoverfromheadtotoe.
Idustafewfragmentsofglitteroffmyhandsandtheyfloatbacktothefloor.“Ijust

feltlikelayingdownandstretchingmylegsout.”

Hesighsheavily.“IhavetotellZharawe’releaving.Gogetinthecar.”Hetrudges

upthestairs,lookingmoredefeatedthannormal.

Iopenmymouthtoapologize,butIhesitatefortoolong,andbeforeIknowit,he’s

disappeared upstairs. Turning away, I head outside. With each step, the medication
slowlysettlesthroughmybody.

BythetimeImakeittothecar,I’veslippedintoastateofnumbness,sofargone,I

canbarelyfeelanythinganymore.

Chapter8

T he pills help at first. I manage to get out of the car and into the store without too
much procrastination. When Loki puts me in charge of stocking the shelves, I worry
theshieldwillcrack.Butthemedicationkeepsmyanxietysubdued.Ifeelprettyokay
as I sit down on the floor and sort through books with the scent of fresh new pages
lingering in the air. I almost want to crack each book open and inhale the scent, just
like I used to do when I worked for my dad. I stop myself, though, knowing I’ll be
openingpagestoapastthatneverreallyexistedinthefirstplace.

Eventually customers wander in from outside. Behind the antique cash register,

Lokigrowstenseandkeepscastingpanickedglancesinmydirection.Heprettymuch
shitsabrickwhenalittleboypointsatmeandstartscrying.

“Goworkbackintheoffice,”Lokisays,stridingdowntheaisletowardme.
Iglanceupfromthestackofbooks.“Why?”
“Because people are complaining about you. Did you know that little boy thought

youwereaghost?"Hecrouchesdowninfrontofmeandlowershisvoice.“Youcan’t
dresslikethis.Notwhileyou’rehere.It’stoounprofessional.”

Ieyehisfadedgreyt-shirtanddarkjeans.“You’renotdressedanybetter,though.”
“This isn’t how I usually dress. I just forgot to do the laundry last night,” he says.

“And it’s still better than what you have on. You look like those kids who are always
hangingoutback,smokingallthetime,liketheydon’thaveanythingelsebettertodo
withtheirlives.”

“Iamoneofthosekidswhohangoutbacksmoking.”
“Yousmoke?”Hisexpressionteetersbetweenrageandshock.
“No, I was speaking metaphorically, Loki.” Gripping onto the lower shelf, I lift

myselftomyfeet.“IfIembarrassyou,thenIcanjustgohome.”

Hestareswarilyatmyinjuredleg.“You’renotsupposedtobewalkingonyourleg

thatmuch,especiallywhenyouhaven’tbeentophysicaltherapyinoverthreeweeks.
Ifyoukeepitup,you’renevergoingtogetbetter.”

“We both know I’m never really going to get better,” I say, then smash my lips

together,wantingtoretractmystatement.

Thetensioninhiseyeseasesanotch.“Anna,Iknowthingshavebeenhardforyou,

and I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’m always on your case about stuff, but physical
therapyisimportant.Ifyoudon’tbuildupstrengthinyourleg,thenyoumightendup
walkingwithacaneorsomething,andIknowyoudon’twantthat.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” I say, my fingers stabbing into the wooden shelf as I

struggletobreatheevenly.“Justlikeyouronlineclasses.Sureyoutakethembecause
youfeellikeyouhaveto,butitdoesn’treplacewhatyoulost,right?”

Ittakeshimabeattoanswer.“Thingsmightnotbethesameastheyusedtobeand

they probably won’t ever be again, but I’m not just going to give up on all of my
dreams.Istillwanttodothingswithmylifeeventually.Maybemyfutureplansaren’t

thesameandIhavetoworktwiceashardtogetthingsdone,butsometimesthat’sjust
life.”Heshakeshishead,hiseyesfloodingwithpity.“There’ssomuchmoreoutthere
thanyouevenrealizerightnow.BeyondHoneyton.Evenbeyonddancing.”

It’slikehe’sknockedthewindoutofme.Icanbarelybreathe.“Ineedsomeair.”I

startdowntheaisle,buthesnagsthesleeveofmyshirt.

Hetowsmebacktohimbeforelettingmego,thenherakeshisfingersthroughhis

hair.“Sorry,butaftertheshityou’vebeenpulling,I’mnotlettingyououtofmysight.
Justgointheofficeandtakeabreather,okay?”

“There’snothingtodointhere.”Igripe,mainlybecausetheideaofgoingintomy

dad’sofficemakesmefeellikeI’mgoingtovomit.

“Youcanhangout.Eatlunch.Stareoutthewindow.Idon’treallycare,justaslong

as you stay where I can keep an eye on you.” Worry lines crease his face. “And no
goingoutback,”hewarns,thenreturnstotheregister.

I glare at him as I weave through the shelves, past the lounge chair shaped like a

bookshelf,andduckintotheroominthebacksectionofthestore,whichusedtobemy
father’soffice.

The small, cluttered space causes memories of the last few times I spent here to

tumble over me. My airway constricts, but I don’t gasp for air and bottle up the
sadness.Itracemyfingersoveraframedpictureonhisdeskofmydadandmeinfront
ofthestore.Hehashisarmaroundmeandwe’relaughingaboutsomething.Helooks
sohappy,andsodoI.

Imissthat.Misshim.
Isinkdowninthechairandletmyeyelidsdriftshut.It’dbeeasierifIcouldjustgo

tosleeporpassout,butwithallthememoriesfloatingaroundtheroom,evenwiththe
pillsItook,makeitimpossible.

Growingrestless,Iopenmyeyesandmoveovertoashortbookshelfinthecorner

where my dad kept a collection of older books that he was too in love with to sell. I
lowermyselftothefloorandskimmyfingersalongthetitlesonthebottomrow.Most
ofthetitlesIdon’trecognize—mydadhadanoddlyuniquetasteinbooks—butthere
areafewthatIknowbyheartbecausehetookthetimetoreadthemtome.Storiesof
princessesandmagicalkingdoms.Hewassuchagooddad,andhowdidIrepayhim?
Bylyingtohiminhisfinalmomentsinlife.

I’msosorry,Dad.
Idrawinabreathandclumsilygettomyfeet,butathick,leatherbookwithnotitle

orauthorcatchesmyattention.Islideitoutandopenitonmylap.Mybreathcatches
inmythroat.Thepagesarecoveredwithmyfather’shandwriting.

“Hekeptajournal,”Isayaloudtomyself.ButasIfanthroughthepages,Irealize

myfather’sjournalendeavorwasshortlivedbecauseheonlymanagedtofillupthree
pages.

I thrum my fingers against the page, wondering what to do with book. I want to

readit.Iwanttoburnit.Iwanttohugitandneverletitgo.

Withtremblinghands,Islamthebookshutandhoistmyselftomyfeet.IwriteLoki

anoteonapost-it,stickitontheofficeentrywaywherehecanfindit,andsneakout
thebackdoorwiththebook.Ihikeacrossthegravelparkinglottowardthestreet.A
cloudofsmokecirclesaroundmeasIpassbythedrearilydressedgroupthatalways

seems to be smoking near the garbage cans. When I reach the sidewalk, something
catchesmyattentioninmyperipheralvision.

Justdownthestreet,CeceisleaningagainstBen’sredliftedtruck,twistingastrand

of her blonde hair around her finger. She’s wearing a pair of yoga pants over her
leotard, which means she just got out of ballet class. She has her flirty smile on and
keepsbitingherlip.

Guesstheyreallyaretogether.
Ifeeltheslighteststinginmyheart,butdon’treact,won’tbecomethatgirl.Cececan

dowhatevershewantsandsocanBen.

Ripping my gaze off them, I veer left toward the block my house is on. I have to

move slowly; otherwise, my leg won’t make the four mile walk home. Back when I
helpedmydadatthestore,I’dsometimespopinmyearbudsanddancemywayhome.
Yeah, people looked at me strangely, but I was too wrapped up in my own world to
care. There was something freeing about dancing around in a world that was packed
with so many people just walking around. It was probably the most abnormal thing
I’veeverdone,andthetoesonmygoodlegachetorelivethosedaysofbeingsofree,
soatpeacewithwhoIwas.Butthetoesonmybadlegarenumbandmylegcanbarely
handlewalkinganymore.

I don’t make it very far down the sidewalk before my muscles start spasming.

SometimesthishappensandbetweentheacheandthesweaterandleatherjacketI’m
wearing,Igrowexhaustedquickly.

Sinkingdownontothecurb,Ilaymyheadonmylap.I’msosweatythatmyclothes

are sticking to my skin. How wonderful would it be if the world opened up and
swallowedmewhole?

“Annabella?”
Itiltmyheadandmyeyelashesflutteragainstthesunlight.
Tammy,thenewneighbor,isstaringdownatmewithconcern.“Oh,honey,areyou

allright?Youlooksick.”

She’s wearing a red sleeveless dress that matches her lipstick and black boots and

hoopearrings.Again,sheremindsmesomuchofmymomthatmyheartskipsabeat.
But beneath the fashionable outfit, is she really like my mom? Does she lie to her
husband?DoesshehaveLucalieforher?

“I’mfine,”Ireply,huggingthebookagainstmychest.
Herbrowsknit.“Honey,whyareyousittingonthecurb?Areyouhurt?”
Sighing,Iraisemyhead.“Iwasjustwalkinghomeandneededtotakeabreak.I’m

good,though.Totallyrefreshedandreadytogo.”

Refusingtosetthebookdown,Iattempttostandwithoutusingmyhands,butend

upfallingrightbackdownonmyass.

“Oh,mygoodness.”Sheflailsherhandaround,wavingatsomeoneintheparking

lot.“Luca,comehelpmegetAnnabellaup.”

Oh,mygod,nowayisthatabouttohappen.Walkingwithalimpisbadenough.
Grittingthroughthepain,Ishiftforward,andputtingwaytoomuchweightonmy

badleg,triptomyfeet.Searingpainclenchesinmymusclesandtearsstingatmyeyes,
butI’mstandingandthat’sallthatmatters.

Tammylooksbackatmewithpityinhereyes.“Letmegiveyouaridehome,okay.”

Hergazefallstomyleg.

Sheknowswhathappenedtome.
“It’s only a couple more miles.” I lift my foot to walk away, but the blinding pain

shiftstofull-on,knock-my-breath-out-ofmethrobbing.Myjawclenches,andIendup
bitingmytongue.Thefoultasteofrustfillsmymouth,andmyeyeswater.

Grippingontothepostofastreetsign,Iinhaledeeplyandforcethewaterworksto

stayput.WhenTammyanswersherphone,Ibreatheinrelief.Now’smychancetoget
away.

“Here, let me help you.” Luca steps in front of me and blocks my escape. He isn’t

wearinghisglasses,andhishairisstickingupallovertheplace.Again,Ihavethesilly
urgetorunmyfingersthroughitandfixitbackintoplace.

Ishuffleawayfromhim.“IsaidI’mfine.Yeah,Ihaveamessedupleg,butIknow

howtowalk.”

Hefreezes,hishandssuspendedinmidair.“Iwasactuallygoingtooffertocarrythe

bookforyou.”

Itrytodecipherifhe’sforrealornot.“Whatisthis?1950?Guysdon’tcarrybooks

forgirlsanymore.”

Hislipstugintoalopsidedgrin.“Thisguydoes.”
Ibitedownonmylip,fightingbackasmile.“Thatwasreallylame.”
He chuckles, his cheeks tinting pink. “I know. Sorry. I’m blaming it on the move

here.It’sthrownmeoffmygame.”

I tuck the book underneath my arm. “Sounds like an excuse to me. Maybe you

neverreallyhadanygametobeginwith.”Iinternallycringeattheplayfuledgeinmy
voice.

“Maybeyou’reright.”Hemassagesthebackofhisneckashestaresattheground.

“Noweverything’ssuddenlymakingsense.NowondereverygirlItriedtotalktoran
off.”Asmilerisesashishandsdroptohissides.“Justlikeyoudidearlier.”

Irememberhowhecalledmepretty.HowheassumedthatIlikesweet,niceguys.

“I wasn’t running away from you. Just something you said.” I instantly regret my
words.WhyamIbeingsohonest?

“Itwasthecocky,douchebagremark,wasn’tit?”
“Kindof.”
“I’mreallynotadouchebag.Ipromise.”
“Butyou’recocky,”Ispeculate.
Hewavers,pullingareluctantface.“Ihavemymomentssometimes,butIalsohave

myun-cockymoments,too.”

“Whatkindofwordisun-cocky?”
“Thesupercoolkind.”
“So,letmegetthisstraight.You’reasometimescocky,sometimesun-cocky,book

carrying,awkwardphaselovingkindofguythatmakesuphisownwords.”

Hepointsafingeratme.“You’vebeenpayingattention.”
“No,you’vemademepayattentionbyrefusingtoleavemealone.”Iaimtosound

annoyedbutcomeoffmoreamusedthananything.

“Iknow.It’skindofadefensemechanismwhenIgetreallynervous,”hesayswitha

sigh.Apuckerformsathisbrows.“Usually,itdoesn’twork,though,andpeopleendup

runningintheotherdirection.”Heglancesovermyshoulderatsomething.“Likethat
girl over there. I tried to charm her with my awesome social skills, but either she’s
blindorshewaspretendingtobe.”

Iscratchmynosetokeepfromgrinning.“Don’ttakeitpersonally.Cece’sjustthat

way.Ifyoureallywanther,keeptrying.It’swhatshewants.”

“Areyoufriendswithher?”
“Iusedtobe.”Iclampmyjawdown,realizinghowtruemywordsare.Thatwe’re

notfriendsanymore,becauseIchosetorunawayfromher,too.Howmanythingscan
IrunfrombeforeIwon’thaveanythingatall?Shakingthethoughtfrommyhead,I
movetosteparoundhim.“Sorry,butIneedtogo.”

“No, wait.” Luca looks over at his mom then back to me. “Okay, I’m going to give

youahead’sup.She’snotgoingtogiveupuntilyouaccepttheride,soyoumightas
welljustletustakeyouhome.Andifyoutrytowalkoffrightnow,she’sjustgoingto
chaseyoudown.Andtrustme,asfunnyasthatsounds,it’skindofembarrassing.”

Idragmyteethovermylip,suffocatingalaugh.“She’sdonethattoyoubefore?”
“Oh,yeah.Many,manytimes.”
“Whatwereyoudoingthatsheneededtochaseyou?”
Hecrackshisknuckles,shiftinghisweight.“Let’sjustsayIusedtoliketorunawaya

lot.”

RunawaylikeIdo,ordoeshemeansomethingelsebythat?
Ieyehimover,tryingtoreadhim.“It’sreallynotthatbigofadeal.I’mnotreally

runningaway.Justtryingtogethome,andit’sonlyacoupleofmilesaway.”

“Yeah,butshe’llstillchaseyoudown,soyoumightaswelljustgetinthecar,save

yourselftheembarrassment,andenjoythefreeairconditioning.”Hetakesinmyoutfit
with a slow, deliberate gaze. “So, is the sweater and leather jacket some rebellious
familyuniform?BecauseI’mprettysureyoursisterwaswearingoneyesterday,andit
wasequallywarmoutside.”

“No, I just like sweaters and leather jackets.” I glance over his scuffed boots, dark

denimjeans,andplaidshirt.“Andlikeyouroutfit’sanybetter.Long-sleeveplaid.Yeah,
thatscreamswarmweather.”

“Hey, I have my sleeves pushed up. And besides, the weather is freakishly weird

aroundhere,somethingIdidn’trealizeuntilnow.Imean,oneminuteit’sraining.The
nextit’sseventy-fivedegrees.Itdoesn’tmakeanysense.”Hewaveshishandsaround,
talking animatedly, and I have to bite back another giggle because he looks so cute
doingit.“Eitherbewarmorcold,butnotbackandforth.It’sconfusingandmakesme
missLA.”Hesighs,hisarmsfallingtotheside.“Andjustsoyouknow,Idon’talways
dresslikethis.IjusthadameetingIneededtodressupfor.”

Ipeerdownthestreetlinedwithquaintsecondhandshops,acozycafé,andatravel

agency.Thankfully,CeceandBenaregone.“Whatkindofmeeting?”

He scratches at his arm and frowns. “One with my dad. It was a job interview

actually.”

IremembertheothernighthowIsawthemancryingontheporchandwonderif

thatwashisdad.“Wheredoesyourdadwork?”

“Heboughtthehobbystoreonthecornerandisfixingitup.Thegrandopeningisin

a few days. I had an,” he makes air quotes, “interview so he could make sure I’m

qualifiedtoworkthere.”

“Your dad made you interview for a job . . . That’s kind of harsh. My dad never

mademeinterviewwhenIdecidedtoworkathisstore.”Myhearttightensinmychest
atthementionofmydadandhowniceofaguyhewas.

“Yeah, it sucks, but that’s just how he is, and honestly, we’ve never really gotten

along. I wouldn’t even bother working at his store, but I need the money for college
andstuff,”hesays,unwindingabit.“AsmuchasIlovemyparents,Ican’twaittobe
outonmyown.AndnotinHoneyton.Nooffense,butthistown’salittlestrange.”

“Nonetaken.”Iusedtobeokaylivinginthistownatonetimeinmylife,butnow,

toomanypeopleknowmyfamily’sstory.Wheneverwewalkaroundorattendtown
eventsanymore,IfeellikeI’minthehallwaysatschool,likeeveryoneisstaringatus.
“Mysisterwenttocollegeoverseas...”IhavenoideawhyI’mtellinghimthis—telling
himanythingatall.It’slikemylipshavetakenonalifeoftheirownandhavetaken
freedom in telling everything they know to the guy who knows nothing about my
history.

“That’sreallyfreakingcool,”hesays.“What’sshestudying?”
“Cooking. She wants to be a chef one day. She’s really good at it, too. She used to

bakeweddingcakesforpeoplearoundtownbeforesheleft.”

“Whataboutyou?”heasks.“Areyougoingtocollege?”
Am I going to college? A seemingly simple question and one I used to have an

answerto.

But now, all I know is that I want to get away from this town and everyone who

knowsme.Theeasiestroutewouldbejusttogotosomerandomcollege.Myparents
setupafundforeachofus,buttheplantomajorindanceandthenperformwitha
companyisnolongeranoption,nomatterhowmuchmymomanddadtriedtohelp
memakethatdreamcometrue.

I remember when I got a call from the administrator at the university about two

weeks after the funeral. She had called to reschedule because we had missed our
appointment.

“Whatwasthedateoftheappointment?”Ihadasked,stranglingthephonetodeath.
“Let me check.” The sound of keys clicking flowed through the receiver. “June

sixth.”

Junesixth.Thedayofmybirthday.Mysurprise.
“So,doyouwanttoreschedule?”sheasked.“Areyoustillthere?”
“Yeah . . . And no, I can’t attend anymore.” I dropped the phone and sank to the

floor,unabletobreatheasIstareddownatthehideousscarsonmyleg.

I’mnevergoingtobeabletodanceagain.
“Anna,areyouokay?”Lucawaveshishandinfrontofmyface.
I jerk back, realizing my eyes have watered up. “I’m fine. I just have allergies.” I

wipemyeyeswithmysleeves.“Wereyousayingsomething?”

“Nothingimportant.”Hestudiesmeforamomentortwowithhisbrowsknit.“Iwas

justaskingyouwhatwasupwiththatgiantbronzegnomeinthecenterofthepark.I
thoughtitwasreallycreepyandwonderedwhythehelltheyputitthere.”

I have no idea how we went from talking about college to talking about a gnome,

andalmostwonderifhe’sintentionallygivingmeasubjectchange,lettingmeoffthe

hook with his question about the future. “That’s not a gnome. That’s a statue of
Theodore Tessingture. He was, like, the first mayor of Honeyton or something . . .
There’saplaquethatexplainshisstory.Goreaditifyouwanttoknow.”

“Wait.Thatwasaperson?Hisbodywasseriouslydisproportionatecomparedtohis

legsandarms.”

“He’sjustalittlestumpy.”
Hiseyesround.“Stumpyisanoverstatement.Iseriouslythoughtitwasanenlarged

gnomeormaybeevenanOompaLoompa.”

Alaughescapesmylips,andmyeyessnapwideopenasIslapmyhandovermy

mouth.

“What’swrong?”heasks,lookingconfusedandalittlecurious.
“Nothing.”Myclippedtonecauseshimtowince.ButIcan’thelpmyrudeness.He

mademelaugh,andIthinkImighthatehimforit.“Ihavetogo.”Iturntoleave,ready
torunbacktomyhouse,popafewmorepills,andplungefurtherintomyguilt.

Idon’tdeservetobeherelaughing.
His fingers fold around my arm and a shiver courses through me. “Just get in the

car,okay?I’mwithmymom.It’swaytoohotforyoutobewalkingonyour...”

I look back at him with my eyes narrowed, and he promptly releases my arm. I

openmymouthtoaskhimjusthowmuchheknowsaboutmyleg,aboutme.Hashe
heardthestoryofthegirlwhobreatheddancingandtheaccidentthatforeverstoleher
airaway?Thegirlwhonowwandersaround,gaspingforasimplebreathofair.

“Justgetinthecar,please.”Heusesthatadorablehalfsmileonmeagain.“You’llbe

doingusafavorifyoudo.”

Mylipsparttorefusehisrequest.Nomatterhowcuteheis,Iwon’tacceptaride—

won’tacceptthatIneedone.“Luca,I—”

“Ready to go?” Tammy interrupts, dropping her phone into her purse. “My car’s

parkedoutbackofyourfamily’sstore,Annabella.”

Forthehundredthtimesincetheaccident,IwishIcouldliterallyrun.Itookitfor

granted.Movingquickly.Havinganeasyescape.

“Fine,”Iagreereluctantly.
She smiles cheerfully as we make our way back toward the parking lot. “So, how

longhasyourfamilylivedinHoneyton?”sheasksme.

“Since before I was born,” I say, wiping my sweaty forehead with the back of my

hand.

“It’s such a lovely town,” she remarks, taking in all the old fashion stores and

secondhand shops around us. “Although, I do miss some of the perks of a L.A., like
beingabletofindanystoreyouwant,ortakeout.God,Imisstakeout.”

“Why’dyoumovehere,then?”Iask.“Imean,itsoundslikeyoulikedL.A.alot.”
SilencesettlesbetweenusasTammystaresoutattheroadandLucamassagesthe

back of his neck. Our shoes crunch against the gravel and fill up the quiet. But the
hourlytownbelltolls,overlappingthestillness.

“We just needed a change of scenery,” Tammy says after the bells chime twelve

times. She strains a smile as she glances at me. “My husband and I actually drove
throughHoneytonduringoneofthesecrazyroadtripsweusedtotakewhenwewere
first married. And we sometimes came out here during the summers and rented a

placeforacoupleofweeks.”Shedazesoffintoemptyspacethenquicklyblinks.“But
anyway,I’vealwayslovedhowsecludeditwas,anditseemedliketheperfectplaceto
liveandraisekids.”

“Howmanykidsdoyouhave?”IaskaswestopbesidearedHondaCivic.
Shehastilyshakesherhead,diggingthroughherpurse.“Oh,no...Luca’sanonly

child...butIstillthinkofhimasmylittleboysometimes.”Hervoiceisoff-pitch.

Avoidingeyecontactwithme,Lucascratchesathisarm,seemingasnervousashis

mom.

Strange.Andsomehow,themomentkindofremindsmeofwhenmymomgotinto

thecarthatday.

“Okay,let’sgetyououtofthesun.”Tammypressesthekeyfobandthelocksclick.
Fullyagreeingwithher,Iclimbintothebackseatandclosethedoor.Theairismore

stifling inside the car, and I fan my hand in front of my face as Tammy turns on the
ignitionandcranksuptheairconditioning.Ibreatheinthecoolness,huggingthebook
to my chest, but stiffen when Luca slides into the backseat with me, bringing in with
himthesmellofhiscologneandthathalfsmilethatIcan’tseemtostopstaringat.

Idropthebooktomylap,slideasclosetothedooraspossible,andreachovermy

shoulderfortheseatbelt.“What’reyoudoing?”

Thecornersofhismouthteaseupwardashebucklesupwithouttakinghiseyesoff

me,givingmehisundividedattention.“Sittinghereinthecar.What’reyoudoing?”

“Butwhyareyousittingintheback?”ThelockclicksintoplaceandIsuddenlyfeel

so...trapped.HesmellssogoodandhekeepslookingatmelikehethinksI’mpretty
andlikehewantstogettoknowme.AllIwanttodoisdiveoutofthecar,runfrom
howmybody’surgetoslidecloser,myfingerscravingtotouslehishairintoplace,and
mylipsneedtotellhimstuffIdon’twantto.“Imean,don’tyouwanttositinthefront?
It’sprobablycoolerupthere”

“Seemsasgoodofaplacetositasanywhereelse.”Herelaxesbackintheseatwith

hishandstuckedbehindhishead.“Besides,it’snoteverydaythatIgettositthiscloseto
someonesopretty.”

Iblinkathimthenshakemyhead.“You’resoweird.Seriously,what’swithallthe

prettycomments?"

“What?I’mjustbeingtruthful.”
Irollmyeyes,butwincewhenIfeelmycheeksflush.“Ithinkyoumightbeasblind

asCece.Seriously.Becausethere’snowayyoucouldpossiblythinkhey,there’sagirl
withpurplehair,sittinginsweaty,oversizedclothes,and,man,doesshelookpretty.”

“Whynot?”hechallenges.WhenIstutterforaresponse,hegrins.“Besides,there’s

moretoyouthanjustyourlooks,evenifyoudon’twantmetothinkso.”

His question makes me pause, and I mean really pause, to the point where I

overthinkmywholeentireexistence.

Lookingreallypleasedwithhimself,hewrestleshisarmsoutfromthesleevesofhis

plaidshirt.Underneathit,he’swearingPinkFloydt-shirt.

Theshirtremindsmeofmydad,andknotsravelinmychest.Heusedtolistento

themallthetime.Infact,Iwaslisteningtothemthedayoftheaccident,rightbefore
mymomdroveouttotheantiquestore.

Lucatracksmygazetohisshirt.“Youeverlistentothem?”

Islowlyshakemyhead.“No.Never.”
Hecocksabrow,givingmeaskepticallook.
“I swear haven’t.” I feel the need to make him believe my lie, because it makes it

easiertolietomyself.

“Okay,youhaven’tthen.Butit’dbecoolifyouhad.It’sareallycoolband.”Hestill

soundsdoubtfulthatIhaven’theardoftheband,andtheaccusationinhistoneflusters
me.

I want to look away from him, but I can’t bring myself to. It’s creeping me out

becauseIswearit’slikeheknowstheoldme...

“So,whatdoyouliketodoforfun,Annabella?”Tammyinterruptsourmomentas

she drives onto the road, slipping on a pair of aviator sunglasses. “Or do you go by
Anna?IthinkIheardyourbrothercallyouthat.”

“Whendidyoutalktomybrother?”Iaskher,stillstaringatLucawho’sstaringat

mewithcuriosityinhiseyes.

“Foralittlebityesterdayevening,andalsothismorning.He’saverylovelyyoung

man.That’showIknewyourfamilyownedthebookstore.”Sheadjuststherearview
mirror,anglingitrightatme.

Mascaraandeyelineraremeltingdownmyface,andmyskinlookspallid.Oh,my

god, I feel so mortified. I want to wipe the mess away with my fingertips, but force
myself to place my hands on my lap. I can’t be that girl who cares if a guy sees her
lookinglikeamess.IfI’mher,thenI’llbethegirlwholovesglitter.Whodreams.Who
worshipshermother.Whowasadancer...

Tearsthreatentoseepout,andIstartcountingmybreaths,crossingmyfingerswe’ll

gethomesoonwheremypillswillbewaitingforme.

Deepbreaths.Deepbreaths.Don’tcry.
“Yourbrotheralsotoldmeyouliketodance,”Tammysays,andIjustaboutloseit,

right there in the car. Start sobbing like a freak. “I think that’s great,” she continues,
oblivioustomymeltdown.“Iusedtodancemyself.Thatwasquiteawhileago,though.
I’mnotevensureIcoulddoitanymore—it’sbeensolong.”

ThesunlightburnsagainstmyeyesasIstareunblinkinglyoutthewindow.“Iused

todancebutnotanymore.”Ipinchthesideofmyleg,stabmynailsintothefabricof
my jeans, bite down on my tongue, seeking pain strong enough to erase the agony
stirringinsideme.

“Oh.I’msorryifIupsetyou.”
Idon’tutteraword.Can’t.Canbarelybreathe.
“Hey,Mom.Weren’tyousupposedtocallDadwhenwewereheadingbacktothe

house,”Lucasays,andifIdidn’tknowanybetter,I’dguesshewasgivingmeabreak
fromherquestioning.

“Shit,Iforgot.”Shegrabsherphonefromherpurseanddialsanumber.
Whileshe’schattingwithLuca’sdad,Lucainchesclosertomeintheseat.“Hey,are

youokay?”

I bob my head up and down. “If I knew she was going to ask all these question, I

would’vejustwalkedhome.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he says in a low, quiet tone. “She’s really bad at sensing

whenpeopledon’twanttotalkaboutstuff.”

“IthinkIwould’vebeenbetteroffgettingchaseddownthestreet,”Iadmit,picking

atmyfingernailswithmyheadtippeddown.

“You say that now, but until you’ve lived the full experience, you don’t get how

embarrassing it can be.” He pauses, taking a breath or two. “You want to talk about
what’sbotheringyou?”

Igivehimanare-you-insanelook.“WhywouldI?Idon’tevenknowyou.”
“Iknow,andIhonestlydon’treallyexpectyoutoopenuptome,”hesays,offering

meatimidsmile.“Butsincewe’reatthatawkwardnewfriendsphase,IfigureIcould
ask.”

“You’reseriouslythestrangestpersonI’veevermet.”
“NowIknowthat’snottrue.Notwhenyou’vemetmymom.”
“Shedoesn’tseemthat—”Isay,butheholdsupahand,silencingme.
“Just give it a minute,” he tells me, looking at his mom who’s still talking on the

phone.

“OfcourseIwantyoutohaveanopinion,”shesays.“It’syourstore,too,sweetie.”

She pauses, and Luca spreads his hands apart in front of him, as if signaling a grand
finale.“Butwouldn’titbereallyamazingifwealldresseduplikepuppetsanddidalife
sizepuppetshow.Lucacouldbepartofit,too,andIcouldmakeouroutfitsoutofthose
matching doll Halloween costumes we wore a couple of years ago.” She smacks her
hand against the steering wheel, getting even more excited. “I could even bedazzle
themup,putsomerhinestonesandsparklesonthem.”

Lucaeasesbackintheseat,proppinghisfootontohisknee.“Andthereyougo.”
“She’snotthatbad,”Isay,butdeepdown,Iwanttolaughatherexcitementover

dollcostumes,rhinestones,andpuppetshows.

“Not that bad.” He gapes at me. “Anna, she’s going to make me wear a doll

costume.”

“So.”Ifindthisconversationwaytooamusing.“There’sguydolls,too,youknow.”
“Withrhinestones,”headds,staringatmedisbelief.“Andsparkles.”
“Rhinestonesandsparklescanbecool,”Isay.“Intheirownglitteryway.”
Heexaminesmewithsuspicioninhiseyes.“You’respeakingfromexperience.Ican

tell.” He wags a finger at me. “Admit it, you secretly like rhinestones and sparkly
things.”

“Isodonot,”Isayinhorror.“Ihatestufflikethat.”
“Ibetyouevensecretlylikeallthatstuff,”hecontinueson,ignoringme.“Ibetlate

atnight,whenyouthinkeveryoneisasleep,youtradeyourbootsandleatherjacketfor
pink,glitterydresses.”

“No,Idon’t.”MynervesaresofrazzledIcan’tthinkstraight.“Luca,I’mnotlikethat

anymore.”

“Anymore?”hequestions,andwaitsformetoanswer.
But I simply shake my head and fix my attention on the ranch-style houses, the

treesoutside,thepeoplewanderingaroundthestreets.Everythingisbuzzingwithlife.
Imissthatfeeling.

Lucamustsensethathe’sstruckanervebecauseheremainsquiet.
Bythetimewereachourneighborhood,acringe-worthysilencehasbuiltbetween

thethreeofus.I’msorelievedtobehomethatIbailoutofthecaralittletooeagerly,

rollmyankle,andfalldownontheconcrete.

“Oh,mygoodness,areyouokay?”Tammyrushesover,fussingoverme.
“I’mfine.”ImotionathertogetawayasIstumbletomyfeet.“Thanksfortheride.”

Idon’tlookateitherofthemasIroundthefencebetweenourproperties.

“Hey,Anna.”Lucajogsafterme,andIwanttorunfromhim,buthavenochoicebut

tostop.“I’msorryifIupsetyouinthecar.Ididn’tmeanto.”

“I’mfine.”Iswallowhardatthelie.“Look,Ihavetogo.Ineedtocheckuponmy

brotherandsisters.”Anotherlie.SomanyarepilingupthatIwonderifI’llbeableto
discernfactfromfiction.

“Okay.” He seems a little upset, but waves at me before heading back down the

driveway.

Ihavethecraziesturgetochaseafterhim,beghimtojokearoundwithmemore,

letmyselfhavewhatIusedtowant.ButinsteadIturnfordoorandwalkaway.

BythetimeImakeitinside,bloodhassoakedthroughthekneeofmyjeans,andmy

skinisonfire.

Notbotheringtocleanupthewound,Iclimbthestairs,fishingoutmyphonefrom

insidemypocket.Ihavethreemissedtexts.OnefromMiller,onefromCece,andone
fromJessamine,myoldersister.Everyonceinawhileshetriestocheckin,butInever
replybecauseIdon’treallyhaveanythingtosaytoher.

IreadMiller’sfirst,knowingit’llbeeasiertohandle.
Miller: Hey, it’s me. Just seein’ if u wanna come over and hang. I know things

were intense yesterday so I thought we could just chill and take it easy for the
night.Maybegocthatmovieyou’vebeenwantingtoc.Thatoneaboutthatguyand
girlwhogoonthattrip.Icouldevenpickuup.

Ihavenoideawhatmoviehe’stalkingaboutsincewe’veneverdiscussedmylikes

anddislikes. More than likelyhe’s getting me mixedup with someone else, probably
anothergirl.

Mentallypreparingmyself,IswitchtoCece’smessage.
Cece:Hey,Iwaslookingthroughthisoldboxofphotosformymomandfound

oneofyouandmethatwetookthatthepartylastJune.Rememberhowmuchfun
wehadthatnightdancing?Ireallymissthat...Butanyway,Ijustwantedtosay
hi. I know things have been really awkward and u say u don’t want to talk, but I
reallythinkweshould,especiallyaftertheotherday.Isawthelookonyourfacein
classwhenIwastalkingtoBen.Thisthingwithhimisn’twhatuthink.We’rejust
friends.IpromiseIwon’tdothattou...Please,justcallmeokay.Maybewecan
gettogetheroverXmasbreakorsomething!

My heart squeezes at the exclamation point at the end. Totally a Cece thing to do,

anditmakesmesad,makesmemissthingsIdon’twanttomiss.

Withunsteadyfingers,Imovetothefinalone.
Jessamine: Hey, it’s me. I haven’t heard from u in a while. Loki texted me the

otherdayandsaidtherewasalotofstuffgoingonandwantedmetotalktou.Call
me,Anna.UneverpickupwhenIcall.Pleaz.Iwanttohelp.

“No,youdon’t.Trustme,”Imuttertothescreen.“You’rebetteroffawayinLondon

—far,farawayfromthismessI’vecreated.”

Idon’treplytoanyofthetexts.Ignoringtheyellingcomingfromthefamilyroom,I

gostraightuptomybedroom.Iflopdownonmybedwiththebookandfanthrough
thepagesagainbutstopattheinsidebackcover.AnenvelopeistapedtoitwithDennis
scribbled across the front. I gulp. Dennis who? I want to find out the answer, yet I
hesitate.Thehandwritingresemblesmymother’s.Mymomtheliar.Thecheater.Dead
inhergrave,buriedwithhersecrets,onlysheleftsomeofthemherewithme,along
withsomanyunansweredquestions.

Whatthehelliswrongwithme?I’mfilledwithsomuchhateallthetime.
“God, I hate myself.” Tears threaten to pour out, and I chuck the book across the

room and bury my face into a pillow, smothering a scream until the anger is locked
back inside me again. But no matter how hard I fight back the rage, this time I can’t
seem to get myself under control. I need to get out of here. Get away from a house
hauntedbymemoriesandglitter.Wheremydreamsofdancingstarted.WhereIused
tobeahappyperson,usedtobesomuchmorethanwhatIamnow.

IopenMiller’smessageandmyfingershoveroverthekeypad.
Me:Yeah,comepickmeup.
Miller:Sweet.What’syouraddress?
Givinghimmyaddressmeanshandingoverarealpieceofmylife.That’snotwhat

Miller’s for, but I really want to leave and my leg aches way too much to be walking
around.

Sucking in a breath, I text him my address, then change my clothes, preparing to

runawayagain.

Chapter9

O n my way outside to meet Miller, Zhara comes barreling out of the family room.
“Whereareyougoing?”

“Out.”Idodgetotherighttoswingaroundherbutshesidestepsmeandblocksmy

path.Withoutdirectlylookingather,Igrabontothebanister.“Zhara,moveoutofmy
way.”

Sheshakesherhead.“I...Ican’tdothat.”
“Yeah,youcan.Nowmove.”Imovetosteparoundheragain,butshesidestepsme,

getting in my way again. Frustration bursts inside me because she’s blocking my
escapetofreedom.“Zhara,seriously.GetoutofmywaybeforeImakeyoumove.”

Hercateyeswiden.“Lokitextedmeandtoldmenottoletyougoanywhere...I

don’twanttogetintroubleifyouleave.”

“Youwon’tgetintotrouble.”Ipushherasidetosqueezeby.
“Anna!Pleasedon’tleave!Idon’twanttogetintotrouble,”shesays,chasingafter

me.

“Takealookaroundyou.”Imotionattheemptyhouse.“Nooneherecareswhatwe

do.”

“That’snottrue!”Shesniffles.“MomandDadusedto.AndLokicaresnow.Andso

doI.”

“Yeah, well, Loki’s not here.” I start down the stairs, my focus on one thing—the

bottleofpillsinthecupboard.

“Howcanyoubesomeananduncaringallthetime?”sheasks,lookingatmelike

shehasnocluewhoIamanymore.“Youusedtobesonice.”

Idescendthestairway,grippingontotherailingtokeepweightoffmyscarredleg.“I

usedtobealotofthings.”

“Youcanstillbethosethings,”shesays,shufflingafterme.“Iknowsomethingsare

different,butyoustillhaveme,Loki,andNikwhowanttohelpyougetthroughthis.
EvenAlexiswouldprobablyhelp.”

“Idon’tneedhelpfromanyone.”Ileaveherclosetotearsandduckintothekitchen

topopacoupleofpills.ThenIsitontheporchtowaitforMiller.

Rightasthepillsarekickingin,Ispothistruckbumpingupthestreet.
The exhaust backfires when he pulls up to the garage, and Mrs. Fefferson from

acrossthestreetshakesherheadindismay.Iheaddownthedriveway,butstopwhenI
noticeLucawatchingmefromhisfrontyard.Idon’tlikehowhe’slookingatme,asif
he’sworriedand...Well,disappointed.

“Whyareyoulookingatmelikethat?”Iask,unsettlinglyoffendedbyhislook.
“Iwasn’tlookingatyou.Notthewholetimeanyway.”Hesquintsagainstthefading

sunlight as he crosses the strip of grass to the fence. “I was actually heading over to
invite your family to dinner. My mom’s cooking a roast, and despite her crazy fetish
withdollcostumesandrhinestones,she’sactuallyareallygreatcook.”Hesmiles,butit

doesn’tquitereachhiseyesashecastsaglanceatMiller’struck.

“You can knock on the door and ask my brother and sisters, but I already have

plans.”IpracticallyjumpoutofmyskinwhenMillerhonksthehorn.

“Hurryupandgetin!”Millershoutsoutthewindow,clearlyinapissymoodover

something.“IhavetopickupBigJaybeforeweheadtotheparty!”

I shoot a dirty look at Luca when he elevates his brows and mouths, wow. “Stop

lookingatmelikethat,”Isay,mostlybecausethelookmakesmefeelashamedthatI’m
goingwithMiller.

“I already told you, I’m not looking at you like anything.” He glances at Miller’s

truck.“Him,ontheotherhand...”

TryingtoshoveLuca’sjudgmentaside,Iturntofacethetruck,butI’msuperaware

of him studying me intently, as if he’s trying to unscrew a bolt to my thoughts. “I
thoughtweweregoingtothemovies?”IaskMiller.

“Change of plans,” he snaps as he smashes his phone to his ear. “Now get in the

truck.”

“Whothehellisthatguy?”Lucamutters.“Heseemslikeanasshole.”
“He’s not like this all the time. He’s just in a . . . bad mood.” I am only being half

truthful.NormallyMillerisn’trudeunlesshe’sstrungoutoroneofhisfriendshasdone
somethingtopisshimoff.“Stopjudgingme,okay?”

“I’m not judging you. I’m judging him.” But the judgment in Luca’s eyes suggests

otherwise.

InolongerfeelashamedthatI’mgoingwithMiller,butIamashamedofwhoIam

now—ofwhoI’vechosentobecome.WhatwouldMomandDadthinkofmeiftheysaw
menow?

ButwhoelseamIsupposedtobe?
Ijostlethethoughtfrommymind,lettingthepillstakeover.“Ihavetogo,”Isayto

Luca.“I’llseeyoulater,maybe.”Bracingmyhandonthehoodofthetruck,Ireachfor
thepassengerdoor.

“Waitasec.”Lucaboundsoverthefenceandfishesapenfromhisshirtpocket.His

warm fingers fold around my wrist, and my stomach flutters stupidly, something it
hasn’tdoneformonths.

“Whatareyoudoing?”Iask,jerkingbackinapanic.
HescribblessomethingonmypalmbeforeIcanpullmyhandaway.“Callmeifyou

needanything,okay?”HecastsadistrustfulglanceatMillerwho’syellingatsomeone
onthephone.“Likeifyouneedarideorsomething.”

Irunmythumbalongtheinkonmypalm.“Whyareyoubeingsonicetome?”
“Because I’m a nice guy, something you’re clearly not used to.” He gives another

pressingglanceinMiller’sdirection.

Again,Ifeelashamed,butletthepillsmotheroutthefeelinglikeraindoestofire.
“So, you tried to carry my book and wrote your phone number on my hand. You

areseriouslyoldschool,aren’tyou?”Isay.“Letmeguess.Thisnumberistoyourhome
phone.”

“Ha,ha,”herepliessarcastically,thenflashesmeagrinthatcausesmyhearttobeat

likecrazy.“No,it’smycell,yougoof.”

I don’t like how he’s making me feel inside, like I’m . . . Anna. Not Mysterious

Annabella.NotFreakyGimpGirl.Justplain,ordinary,sometimesgoodAnnawhogets
butterfliesinherstomach.

“Thanks,butIpromiseI’mnotgoingtoneedanything.”Beforehecansayanything

else,Ihaulmyassintothetruck.

“Idon’tfuckingcarewhat’sgoingon,”Millergrowlsintothephoneashethruststhe

shifterintoreverse.“It’snotmyproblem.It’syourproblem.That’swhatyougetpaid
for.”

LucaeyeballsthetruckasMillerbacksdownthedriveway,andpartofmewantsto

bailoutofthetruck,keeptalkingtohim,feelwhatit’sliketobethatgirlagain.Instead,
IstayputandLucaturnsformyfrontdoorasMillerdrivestowardtheintersectionat
theendoftheblock.Wemakearight,andjustlikethat,Lucaandmyneedtobethat
old,sillygirlvanishesoutofsight.

IconcentrateontheroadwhileMillercontinuestoyammeronthephone,driving

toward the highway on the opposite side of town. I wonder where we’re going, but
don’taskbecauseitdoesn’treallymatter,aslongasIgettoescapemyhouseandmy
thoughts.

As we near the site of the accident, I rest my forehead against the cool glass.

SunlightglistensacrossmyfaceasIclosemyeyesandsilentlycounttotwenty.WhenI
open my eyelids again, we’re smack dab in the middle of the road where the semi
sideswiped my parents’ car. The mile marker is still bent from the crash and tiny
metallicfragmentsstillspeckleinthegrassonthesideoftheroad.

Thefaintechoofmetalcrunchingfillsmyhead...Theslamoftheimpact...The

scream...Thedeafeningsilence...

He chucks his phone onto the dashboard, jolting me from the memory. “So, this

fuckingsucks.”

Itearmyeyesawayfromthewindow.“Whatdoes?”
Hefiddleswithhiseyebrowring,hookingthetipofhispinkiethroughit.“Thehome

ownersareprobablygoingtopresscharges.”

“Howdoyouknowthat?”
“Thatwasmylawyeronthephone.Imean,it’snotofficialoranything,buthesaid

there’sagoodchancethey’regoingto.”

“Youhavealawyer?”
“Don’tyou?”
I prop my clunky boots onto the dash, shrugging, being intentionally evasive,

becauseMillerdoesn’tneedtoknowanymoreaboutmethanhealreadydoes—it’snot
whathe’sfor.Idohavealawyer,though.Jane’safriendofthefamilyandknowsway
moreaboutmethansheshould.

“Well, you should, especially if you’re going to be hanging out with me a lot.” He

shootsmeanartfulgrin.“Ihaveabadhabitofgettingnicegirlsintotrouble.”

MylipcurlsinannoyanceasIrememberhowheabandonedmeatthathouse.“I’m

notanicegirl,Miller.”WhichmightbethemosttruthfulthingI’vesaid.Iusedtobe,
butnowI’mjustthegirlwhostressesoutherbrother,makeshersweetsistercry,and
whoignoresheryoungerbrother.AlexisistheonlyoneI'mnotabitchto,butthat’s
becauseshedoesn’tcareenoughtoeventrytotalktomeanymore.

“Yeah,youkindaare.”Hecontinuestogrinsmugly,anditprobablyirksmemore

thanitshould.Hesighs.“Look,Iknowwhyyou’rereallyupset.Igetit.Iwaskindofan
assforbailingonyoulikethat.”Hesplayshisfingersacrossmythighandstrokesmy
knee,andlikealways,Ifeelnothingfromhistouch,noshivers,nosparks.

It sends that familiar numbing feeling through my body, which is why I’m here,

right?Usually,Icananswermyselfwithaneasyyes,buttodayIpause,remembering
howIbrieflycontemplatedgoingbacktothehouse.

“But I’m already on probation, and I just . . . I don’t know. I panicked,” Miller

continueson, withdrawing his handand tugging his fingersthrough his blue hair. “If
theownersdopresscharges,I’mindeepshit.Imightevengetjailtime.”

Iwanttofeelbadforhim,buthebroughtitonhimself.JustlikeIbroughtallofthis

onmyself.IfIwould’vebeenstrongerandopenedmymouthwhenmydadgotinthe
carthatday,thenmaybeitwould’veputanendtothetrip.Thenwewould’venever
beenonthehighway,neverbeenintheaccident,andLokiwouldn’thavehadtogive
up his college life to become both a mom and dad to the four of us. Zhara would be
really happy instead of trying to fake it all the time. Alexis would be the silly, caring
person who loved art and making other people smile. Nikoli would say more than
three sentences to me in an entire week. And me, I’d be that dancer who would
probablyhaveahugecrushonthesweet,cuteguynextdoorwhodidn’thonkhishorn
andyellatmetogetintothecar.

God,thewhatifs.Justthinkingaboutthemistoooverwhelming.
“Don’tworry.I’msurethey’llgoeasyonyou,”Millerrambles,hisvoiceconveyinga

drop of bitterness. “You’re not on probation, and I’m guessing those rich parents of
yourswillhelpout.”

“Richparents...Whatareyoutalkingabout?”
“YouknowexactlywhatI’mtalkingabout.AndI’mkindapissedyounevertoldme

youwererich.Iwould’vehadusstealshitfromyourhouse.”

“I’mnotrich,”Iargue.“Notevenclose.”
“Could’vefooledmewiththatfancyfuckinghouseyoulivein,”hesayssnidely.“It’s

ridiculousyou’vebeenlivinglikethatthewholetime,andwe’vehadtohangoutatthe
dumpIlivein.”

“Idon’tliveinthatniceofahouse.”
“Whatever.Keepfuckinglyingtome.”
Notknowingwhatelsetosayexceptforthetruth,Isealmylipsandrefusetosay

anythingelse.

“Who was that guy you were with when I pulled up?” The gears grind as he

downshifts.

Iscrapeatmynailpolish.“Justaneighbor.”
Hisgazecutstome.“Yousureaboutthat?”
Ifeellikebangingmyheadagainstthewindow.ThisisanewsideofMiller,andI

don’t like it at all. I want the numbness back instead of this icky, frustrated feeling
festeringinsideme.

“Yeah,I’msure,”Isayquietly.
“Whatever.”Heslipsonhissunglasses.“Iknowwearen’t,like,asuperclosecouple

or anything, but I’ve always been really honest with you. You know how shitty my
parentsare,andyouknowhowmessedupmypastis.I’vebeenreallyopenwithyou,

morethanIhavewithanyone.Ithoughtwewereonthesamepage,butclearlywe’re
not.Whichreallysucks,becauseIlikeyou.Ijusthatebeingliedto.”

I want to argue that I’m not a liar, but I’d only be defending a lie with a lie.

EverythingMillersaidisright,exceptforhimimplyingthatsomethingisgoingonwith
Lucaandme.What’sshocking,though,ishowupsetheis.

“YousaidyoulikedthatIwasmysterious,”Iremindhim.“Andnowyou’resaying

youdon’t.It’sconfusing.”

“There’sadifferencebetweenbeingmysteriousandbeingaliar,”hesnaps,aveinin

hisneckbulging.

I think he might be strung out, which puts me on edge. I’ve seen him like this a

coupleoftimesbefore,andhecangetreallyangry,but,typicallyhetakesitoutonBig
Jayoranotheroneofhisbuddies.Notme.

Heparksinfrontofatinycabinlocatedinthemiddleofnowhere.Brokenvehicles

covertheyardandthere’sanouthouseintheback.Justdiagonalfromthepropertyis
thejunkyard,butIcan’tseeahouse,business,orpersonsight,exceptfortheroofof
theantiqueshopjustupoverthehill.

“Look,I’msorryI’mbeingajerk.I’mjustalittlehungover,okay?”Millerhopsout

ofthetruckandglancesbackatmewithhisbloodshoteyes.“Youcomingin?”

Ishakemyhead,andhekicksthedoorshut,cursing.
Itrytofigureoutwhattodo,wheretogo,buttheanswerleadsmetoathousand

pathsI’mnotsureI’mreadytotake.

Istayinthetruck asthesunsets behindthehillsandthe skyshiftsfroma bright

orange pink to a dusky grey. The moon and stars wake up. Around seven, someone
startstextingme,butIignoreeachone,notreadytofacewhat’sinthem.

TheeffectsofthepillItookearlierslowlyfadeawaywitheachpassinghour.Around

eightorso,atall,ganglyguywandersoutofthehouse.TheguyisatleastLoki’sage,if
notolder,butlookswayrougheraroundtheedges.He’sonthethinsidewithoverly
longhairandyellowteeth,andforthefirsttimeinawhile,Igrowuneasy.

Standingundertheporchlight,hepopsacigaretteintohismouthandlightsup.His

eyeslockonthetruckasheexhalesacloudofsmoke,andIdon’tlikehownervoushis
lookmakesmeorhowawareIamthatnooneelseisaround.

Itrytoforcethenumbnessintomybody,pretendIdon’tgiveashit,butouthere,

all alone, almost fully sober, my uneasiness shifts to full-on panic. I push the lock on
thedoorthenscoottowardthedriver’ssideastheguyhopsoffthestepsandheadsin
thedirectionofthetruck.Hebeatsmetothedoor,jerksitopen,andtheinteriorlight
clickson.

“Hey,whatareyoudoingouthereallalone?”heaskswithasmirk.
Iinchtowardthepassengerside.“Nothing.JustwaitingforMiller.”
Hiswolfishgrinbroadens.“Hatetobreakittoya,butMillerain’tcomin’outfora

while.”Heglancesatthehousethenhiseyeslockonmeagain.“Whydon’tyacome
insideandfindhim.”

Istickmyhandintomypockettogetmyphone.“No,thanks.I’mgoodwhereIam.”
Hiseyesscrollovermefromheadtotoe,thenhenodsatthecabin.“It’snotreallya

question.Iwasjustbeingpolite.You’remakin’peoplenervous,andyouneedtocome
inside.”Alookofwarningflashesacrosshisface.“Comeon.Idon’tbite.”

“Fine.”Iplantmyfeetonthegroundandstumbleoutintothedirt.
Grinning,theguybumpsthedoorshut,andheremainswaytooclosetomeaswe

headtothefrontdoor.

ThefirstthingInoticeinsidethecabinisthestench,likemuskandmoldmixedwith

toomanypeoplecrammedintotoosmallofaroom.Musicisboomingandpeopleare
dancing, drinking, and smoking. I’ve been to parties before, but this one is more
intense.Everyonelooksolderthanmeandseemscomfortablewithallthedrugsand
drinking.

“There’s your boy right there.” The guy points to Miller who’s sitting on a bright

orangecouch,smokingandchattingwithagirl.

She’s wearing a short black dress and boots, has a red streak in her strawberry

blonde hair, and multiple facial piercings. Her style is similar to mine, but I have a
feelingwe’renotevenclosetobeingthesame.Herlookscreamsnoticemewhilemine
begshideme.

Millerspotsmethroughthecrowd,andhisexpressionlightsup.Clearly,heisn’tas

pissedoffashewasearlier,andI’mbettingthedazedlookinhiseyeshassomethingto
dowiththat.

Hestaggerstohisfeetandstumblespastpeople,makinghiswaytome.“Hey,Iwas

justwonderingwhereyouwere.”

Hehandsmethecuphe’sholding,andIchughalfofitdown,tryingtoburnaway

myuneasinesswithalcohol.

“Inthecar,whereyouleftme.”Whenhejutsouthislipinapout,Isiptherestof

thedrinkdowntohidemyeyeroll.“Look,Ijustcameintoseeifyoucouldgivemea
ridehome.Ijustgotacallfrommyparents,andtheywantmehome.”

He chuckles, rubbing his bloodshot eyes with his fists. “Yeah, there’s no way I’m

leaving right now. After what happened last night, I need a break from reality.” He
removesthecupfrommyhand,setsitdownonthecrackedlinoleum,andthenlaces
hisfingersthroughmine.“Youshouldstay.Youlooklikeyoucoulduseabreak,too,
andthisplaceisawesomeforthat.”

A break from my life is the reason I came with him tonight—is the sole reason I

spend time with him at all. But he’s been getting on my nerves tonight, and my
thoughtsarealljumbledoverwhetherornotIreallywanttobehere.

Miller hauls me toward a group of people dancing. “Come on, Anna, dance with

me.”Heroughlygrindshishipsagainstminewhilegrippingmywristandmovingour
linkedarmsabovemyheadtospinme.

Idigmyheelsintothecarpet.“Idon’tdance.Ever.”
“Yeah, ya do,” he says, grinding against me again. “Remember that one time a

coupleofweeksagowhenwewerehangingoutatBigJay’s?”

“Thatwasn’tme,”Iholleroverthemusic.
“Yes,itwas.”Hisheadtipsback,andhestaresattheceiling.“Youwerewearingthat

bluedressIlove.”

“Idon’tweardresses,ever.”PartlybecauseofthescarsbutmostlybecauseIburned

mostofmydressesaftertheaccident.

Loki walked outside and caught me when I did it and about had a breakdown.

“Whatareyoudoing?”Herantogetthehosetoputthefireout.“Youcan’tjustburn

yourclothes.”

“Ialreadydid.”Ilefttheyardandwentinside,convincingmyselfIfeltbetterthatall

myoldclothesweregone,andthatI’dsomehowmanagedtoburnawaythepersonI
oncewas.

But even the fire hadn’t been able to kill off the old me completely. Deep down, I

wantedthedressesback.

“Oh,Imusthavebeenthinkingofsomeoneelse,then.”Millerstaresatmewitha

drunkengrinonhisface.“Guesswe’lljusthavetodoitnow.”

Heelevatesmyhandabovemyheadandgivesmyarmatug,attemptingtospinme

around.

Mykneetwists,andItripovermyfeet.“IsaidIdon’tdance,”Isaythroughgritted

teeth.Jerkingawayfromhim,Ishovemywaytowardthekitchentogetanotherdrink.

Ipouracupofjuicemixedwithvodkaandsiptheeye-wateringliquidasIwatchthe

crowd, my thoughts of dancing and dresses gradually fading away after taking a few
hits off a joint someone hands to me. I sit back and focus on the people around me.
Usuallyatparties,there’satleastonepersonIknowfromschool,buteveryoneisolder
here, and even with a cloudy head, I feel oddly out of place. It doesn’t really make
sense, considering I’m not chatty, anyway. And anyone that really knows me—really
knows my family—always wants the juicy tidbits of what happened. So, I should be
gratefulthatI’msurroundedbyunfamiliarpeople,yetIfeellonely,likeanoutcast,out
ofplace.

Idon’tbelonganywhere.
Ifrownatthedrinkinmyhand.Myescapefrommyselftonighthasturnedintoa

disaster.

“What’swiththepoutyface?”Millerappearsinfrontofme,hiseyessoblearyhe’s

barelyabletofocus.

Idiscardmycupinthetrash.“IthinkI’mreadytogo.”
“No way. Not yet.” He entwines our fingers together, pressing his clammy palm

againstmine.“Let’sgosomewhereandtalk.”

TalkingisthelastthingIwanttodo,butbeforeIcanrespond,hesteersmeoutof

the kitchen and down a dimly lit hall. The alcohol seeps through my veins, and I
stumble into a dizzy spell. The stained brown walls and faded orange carpet grow
blurry.Mybodyfeelsdetachedfrommymind,asifI’mfloating,andIhavenochoice
buttogripontoMiller;otherwise,I’llfalldown.

The deeper we go into the cabin, the danker the air becomes, and the more I

plummetintoastateofvertigowhereIcan’ttellwhat’supordown,ifI’msupposedto
behere—ifIwanttobehere.

I’msoconfusedallthetime.
Whenheleadsmeintoabedroomandslowlyclosesthedoor,achillslithersupmy

spine.

Somethingdoesn’tfeelright.
Thelockclicks.
Doesanythinganymore?
I collapse onto a bed and my heavy body bounces against the hard mattress as I

gazeattheceilingbeams.AfterIgetmybearings,Ipropuponmyelbowsandfocus

dazedlyonMiller.

Hegrins,andIhateit.Hatehim.HatemyselfsomuchIcanbarelystandit.
I just wish I could call my mom and dad, ask them to come get me and bring me

home. I could curl up in a ball and forget the last six months ever existed. Wish this
wasn’tmylife.WishIhadn’tmessedeverythingup.

Tearsburnmyeyes.
Goddammit!Stopthinkingsomuch.
JustbeMysteriousAnnabellaandrelax...
Maybeit’sthepungentscentoftheairorhowheavymybodyfeels,orMiller’sgaze

boringintome,butIcan’tseemtochillout.Eventhealcoholswishingaroundinside
meisdoingnothingtocalmmynerves.

“I’m thinking we should pick things up from where we left off the other day,”

Millersmurmurswithhisarmscrossedoverhischest.Hisbloodshoteyesdeliberately
drink me in as he bites his bottom lip. “Yeah, I’m definitely thinkin’ that’s what we
shoulddo.”

My stomach drops. The other day? The other day when I promised him we could

havesex?Itrytorelax,askmyself,whynot?Justgetitoverwithit,itdoesn’tmatter.
Nothingdoes.Nothingyouthoughtexistedeverdid.

The way I pictured my first time creeps up on me. I was always with someone I

loved and who loved me just as much, and I was definitely sober since Delusional,
Naïvely-Believed-In-Happily-Ever-After’s Annabella never felt the urge to drink or get
high.NomatterhowangryIgetwithmyself,nomatterhowlostIfeel,Istillwantthat
momenttobehowIoncedreameditwouldbe.That’sthethingwithdreams.Icanrun
away from them, try to shove them aside, but deep down, I still want everything I
dreamtof—thatlifeIcreatedinmyhead.

Bloodroarsinmyeardrums.“I’mnotsureIwanttodothatanymore.”
Hiseyesflarewithrage.“Whynot?”
Ifeedhimalie.“Becauseyouranoffandleftme.”
Hegrimaces.“Iapologizedforthat.”
“Yeah,youdid.”Irolloffthebedandstareoutthewindow,tryingtodisregardhis

witheringstare.“ButI’mnotinthemoodrightnow.”

“Why did your brother pick you up from the police station?” he asks. “It’s been

bothering me for the last few days because it doesn’t make any sense. You’re under
eighteen,right?Whyweren’tyourparentsthere?”

Ifeelsodrowsy,sodisconnectedfrommybody.“Myparentssometimesworkthe

nightshift.”

Thefloorboardscreakunderhisweightashestalkscloser.“Where?”
“Whatdoyoumeanwhere?”
“Where.Do.Your.Parents.Work?”Hestopsjustbehindmeandfirmlygraspsme

bythehips.

“At a place,” I reply as his body heat suffocates me. My feet hold my weight but

unsteadily,andIregretgettingsotrashedIcanbarelygraspontoreality.

“Stopbullshittingme,Anna.”Heyanksonmyshouldersandforcesmetofacehim.

“Tellmethetruth,”hedemands,nolongerlookinghappyhigh,butangryhigh.WhenI
say nothing, he shoves me into the wall. “You know, I’m starting to wonder if

everythingyou’vesaidisonebigfuckinglie.Ifyou’reonebigfuckinglie.”WhenIsay
nothing,heshakeshishead,fumingmad.“Ishould’veknownthiswashowyouwere
going to be when I first met you. You were so desperate to be someone else. Figures
youwerejustanotherrichgirltryingtoescapeherperfectlife.”

“That’swhatthisisabout?You’repissedoffbecauseyouthinkI’mrich?”Mysemi-

intoxicatedmindcanbarelymakesenseofwhathe’ssaying.

“No, I’m pissed off because you’re a little rich brat who’s going to get off because

mommyanddaddycanpayforthebestlawyerswhilemyassisgoingtorotinjail.”His
facereddensashereachesforme.

Iskitteroutoftheway,butputtoomuchweightontomybadleg.Theroomspinsas

my knee buckles, and my hip bashes against the windowsill. I cry out in pain, and
Millergrindstoahalt.Thepainisgood.Thepainthinsthefoginmyhead,helpsme
clutchontorealitymore.

“And that’s another thing,” he continues, getting more riled up. “What the hell is

wrong with your leg? The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve walked around with a
limp. You said it was from a horse, but there’s this guy I know that said you were in
somesortofcaraccident.”

Irubmyhandovermyface,knowingthatthesolitudeIhadwithMillerisgone.The

angry guy standing in front of me is too demanding and needy to be my escape
anymore,evenifheishigh.

Putting most of my weight on my good leg, I step forward. He doesn’t budge, and

myshoulderbumpsintohischest.

“Moveoutofmyway.”Myvoicewobbles,mycracksshowing,theoldAnnaslipping

through,andIloatheit—loatheherforbeingsoweak.

Hisgazelingersonmychest.“Thisissuchbull,”hesays,snatchingholdofmyarm.

“FivemonthsandIdidn’tevengetlaid.What.A.Waste.”Heshakeshisheadindisgust.

“You’rehurtingme,”Icryout,bendingmyarmtotryandpullaway.
Helooksdownathishandonmyarm,andforamoment,hisfingerstighten.When

Iwince,hepushesmedownonthebed.

Ishutdown,letadoorslamshutinmymind,ashecoversmybodywithhisand

starts kissing my neck. I tell myself I can do this—that I won’t panic—but when his
handsdipdownmypants,anger,hurt,andshameobliteratethenumbness.

“Stop!Ifuckingsaidno!”Ipressmyhandtohisfaceandshovehimback.
HeglaresdownatmeasIbreatheraggedlythenslidesoffme.“Getthehelloutof

here.I’mtoostrungouttodealwithyourdrama.”

Fixingmyshirt,Isqueezebyhimandoutoftheroom,onlybreathingagainwhenI

make it to the kitchen. I grab a beer and fumble to pop off the cap. The fresh air
somewhat helps clear my foggy mind. I start down the driveway, taking a few
swallows,tryingtocomposemyself.ButrealityisseepinginasIrealizejusthowbad
thesituationcouldhavebeenifMillerhadn’tstopped.Goosebumpsdotmyarms,even
thoughI’mwearingajacket,andtearspoolinmyeyes,threateningtopourout.ButI
suck them back, pull my shit together, and wander deeper into the night, trying to
figureouthowI’mgoingtogethome.IcouldcallLokiormaybetrygettinghomeon
foot. More than likely, the second choice will end with me on the side of the road in
unbearablepain.Still,outofthetwo,thelatterseemsthemostenticing—callingLoki

meansfacingstuffIcan’tface,especiallyafterwhatjusthappened.

Cece would probably come get me, but calling her means talking during the drive

home.Rightnow,Ijustneedaride,withoutcomplicationsorpotentialmeltdowns.

MybootsscuffagainstthedirtasIglancedownatthepalmofmyhand.It’stoodark

toseethenumbersoIusetheflashlightapponmyphone.Lucadoesn’tknowmethat
well,sohopefullyhewon’tdrillmewithquestions.

Ittakesmeafewtriestopunchinhisdigitscorrectly,butIfinallydialhisnumber.

MyfingerhoversoverthetalkbuttonforaminuteortwobeforeIactuallypushit.It’s
onlyteno’clock,butwhenthephoneringsfourtimes,Iwonderifmaybehe’sinbed.

HeanswersrightasI’mabouttohangup.“Hello?”
“Um...Hey.”
“A...hey,too,whoeveryouare.”
I sit down on a large rock at the end of the driveway, set the barely touched beer

down,andstretchoutmylegs.“Oh,yeah.ThisisAnna...fromnextdoor.”

“Oh,hey.”Hegoesfromconfusedtoupbeat.“Wow,I’mreallysurprisedyoucalled.”
“That makes two of us.” I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling queasy. “Did you really

meanwhatyousaid?AboutcallingifIneededanything?”

“Ineverwould’vegivenyoumynumberifIdidn’tmeanit,”hetellsmewithatrace

ofamusementinhistone.

“Good.BecauseIneedyoutocomepickmeup.”
“Like,rightnow?”
Iopenmyeyesasheadlightsshineonme,andItense,worrieditmightbeMiller.

“Yeah,likerightnow.”

Hepauses,andIhearadoorclose.“Whereareyou?”
Itrapmybreathinmychestasthecarzoomsby,kickingupacloudofdirt.Mygaze

travels toward the silhouette on the hillside. The roof of the house isn’t visible
anymore,butit’sthere,hidinginthedark.“I’moutbythejunkyardaboutamilepast
anantiqueshop.There’sasign,soyoushouldbeabletofindit.”

“Wait?Whyareyouatajunkyard?”
“I’m not at the junkyard. I’m sitting out on a rock in front of a cabin near the

junkyard.”

“Areyouokay?”
“I’mfine...”AmI,though?“Ijustneedaridehome.”
“Allright,I’llbetherein,like,thirtyminutes,”hesayseasily.“Areyougoingtobe

okayuntilIgetthere?”

“OfcourseI’llbeokay.”Iself-consciouslytouchmyleg.“Whywouldn’tIbe?”
“Youtellme.You’retheonecallingmeinthemiddleofthenightaskingformeto

driveouttoajunkyard.”Silencefillstheline.Hesighs.“Okay,I’monmyway.”

Iyawn,wishingIwerehomesoIcouldpassout.“Okay,seeyouinabit,Iguess.”
“Okay, Anna, see you in a bit.” Humor touches his tone as if he finds my attitude

funny.

Ihangupandliedownontherockwithmyphoneclutchedinmyhand.Myheart

ratecalmsasIgazeupatthestars,listeningtocricketschirp,andtryingtoignorethe
foulodordriftingfromthejunkyard.

Memories of my family camping under the night sky sneak up on me. My dad

would tell us stories of ghosts, monsters, and aliens—he always had a crazy
imagination. My mom used to tell me that I shared my dad’s crazy imagination and
that one day it would take me somewhere amazing. I used to believe her, but now I
can’t figure out what the truth is or ever was, just like I can’t figure out who I’m
supposedtobe.

Growingrestless,Islideofftherockanddustoffthedirtfromthebackofmyjeans.

I pace the end of the driveway, biting on my fingernails. Tonight could have been
worse. How did I end up here? How did I become this person? Why do I feel so
confused?Soempty?

Mygazeflickstothehillside.Itallstartedthere.
Iwanttoknowwhatliesinside—whathappenedthatday—butatthesametime,I

don’twanttoknow.Iwanttoruntowardthehouse,butIcan’t.Iwant.Ican’t.Want.
Can’t.

ToomanyquestionsfloodmymindasIwanderdownthesideofthedesolateroad,

taking lazy steps. As the cabin—and Miller—grows further away, I quicken my pace,
andmylegmusclesgroaninprotest.ButIkeepmovinguntilI’mattheendofthedirt
drivewaythatleadstothetwo-storyhousebytheantiqueshop.Thelightsareoff,and
inthedarkness,itlookssoharmless,justahouseandstore.

TheairisstillexceptforthecrunchingofthegravelbeneathmybootsasIstagger

overafewpotholesandtripoveracoupleofrocks.Imakeittothefrontporchsteps,
fartherthanI’veevergottenbefore.Mygazeboresaholeinthedoor.What’sonthe
othersideofit?Whowasthatman?Whatdidmymomreallydowhileshewashereon
mybirthday?Wasshereallyhavinganaffair?

IinchupthericketystairsuntilI’mstandingonthewraparoundporch.Icupmy

hands around my eyes and press my face to the window. I can’t see anything other
thantheoutlineoffurniture,butI’mfilledconsumingrage.

Itallstartedhere.Thelies.Thesecrets.Thedestruction.
Angereruptsthroughme,likehotlavaabouttoexplode.Backingdownthestairs,I

scoopuparockandchuckitashardasIcanatthewindowwithsomuchhatredinside
meit’sterrifying.Shardsofbrokenglassflyeverywhere,andIfeelmyselfshatterright
alongwithit.

Chapter10

I stand there, stunned at the damage I’ve caused. Then a dog starts howling from
insidethehouseandanupstairslightflipson.Myphonerings,breakingmyshockinto
smithereens.

Fumblingtoshutofftheringer,Ihurryawayfromthehouse.Mylegmuscleskink

asIdivebehindatreerightasthefrontfootdoorswingsopenandlightbeamsacross
theyard.

“Who’soutthere?”amanhollers.“Whoeveryouare,you’reindeepshit.”
Ialignmybacktothetrunkofthetreeandholdmybreath.Shoesscuffagainstthe

dirt,growingclosertome.Ialmostwalkoutfrommyhidingspot,justtoseeifheisthe
manfromthatday.

“I’mcallingthepolice!”heshouts,thenslamsthedoor.
Ballingmyhandsintofists,Istabmynailsintomypalmsandtakeoffthroughthe

dryfieldtowardtheroad.WhenIreachtheroad,Itravelthepathalongthefenceline
justincasethecopsshowup.

MylegjustaboutgivesoutseveraltimesasItripthroughthedark,unsureofwhere

togo.Ihavetheheartbreakingurgetobehome,curledupinaball,likeIusedtodo
whenIgotsick.Mymomwouldbringmesoupandhavearomancemoviemarathon
withme.Ifeltsolovedandtakencareof...

IhunchoveranddryheaveuntilallthealcoholIdrankearliercomesbackup.As

I’mwipingmymouthcleanwiththebackofmyhand,myphoneringsagain,andIdig
itoutofmypocket.

“Yeah,”Ianswerwithacough.
“Hey,whereareyou?I’mparkedinfrontofthecabinnearthejunkyard,butIcan’t

seeyouanywhere...Youaren'tinside,areyou?”Lucaaskswithapprehension.

“No, I’m walking on the side of the road . . . near the antique shop about a mile

back.”Ipressmyhandtomydampforeheadandbreatheinandoutthroughmynose
asmystomachgurglesagain.

“Okay . . .” He sounds perplexed, but doesn’t ask questions. It makes me like him

justatinybitmore.“I’mheadedtherenow.”Imovetohangupwhenheadds,“Stayon
thephonewithmeuntilIgetthere.”

“Why?You’renotthatfaraway.”
“Yeah,butyouseemlikeawanderer.”
“I’m not.” The dry grass kisses my legs as I start hiking down the side of the road

again.

“Allright.Iguessyou’dknowbetterthanIwould,”hesaysoverthehummingofan

engine.

“Yeah,Iwould.”ButI’mnotsureI’mright.
Musicgentlyflowsthroughthereceiver.
“Areyoulisteningtotheclassicrockstation?”Iask,unabletohelpmyself.

“Ofcourse.I’moldschool,remember?WhatelsewouldIlistento?”
Mydadusedtolistentothatstationallthetimewhenhewasatthestore.Hewas

alwayshummingtunesbysingersandbandslikeJourney,LynyrdSkynyrd,andeven
JohnnyCash.Sometimes,whenIshutmyeyes,Icanstillhearhimhumming...

“Youstillthere?”heasksaminutelater.“OrdidIloseyou?”
“Areyoustillthere?”Iretort,openingmyeyes.
Hechuckles.“Yeah,I’mstillhere,Anna.WhereelsewouldIgo?”
“Idon’tknow...Home?Infact,itmightbewise...I’mamessrightnow,”Ibabble

asaspoutofwoozinessovercomesmeagain.

“That’s okay . . . I’m used to that kind of stuff.” He gives an elongated pause,

hesitatingoversomething.

“You’reusedtodealingwithpeoplewho’reamess?”Exhausted,Ikneeldowninthe

gravelonthesideoftheroad.

“Kindof...You’reokay,though,right?”HisconcernunsettlesmebecauseIdon’t

deserveit.Don’tneedit.Don’twantit.

Ikindofdo,though.
“Whywouldn’tIbe?”Iaskthroughayawn.
“Idon’tknow.”Histonedripswithsarcasm.“Maybe’causeyoucalledmeupinthe

middleofthenighttopickyouupnearajunkyardoutinthemiddleofnowhere.Plus,
thatcabin...Itseemedsketchy.”

“Itissketchy,”Iagree,huggingmykneestomychest.Ifeelsickandbeatendown

and super freaking tired. I think I went overboard tonight. Too much alcohol or
something.OrmaybewhathappenedwithMilleristwistingupmygut.

Miller.Tonight.Hishandsalloverme.
Ishifttomyhandsandknees,thephonefallingtothegroundasIdryheaveagain.

BythetimeI’mfinished,thegroundfeelslikeit’sanoutofcontrolmerry-go-round.

“God,Ijustwanttogotosleep,”Imutter.
“Anna,areyouthere?”Luca’svoicecomesfromsomewhereontheground.
IfeelarounduntilIfindmyphone.“Yeah,I’mstillhere,”Isay,sittingbackinthe

dirt.

“IthoughtIlostyouforamoment,”hesays,soundingworried.
Poorguy.Ikindoffeelsorryforhimandthemesshe’sabouttowalkinto.
I’mjustabouttolethimoffthehook,tellhimtoturnaroundandgohome,thatI’ll

findanotherride,whenIspotapairoflightsshiningthroughthedarkness.

Reliefwashesoverme.Ijustwanttogohome.“IthinkIcanseeyourheadlights.”
“Okay...whereareyou?Idon’tseeyouanywhere.”
“Sittingonthegroundnear...”Isquintthroughthedark.“Milemarkersix.”
Thecarscreechestoastopafewfeetawayfromme.Hangingup,Itriptomyfeet,

butfrownattheheightbetweenthegroundandthedoor.

Thedooropensonitsown,andLucaisleaningovertheconsole.“Areyougoingto

getinorjuststandthere?”heasksinaplayfultone.He’snotwearinghisglassesagain
andissportingagreyknittedcap.Thatcute,nerdylookhehadgoingontheotherday
wouldbegoneexceptforthegoofygrinhehasonhisface.

“Where’syourcar?”Iask,graspingontothedoor.
“That’smymom’s.TheJeep’sactuallymydad’s.”Hismouthsinksatthementionof

hisdad.

Clearly, Luca doesn’t have a fantastic relationship with his dad—I could tell that

whenhetoldmeabouttheinterview.ButwhatIdon’tgetiswhyhisdadwascrying
outontheporch.

I massage the side of my leg before reaching up and grabbing the top of the seat.

Puttingallofmyweightonmyuninjuredleg,Ibounceupanddownonmytoes.

“Shit.Doyouneedhelpgettingin?”heasks,reachingfordoorhandletogetout.
“Igotit.”Toproveit,Idragmyselfupintotheleatherseat.Painsurgesthroughmy

leg,butmyteethclampdownonmylip,stiflingthecryclawingupmythroat.

“Areyousureyou’reokay?”heasksworriedly.“Youlooklikeyou’reinpain.”
Iclosethedoorandtheinteriorlightclicksoff.“IpromiseI’mokay.Alwaysokay.”

Liar.Liar.You’reanythingbutokayrightnow.

“Becauseyoucouldtellmeifsomethinghappened,”Lucasayscautiously.“Thatguy

youdroveoffwith...Heseemedreallyintense.”

“He is.” I rest my head against the cool glass. “But I swear, nothing happened.”

NothingI’mreadytotalkaboutrightnow,anyway.

Hestudiesmeforamomentbeforedrivingdowntheroad.Thankfully,hehasthe

musicturnedlow;otherwise,mycrumblingnightwouldendupinapileofdustonthe
floor.Ofcourse,thesilencebetweenusisextremelyuncomfortable.

Asthemilesstreamby,mynauseadeclinestodrowsiness,andIalmostpassout,my

thoughtspromptlydriftingbacktowhatalmosthappened.IcanstillfeelwhereMiller’s
fingertipspressedintomyskin,hardenoughtoleavebruises.Ifeellikegettingdrunk
untilIpassout,gettingsohighuntilIcan’tthinkstraight,kissingsomeoneuntilI’mso
numbIfeeldeadinside...

Mystomachmusclesclenchandvomitburnsatthebackofmythroatagain.Tears

stingmyeyesasIchokeitback,refusingtohurlalloverLuca’scar.

“So,areyougoingtobitemyheadoffifIaskwhatyouweredoingallthewayout

here?”Lucaasksaswenearthecitylimits,wherethefieldsturntoclosedshops,the
grocerystore,andthebank.

Inhalingandexhaling,Istruggletokeepmytoneeven.“Iwasataparty.”Ihunker

downintheseatwhenacopcarzoomsdownthestreettowardus.

“Musthavebeenquitethepartyforyoutowanttoleaveearly.”Hisgazeflicksfrom

metotheroad.“What’reyoudoing?”

“Nothing.”Ionlybreathefreelyagainwhenthecopcarfliesbyus.
“IstheresomethingIshouldknowabout?Like,amIharboringafugitive?”
“I’monlyafugitiveifyouletmegetcaught.Soreally,theball’sinyourcourt.You

caneitherturnaroundandhandmeoverorjustletitgo.”

Hesearchesmyeyesforsomething.“Iguessthatalldependsonwhatyoudid.”
“That doesn’t really matter.” I drape my arm over my tender stomach. “It wasn’t

anythingmajor.”

“IthinkIshouldbethejudgeofthat.”
“Howdoyoufigure?”
“Becauseyouseemtooverlookreallyintensestuff.”
“Like what?” Sitting up in the seat, I feel defensive all over again, like I did in the

driveway.

“Likewhenyouwereroastingoutinthesun,wantingtowalkhomelikeitwasno

bigdeal.”Hecountsdownonhisfingers.“Orwhenyourboyfriendwasyellingatyou
inthedrivewayandyoujustshruggeditoff.”

“He’snotmyboyfriend,”Isay,suppressingamoanasmygutchurns.“Andevenif

hewere,heisn’tanymore.Notaftertonight.”

“Hedidsomethingtoyou,didn’the?”Hisknuckleswhitenashestranglesthewheel.
“No, he didn’t,” I say, surprised by his intense reaction. “Seriously, Luca. Nothing

happened,sochillout.”

He turns his head and looks at me, still holding a death grip on the wheel. “But

somethingalmosthappened.”It’snotaquestion,butastatement.

“Almostisn’tsomethingyouneedtogetallworkedupabout.”
“Yeah,Ido.Ifhealmostdidsomethingtoyou,thenthatmeanshetried.”Heflexes

hisfingersandtiltshisneckfromsidetoside.“Iseriouslywanttogobackandkickhis
ass.”

“Youdon’tseemlikethekindofguythat’dbeverygoodatasskicking,”Isay.“And

trustme.It’snotworththeriskofgettingyourasskicked.”

Heshootsmeadirtylook.“Hey,Icanholdmyown.”
“Youseemtoonicetoholdyourowninafight.”
“IcanbemeanwhenIwantto,”hesayssternly,butIcantellhe’sstrugglingnotto

smile."Ifyouwant,Icanturnaround,drivebacktothatcabin,andproveittoyou.”

Onthebrinkofsmiling,Icasuallycovermymouthwithmyhand.“Fine,Itotally

believethatyoucanbeameanassholewhenyouwant.”

“Thenwhyareyoualmostlaughing?"
“I’m not.” Collecting myself, I lower my hand to prove it. “And I don’t even know

whywe’rehavingthisconversation.Ineversaidanythinghappened,andevenifitdid,
itwasprobablypartlymyfault.”Iswallowhardastearsfloodmyeyes.

“Anna,whateverhappenedbackthere,itwasn’tyourfault.”Heplacesahandonmy

knee,andIsuckinabreath.

Breathe.Airin.Airout.“Youdon’tknowmewellenoughtomakethatassumption,

andtrustme,alotoftheshitIdoismyfault.”

“Notwhathappenedtonight,though.”
“You don’t even know what happened.” Inhale. Exhale. My belly aches. “Can we

pleasetalkaboutsomethingelse?"

Heopenshismouthtosaysomethingelse,butsnapshisjawshut.Heflipsonthe

highbeamswithhisgazefastenedonme,hiseyesmeticulouslyscanningmeover.“So,
fessup.What’dyoudo?”

I’msorelievedhedroppedtheMillersubjectthatIendupansweringhisquestion

without thinking. “You know the antique shop a couple miles back?” I ask through a
yawn,andhenods.“I...threwarockthroughthewindow.”

“JustbeforeIpickedyouup?”Hisexpressionisunreadable.
“Yeah, it’s why I was walking down the road. And that’s probably where that cop

washeading.”

“Interesting.” Musing over something, he turns up the volume of the stereo and

drumshisfingerontopofthewheeltothefaintsoundof“LastKiss”byPearlJam.

“Interesting?” I sit up straight in the seat, suddenly feeling very awake. But his

nonchalantattitudeisn’twhatIwasexpecting.“That’sallyouhavetosay,afterwhatI
justtoldyou?”

Heliftshisshoulders,shruggingwhilewatchingtheroad.“Whatdoyouwantmeto

say?”

“Howabout‘getoutofthecar.’Or‘I’mnevertalkingtoyouagain.’?”
“Why would I say that?” He seems to get his kicks and giggles off making me

uneasy.

“Becauseyouseemlikeagoodguywhodoesn’tgetintotrouble,”Isaywithashrug.

“Andtrustme,I’mtrouble,evenwhenIdon’tmeantobe.”

Hepresseshishandtohischest,feigningtobeappalled.“Howdareyouaccuseme

ofbeingagoodguy?IthoughtwealreadyestablishedthatIcouldbemeanandthatI
knowhowtokickass.”

“Yeah,thatwasmoreyousayingthatthanme,”Isay.“AndI’mnotjoking.Ireally

threwarockthroughthewindow.Gobackandlookifyoudon’tbelieveme.”WhyamI
sodeadsetonhimbelievingme?

“I totally believe you, but it’s not that big of a deal, and I don’t really think you’re

trouble, even if you think you are. Although, I’m really curious why you threw the
rock.”Hewatchesme,testingmyreaction.

My eyes narrow into slits. “Because I can’t stand the guy who lives there.” I bite

down on my tongue as soon as I say it. What am I doing? Pouring out my secrets to
him?IsthiswhoIamnow?Blabbering,Semi-drunkAnnabella.

Hiscuriositypiques.“Whycan’tyoustandhim?”
“Noreason.ForgetIsaidthat.”Whenhedoesn’tsayanything,Iflopbackintheseat.

“Canwetalkaboutsomethingbesidesmyangerissues?”

“Sure,butFYI,thisisthesecondsubjectchangeI’vegivenyou,soyouoweme,”he

sayswithastraightface,soIcan’ttellifhe’skiddingornot.“Whatdoyouwanttotalk
about?”

Isweepmyhairoutofmyeyes.“Anything,justaslongasithasnothingtodowith

me.”

“Hmmm...”Hetapshisfingeragainsthislip.“DidyouknowthatPearlJamhad

fivedifferentdrummers?”

“Iactuallydid,”Isay,confusedbyhischoiceofsubject,butinthebestwaypossible.
“Ahha!Iknewit.”Hepointsatme,grinningfromeartoear.
Ijoltintheseat,glancingaround,startled.“Knewwhat?”
“Thatyoulikedclassicrock.Thattheemorockyouwerelisteningtoearlierwasjust

a cover up, like the purple hair.” He rests his hands on the steering wheel, smiling
proudly.

“You’resofarfrombeingrightit’snotevenfunny,”Isay,butitfeelslikeawhopping

lie.

“No,I’msoclosetobeingrightit’sfrightening.”Hewinksatme,andIhavetocatch

mybreath.

Westareeachotherdown,andthenhebustsuplaughing,hiseyescrinklingaround

thecorners.Hislaughteriscontagious,andIfindmyselfplaguedbyit.Alaughtickles
atthebackofmythroat,beggingtocomeout,andIbitedownonmylip,desperatefor
asubjectchange.Icouldtrytokisshimasadistraction,butconsideringhowmadlymy

pulsebeatsjustcontemplatingtheideaofourlipspressedtogether,Idon’tthinkit’sa
wise idea. Luca clearly isn’t Miller and isn’t going to give me that same numbing
sensationIseekwhenIkisshim.

“Why’dyouguysreallymovehere?”Isputtersuddenly.
Hislaughtervanishesinaheartbeat.“Mymomalreadytoldyouwhy.”
Ifiddlewithafrayedholeinthekneeofmyjeans.“Butitkindofseemedlikemaybe

therewasanotherreason.”

“Likewhat?We’rereallycriminalsontherun?”hejokesflatly.“Youreallywantto

know,becauseI’mnotreallysupposedtotellanyone.”

Ihesitate.DoIreallywanttoknowmoresecrets?“I’mnotsure.”
The conversation screeches to a halt when three more squad cars fly by, red and

blue lights flashing. Luca curiously looks at me again, but doesn’t ask questions. I
wouldn’thaveanswersevenifhedid.I’mascluelessasheisastowhyonearththere’d
bethatmanycopsrespondingtoabrokenwindow.

“Ifyou’renotsure,IthinkI’llkeepittomyself.”Hefocusesontheroad.“So,how

coolisittoownabookstore?Ithinkit’dbeprettyfreakin’cool.Well,unlessyoudon’t
liketoread.Butinthatcase,IthinkI’dhavetokickyououtofmycar.”

Andtheconversationspinsrightbacktomeagain.“Fine,Ireallywanttoknowwhy

yourfamilymovedhere.”

“Areyousureyou’resure?BecauseIgotawholebunchoffunmusicfactsIcould

sharewithyou.”Hestaresatmewithhopeinhiseyes.

I’mtwistedlygladthathe’stheuncomfortableonenow.“Nope.Fessup.What’sthe

realreason?”

Hecrackshisknucklesagainstthesteeringwheel.“Fine,butjustfortherecord,I’m

onlydoingthisbecauseit’sprettyclearyoudon’twanttotalkaboutyourself,andsince
I’veprettymuchgotyouallfiguredout,IknowI’mmakingyoureallyuncomfortable.”

Iopenmymouthtoprotest,butshutmytrapwhenIrealizearguingisexactlyhow

hewantsmetoreact.“You’reclever,butI’mnotgoingtofallforyoursubject-changing
tricksthistime.”

“Dammit,I’mgoingtohavetocomeupwithnewtricksnow.”Hemassagestheback

ofhisneck,sighing.“Mymomwasn’tlying.Shereallydidwantachangeofscenery.”

“But there was more to it than that,” I guess, sticking my hand into my pocket to

silencemyphoneasitvibrates.

“Alotmore.Andmostofithastodowithmysister.”
“ButIthoughtyouwereanonlychild?”
“That’s the story my mother’s been feeding everyone, but my dad found out this

morning and got super pissed, so now she’s switched it to she does have a daughter
who’sawayatcollege.”

“I’mguessingsheisn’tincollege,though?”Myphoneringsagain,andIshutitoff,

knowingit’sprobablyLokicallingtoscoldme.

Luca laughs, but the hollow noise sends goosebumps sprouting across my flesh.

“Notevenclose.”

Istarttoaskwheresheis,buttrailoffasheturnsintotheonlytwenty-fourhourgas

stationinHoneyton.“What’reyoudoing?”

Heparksinavacantspotclosetotheentranceandflipsofftheheadlights.“Ineeda

caffeineandsugarrun.”

I squint at the red, slightly burry numbers on the dash. “Right now? It’s almost

midnight?Don’tyouneedtogethome?”Isay,becauseitfeelslikewe’rehangingout
now.IfIwantedtodothat,Iwould’vecalledCece.

Hegripsthedoorhandletogetout.“Saysthegirlwanderingdownadirtroadjust

thirtyminutesago.”

Islouchbackintheseat.“ButIreallyneedtogethome.”
“I’llonlybe,like,fiveminutes.”Hehopsoutandglancesbackintothecab.“Youcan

come in if you want or sit out here, but I’m not bringing you anything.” A challenge
dancesinhiseyesasheclosesthedoor.

Istubbornlystayintheseat.Butmystomachgrumbles,remindingmethatabout

an hour ago, I emptied its contents into the grass. I’m starving and candy sounds so
goodrightnow.Andmaybeasodatowashthebittertasteoutofmymouth.

Blowing out an exasperated breath, I climb out and limp into the store. The

florescentlightingstingsmyeyesasIpassthecashregisterandstrolldownthecandy
aisle.Thecashier,agirlwho’saroundmyage,watchesmelikeahawk,andIavoideye
contactwithher,prayingtogodthatIdon’tknowher.

Luca strolls up to me as I’m assessing the candy options, my attention bouncing

backandforthbetweenM&M’sandSnickers,twoofmyfavoritecandies.Infact,Iused
to eat them together all the time, taking a bite of chocolate and chasing it with a
handfulofM&Ms.

“So, what’s your poison?” Luca asks. He has a fountain drink in his hand, and as

usual,he’sgrinning.“Nowait.Nevermind.Iknowwhatitis.”

“Arewetalkingdrinksorwhat?Iaskwithanarchofmybrow.
“Don’t pretend like you’re a bad girl,” he says. “You’re not, and you knew I was

talkingaboutcandy.”

Hisbluntnessmakesmelosemyfooting,andbetweenthatandthefactthatI’mstill

alittledrunk,Ican’tthinkofacomeback.

Mygazeslidestohim.“There’snowayyoucouldknowwhatmyfavoritecandyis.”
Hegrinsgoofilyatme.“Yet,somehow,Imagicallyknowexactlywhatyou’reabout

topick.”Henudgesmyshoulder.“GuessI’mjustsuperperceptive.”

Icrossmyarmsandstarehimdown.“Alight,MisterPerceptive.WhatwasIaboutto

pick?”

Heslurpshissoda,staringatme.“WhatdoIwinifIgetitright?”
“Anythingyouwant.”Iplayalongsincethere’snowayhe’sgoingtogetitright.
“Okay,you’reon.”Hereachesformyhairandtugsonastrand.“Youwereaboutto

pickSkittles.”BeforeIcanshakemyhead,hesays,“I’mjustkidding.”WhenIrollmy
eyes,headds,“Sorry,butIcouldn’thelpit.I’mgoingtobeseriousnow.”

Iwidenmyeyesandgaspinmockshock.“Youknowhowtodothat?”
“Idoactually,”hequips,handingmehissoda.Hecrackshisknucklesthenherubs

hishandstogetherashecarefullyassessesthecandychoices.Withadramaticflair,he
liftshishandandswirlsitaroundinacircleabovethecandiesbeforescoopingupabag
ofM&M’s.

“Dammit.”Idon’tmeantosayitaloud.“Howtheheckdidyougetthatright?”
Heholdsupafinger.“Justasec.”HealsograbsaSnickers.“Ithinkthesewerewhat

youwanted,right?”Hepresentsthecandiestomeinthepalmsofhishand,likehe’s
givingmeprizes.

IgruntasIgrabthem.“Okay.Fessup.How’dyouknow?”
A cocky grin spreads across his face as he takes his soda from my hand. “Because

I’mamindreader,obviously.”

“Well, obviously.” Sarcasm drips from my voice, thick like honey. “No, seriously,

how’dyouknow?”

Hegrabsapackofgum.“Noway.I’mnottellingyoumysecret.”
Ileanagainsttheshelfasmylegstartskillingme.“That’snotfair.”
“It’scompletelyfair.Andit’lldriveyoujustcrazyenoughthatyou’llwanttohang

outwithmetofindouthowI’msoclever.”HepicksupaTwixandturnsitoverinhis
hand.

“I highly doubt you’re that hard up for friends. And if you are, go hang out at the

footballfieldduringlunchtime.That’swherealmosteveryoneouragehangsout,even
duringbreak.”

“See, that’s why I need you to be my friend.” He snatches up a bag of Skittles,

winkingatme.“Youknowalltheinsandoutsofthistown.”

“They’renotthathardtolearn.”Irubmyeyeswithmyfreehandasanotherspurt

ofdizzinesshitsmelikeabagofbricks.“There’sprobablyatotalofthree.”

Heselectsafewmoresnacks.“Yeah,butthisplaceiskindofintimidating.”
“YoulivedinL.A.HowthehellcouldHoneytonbeintimidating?”
“Because everyone knows everyone here, which makes it hard to find people

wantingnewfriends.”Heglancesatthestashofcandyinhishandthenskimstheshelf
again.

Igapeathim.“Areyouseriouslygettingmore?”
Hegivesmeaninnocentlookashereachesforabagofchips.“What?I’maguy.I

gethungry.”

Ieyeballallthejunkfoodhe’sholding.“Dude,evensomeonewiththeworstcaseof

themunchieswouldn’teatallthatcrapatonce.”

“Speakingofmunchies.Youreyeslooksuperbloodshotrightnow.”
“I’mjusttired.”Iblinkafewtimestohydratemyeyes.
He brushes by me and heads for the register. “It’s okay if you’re high. I’m not

judgingyou.IjustthoughtI’dletyouknowsoyoudon’tgetintroublewhenyouget
home.”

“I’mnothigh,”Iprotest,trailingafterhim.
“Okay,”hesayssimply.
“I’mbeingserious.”Ifeeltheneedtoargue,somethingthatseemstobeagrowing

traitaroundhim.“AndhowwouldyouevenknowifIwas?”

Heshrugs,growingtense.“Itwasjustaguess.”
He’slying,butwhy?Maybehegetshigh?Hedoesn’tseemlikethekindofperson

that does, though. Then again, six months ago people would’ve said the same thing
aboutme.

Hedropsallthecandyonthecounterthensetshissodadown,smilingatthecashier

when she gapes at his teeth-rotting collection of sugar. “Half of it’s hers,” he says,
noddinghisheadatme,shootingmeadeviousgrin.

IscootenoughcandytoholdmeoveruntilHalloweentowardtheregister.“No.It’s

allhis.I’mnottakingcreditforyourcrazy-asssugareatinghabits.”

Hestealsthecandyfrommyhandandaddsittothepile.“Nowitis.”
“Icanpayformyown,”Ireachtosnatchmycandyback.
Heswatsmyhandaway.“Noway.You’renotpayingonourfirstdate.”
“Aw, it’s your first date.” Cashier Girl swoons with a flutter of her eyelashes and a

claspofherhands.

“It’snotadate,”Isay,glaringatLuca.
“Ignoreher,”hetellsCashierGirlasheretrieveshiswalletfromthebackpocketof

hisjeans.“Annahasthisthingwithcallingthebestnightofherlifeadate.”

He’sgottenwaytoocomfortable,winkingatme,teasingme,callingmeAnna.”You

knowmyname’sAnnabella,right?”

“Yeah,butyoupreferAnna,”hesays.“Evenifyouwon’tadmitit.”
Iscrunchmynoseathim,andhesmirks.
“Wait...AnnabellaBaker?Oh,mygod.”CashierGirlstaresatmeasifI’vesuddenly

sproutedathirdeyeinthecenterofmyforehead.“Jesus,Ihardlyrecognizedyou.You
lookso...different.”

Ittakesmeasecondtofigureoutwhosheis.CharlotteLevingson,Cece’scousin.
“That’saninterestingchoiceofhaircolor,”shesayswhenIdon’tutteraword.
Itouchastrandofmyhair.“It’sjustpurple.”
“Yeah,butyoudon’tseealotofpurplehairaroundhere.”Shebeginsringingupthe

candybars.“Notthatit’sabadthingoranything.It’sjustalittleoutofthenorm.”The
registerbeepsasshescansthebarcodes.

“WhichiswhyIdidit,”Ilie,lettingmyhairgo.
“That’scool.”ShesmackshergumasshediscretelychecksLucaout.
Lucahashisattentionfixedonmeanddoesn’tseemtonoticeher.“That’swhyyou

didit?Wow,I’mkindofdisappointed.”

“Why?Isn’tthatwhyeveryonedoescrazythingslikedyetheirhairandpiercetheir

body—tostandout?”Iask,proppingmyelbowonthecountertop,staringbackathim.

He shakes his head. “When I got my tattoo, I got it to represent something major

thathappenedinmylife.”

Mybrowsshootupinsurprise.“Youhaveatattoo?”
“It’s not that big a deal. My mom and dad took me to get it done one day for . . .

certainreasons,”heexplainscrypticallyasherollsuphissleeve,showingatattooon
hisforearm.

It’s small, about the size of a quarter, with a few horizontal lines that connect to

formthebottomofaheart.

“Wow,that’ssoawesome.”Charlottegrazesherfingeracrosshisarm.“Whatdoesit

mean?”

“Strength,”hereplies,tugginghissleevedown.
“That’sreallycool.I’mthinkingaboutgettingatattoosoon.”Shescansthelastitem

and presses the tally button. “Probably when I head to college here in a couple of
monthssomyparentscan’tgetallpissyatmewhenIdoit.”

Hesmilesatherashehandsheratwenty.“Justmakesureyougetsomethingthat

means something to you, or at least something that you won’t hate in a couple of

years.”

TheychatalittlebitmoreabouttattooswhileIpeelopentheSnickersandmunch

onit.

AsCharlottegivesLucahischange,sheasks,“So,you’renewaroundhere,right?I’m

prettysureIhaven’tseenyouaround.”

Lucanodsasheputsawayhiswallet.“Ijustmovedhereaweekago.”
“Cool. There’s a bonfire down at the docks this Friday. You should come.” She

glancesatme.“Youshouldcome,too.Ceceshouldbethere.”

I stuff my mouth full of chocolate. “I already have plans, but thanks.” There’s no

wayI’mgoingsomeplacewhereI’llbesurroundedbystaresandridicule.Besides,after
tonight,I’mnotthateagertogotoanotherparty.

ButthenwhatthehellamIgoingtodowithmyself?
“Well, think about it,” she says. “I know she’s been worried about you ever since

yourparentsdied.Itreallysuckswhathappenedtothem.Theyweresuchgoodpeople
—”

Iwalkawaybeforeshecanfinish,pushoutthedoor,andstepoutunderthestars.

ThecrispairburnsmydrythroatandremindsmethatIforgottogetadrink.ButI’m
notabouttogobackinsidetogetone.

I wrap my arms around myself as my body begins to shiver. I try to convince

myself it’s from the cold, but I know that’s not the reason. Charlotte struck a nerve,
reminded me of their deaths, that stupid fucking day that ripped my life out from
underneath me. Usually I can choke down what I feel, but after such an emotional
night,I’mstruggling.

Thedoordingsasitswingsopen,andLucastepsout.“Areyouokay?”
I stare at the vacant street in front of me. “Yep, perfect. I forgot to get a drink,

though.”

Hemovesupbesidemeandoffersmehissoda.“Drinkup.”
Ieyethecupthenhim.“Youreallywantmetodrinkfromyours?”
“IpromiseIdon’thavecooties,”hesays,urgingmetotakethesoda.
Itakeafewlonggulps,washingdownthebittertasteinmymouthbeforeIhandit

back to him. We get into the car without saying anything else, which I’m super
thankfulfor.Although,he’sgrinningidioticallyaboutsomething.

“What’reyousmilingabout?”Iaskasheslidesthekeyintheignition.
“It’snothing.”Hisgrinwidensashebacksoutoftheparkingspace.“Ijustfindyou

amusing.That’sall.”Hetwistsaknobonthestereo,surfingforastation,stillamused
bysomething.

“ButIdidn’tdoanything.”
“That’s not true.” Clearly he thinks I’m entertaining, and it’s starting to drive me

crazythathewon’tsharewhy.

Afterheselectsthesamestationhestartedouton,heplaceshishandsbackonthe

steeringwheelanddrumshisfingerstothebeatofthesong.Thesleeveofhisshirthas
riddenupandthebottomofhistattoopeeksout.

“Youdon’tseemlikesomeonewhowouldhaveatattoo,”IsayasItearopenthebag

ofM&Ms.

“That doesn’t really seem like a fair statement,” he replies, giving me a curious

sidelongglance.“That’dbelikemesayingthatyouseemlikethekindofpersonwho
shouldhaveatattoo.”

“MaybeIdohaveone.”
“Doyou?”
Ishakemyhead.“No.”
Hesmiles,butit’samaskwithsadnesshiddenbehindit.Iwanttoaskhimwhyhe

lookssad,butsincehedidn’tpushmetotalkatthegasstation,Ireturnthefavortohim
andremainquiet.

Abouthalfwayhome,though,allthatchocolatesuddenlywantstocomebackup.
“Shit.Pullover,”Isputter,coveringmymouthtofightbackthevomit.
Lucaslamsonthebrakes,andIfalloutofthecarbeforeitevencomestoacomplete

stop.WhenIlandonmyhandsandknees,thegravelscrapesatmyskinthroughmy
clothes.I puke my guts out on the side of the road. My eyes water, and my stomach
feels like its tearing open with each gag. Somewhere in the midst of gagging and
moaning,Lucacrouchesdownbesidemeandholdsmyhairoutofmyface.Iwantto
tell him to go away, that he shouldn’t have to witness what I deserve, but I’m too
exhaustedtogetthewordsout.

BythetimeI’veemptiedmystomach,mylegsaretooweaktobudge.Iliedownin

thedirt,fullypreparedtogotosleep.

“No,don’tgotosleep.Youneedtogetup.”Lucaslipshishandsundermyarms.
“I’mfine.Justgohome,”Imutter,restingmycheekagainsttherocks.
Ignoringme,hepullsmetomyfeetandsteadiesmeasIsway.“Don’tbesilly.I’m

notleavingyouonthesideoftheroad.”Heguidesmetothecarwithhishandaround
myback,supportingmostofmyweight.

Iburymyfaceintohischest,murmuring.“Yousmellsogood.Somuchbetterthan

Ido.”

Hechuckles,hischestvibratingashesmootheshishandoverthebackofmyhead.

“Yeah,let’sgetyouhome.”

He practically has to lift me in the seat, and instead of protesting like I usually do

whensomeonehelpsme,Ilethimandfeelthesmallestbitofgratitudewhenhedraws
theseatbeltovermyshoulderandbucklesmein.

Hegetsintothecar,andIfocusonthestarsintheskytokeepmystomachunder

control.BeforeIknowit,we’repullingupinhisdriveway.Thelightsareonupstairsin
hishouse,butmyhomeisdark.Mybetisthatmyfamilyisoutlookingformeandthat
allthemissedcallsandtextsIhavearefromLokitryingtotrackmedown.

“Thanks for the ride.” I unfasten my seatbelt. And holding my hair back while I

hurled.

Heoffersmeasoft,butconcernedsmile.“Anytime.”
Holdingontothedoor,Igraduallylowermyfeettotheground.
“Anna,Icanhelpyouout,”hesays,rushingtogetout.
“I’m good. I swear, I’m feeling a ton better.” As I put weight onto my legs, the

musclesclenchup.Onesideofmyjeansfeelssupertight,probablyfrominflammation,
whichmeansnotonlywillIhavetospendthenextfewdayslyingaroundwithmyleg
elevated, but Loki’s going to be riding my case even more about going to physical
therapy.

Hemeetsmearoundthesideofthecar.“Youwantmetowalkyoutothedoor?”
“Luca,it’srightnextdoor.IswearI’mfinenow.”
He peers warily at my dark house. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay being

alone?”

“Positive.”Imovearoundhim,wantingnothingmorethantobeinmybed.Maybe

sleepwillhelpmeforgetthisnighteverhappened.

“Hey,Anna,”LucasaysasIlimpdownthedriveway.
I pause at the fence line, tensing. After everything that happened tonight, and

everythingItoldhim,Ihavenoideawhathe’sabouttosayandthatmakesmeuneasy.

“Iwasthinking,asafavorforpickingyouuptonightandwinningourlittlecandy

bet, you could show me around town.” His voice is surprisingly light, and if I wasn’t
alreadyfeelinggratefultowardhim,Idefinitelywouldbenow.“Itsucksmovinghere
during break. I’ve seriously spent the last week binging on Xbox and episodes of
Ridiculousness.It’sstartingtodrivemecrazy.”

“WhataboutCharlotte?”Isaywithoutlookingathim.“I’msureshe’dbehappyto

showyouaround.”

“IfIdidn’tknowanybetter,I’dsayyouwerejealous.”
“Don’tbeweird.Idon’tevenknowyouwellenoughtobejealous.”AmI,though?

It’shardtotellanymorewhatIamoraren’t.

“Yeah,butifyouhangoutwithme,that’llchange.Andmaybewecangetpastthis

awkwardfriendsphase,”heteases.

Iresistasmile.“Isthatwhatweare?”
“Yeah,andconsideringIjustsawyoupukeyourgutsoutonthesideoftheroad,I

think our friend status might have been bumped up to the sharing-embarrassing-
momentsphase.”

Icastaglanceovermyshoulder.“That’snottrue.Ihaven’tseenyoudoanything

embarrassingyet.”

“Oh, give it time. Trust me, embarrassing myself is one of my many talents.” He

stuffshishandsintothepocketsofhisjeans.“So,whatdoyousay?Willyoushowme
aroundtown?Bemyawesometourguide?”

“How do you know I’ll be awesome,” I say. “Maybe I’m super annoying and give

lameandsuperannoyingtours.”

“Yeah,Ihaveahunchthat’snottrue.JustlikeIhaveahunchthatwearegoingto

end up in the super-close-friends phase. And I’m never wrong when it comes to my
hunches.”Hesoundssomuchliketheoldme,allhopeful—delusional.

Ipicturemyselfshowinghimaroundtown,wavingmyarmsaroundasIshowhim

allthecoolhangoutsandtheveryuncoolhangoutsaswell.We’dmakejokesaboutthe
frumpystatueintheparkwhileeatingslushies.I’dwearoneofmydressesjustlikeI
used to, and maybe we’d even hold hands. It’d be a perfect first date that would end
withanamazingkiss.Icanseeitsovividlyit’sterrifying,andtheideaofactingonitis
soheavyandunbearable,IfeellikeI’msuffocating.

I start to tell him no, crush his hope, but after what he did for me tonight, I can’t

bringmyselftodoit.“Soyou’reaRidiculousnessfan,huh?”Iavoidansweringhim.

“IguessyoucouldsayIhaveaweirdsenseofhumor,”hesays,soundingnervous

formyanswer.WhenIdon’treplyrightaway,headds,“Ifyouwant,I’llgetdownon

mykneesandbegyoutoshowmearound.Infact,itcouldcountasmyembarrassing
moment.”

I pretend to be repulsed by his offer, when secretly I think I might like it. “Please

don’tdothat.Andbesides,that’snotasembarrassingaspukingonthesideoftheroad.”
Myphoneringsinmypocket,andIsigh.“Look,I’llshowyouaroundifLokiwillletme
outofthehouse.Butdon’tgettooexcited.He’sprettypissedoffatmerightnow.”

“Ihaveafeelinghe’sgoingtomakeanexceptionforme,”hesays,andIcanhear

thesmileinhisvoice.

“Idoubtthat,butI’llask.”IdragmyfootwithmeasIhobbletowardmybackdoor.
“See you tomorrow, tour guide girl!” Luca hollers. “And don’t pretend like you’re

notlookingforwardtospendingmoretimewithme.Icanseeyousmilingalltheway
fromoverhere.”

Ibitedownonmytonguetokeepfromdoingexactlywhathejustaccusedmeof.

For the first time since the accident, I think I might actually be looking forward to
getting grounded. The last thing I need is to be hanging around with Luca and his
joking, flirty, contagious smiling, rescuing me from the side of the road, and holding
myhairbackwhileIpukemyself.He’swaytooniceandwaytoomuchofwhattheold
mewouldwant.IfIlethimin,thenwhat?I’mjustsupposedtobethatpersonagain?
Only I won’t be able to dance—be able to do anything that I used to love. Could I be
okaywithbeingthatperson?

I blink my burry eyes as I stumble into the kitchen. My phone hums for the

umpteenthtimeasIturnonthelights.Decidingit’stimetofacethemusic,Iopenmy
texts.

Miller: Hey, where r u? The cabin is getting raided and I can’t find my truck

keys.

I reread the message at least ten more times and then check the time stamp. The

textwassentprettyclosetowhenLucapickedmeup.

A crushing weight settles on my chest as I listen to my voicemail. Five messages

fromLoki,allofhimyellingatmeforleavingwithMiller.Notwantingtohearhimyell
atme,ItexthimthatI’mhome,thenshutoffmyphone,goupstairstomyroom,and
flopdownonmybed.

Idon’twanttoadmitit,butjustlikethetimewhenMillerfirstpulleduptorobthat

house,Ican’tdenythetruththat’srightinfrontofme—thatpartofmereallydoesn’t
want to get into trouble. I’ve spent the last six months pretending I’m some sort of
rebel who doesn’t give a shit about anything, but when it all comes down to it, I still
caremorethanIwantto.ThisrebelliousthingI’mtryingtopulloffisasunfittingasme
tryingtodancewithmyuselessleg.

Wheredoesthatleaveme?Backtosquareonewithnoclueastowhattodointhis

worldanymore?

TheonlyrealthingI’msureofisthatifLucahadn’trescuedmefromthesideofthe

road, I would’ve been wandering around the area when the arrests were made. I
could’vegottenpickedup,maybeevenforbreakingthewindow.Andonlydaysafter
gettingarrested.

Yep,thestupidinksavedmyasstonight.
Iwassavedfromalottonight,though.Somuchthatit’soverwhelming.

Ilookatmyreflectioninthemirror.Bigeyestracedwithsomucheyeliner,Ican

hardly recognize myself anymore. But they’re still the same eyes I had before the
accident—I’mstillmeunderneaththeheavymakeupandhairdye.

Mybodyshakesasthenightcrashesovermeandyanksmedown.
No,I’mnotAnna.
I’mAnnabella.
I’mmysterious.
I’mrebellious.
Idon’tcareaboutanything.
Don’twanttocare.
I’msolost.
Imissmydadandmom.
IcurlupinaballandholdmybreathuntilIfeellikemylungsaregoingtoexplode.

Then I roll over, bury my face into the pillow, and scream until I have nothing left
insideme.

Chapter11

T henextmorningIhaveoneofthosemomentswhereIwakeupandcan’tremember
adamnthingaboutthenightbefore.Thisisagrowinghabitinmylife,andIknowina
minuteortwo,I’llremembersometidbits.

AsI’mgettingoutofbed,memoriesofMillerhurtingme,drinkingtoomuch,and

Lucasavingmyassrushbacktome.

“Oh,mygod,Ipukedinfrontofhim.”Idon’tknowwhy,butIfeelreallymortified.
EmbarrassedAnna?GuessIreallyambacktosquareone.
When I go down to get some breakfast, Loki informs me that I’m grounded over

Christmasbreakfortakingofffromthestore,whichalsomeansnovisitors,including
adorably nerdy neighbor guys. So, Luca was wrong, and I was right. I’m more sickly
gratifiedbyitthanIshouldbe.

Sundaymorning,Ipopapilltonumbthepaininmylegandinmysoul.Without

Miller around, I realize that in order to obtain the numbness, I’m more than likely
goingtohavetotakemorepills.

Aspartofmyongoingpunishment,IgotothestorewithLoki,whichendsupbeing

less intense than the first time, but that might be because I’m exhausted. When we
come home that evening, I head straight up to my room to elevate my leg. I spend
mostofnightwatchingtelevisionandskimmingoverMiller’stexts.

Miller:Thisissoscrewedup.Ushouldhavewarnedmetheywerecoming.Big

JaysaidhesawusittingoutinfrontofthecabinsoIknowusawthecopsbefore
theygotthere.

Miller:Wasitbecauseofwhathappenedinthebedroom?
Miller: I know u r mad, but I thought u wanted it til u flipped out. It’s not my

fuckingfaultIdidn’tknow.Ursohardtoread.

Miller:Seriously,ucantextmeback.I’mprobablygoingtojail.
Miller:We’reover.
Miller:Comeon.Answeragoddamntext.Ineedafavor.
Andthereitis,thereasonwhyhe’ssodeadsetongettingaholdofme.Whateverthe

favoris,I’mbettingiteitherhastodowithmoneyordrugs.Ifheknewthetruthabout
thatnight,thatImighthavebeenthecausebehindthepoliceraid,hemightbemore
pissedoffthanhealreadyis.

Apparently,thecopthatbustedthepartywasinitiallyheadedouttoanothercallbut

spottedabunchofpeoplehangingoutatthecabinandmadeapitstoptherebecause
theownerofthehousewasonprobationfordrugs.Theofficerinvestigated,andyeah,I
knewwhatkindofdrugscreatedthemusty,dank,sweaty-bodysmellintheairbecause
itwasthesamekindofdrugMiller’sbeensmokingmorefrequently.Mybetisthecop
wasoriginallyheadedtotheantiqueshoptocheckoutacallaboutabrokenwindow.

Overthenextcoupleofdays,Idistractmyselfwithschool,thestore,andtryingto

ignore Luca the best I can. He makes it difficult, though, and deep down, I know

shutting him out is wrong. After what he did for me, he deserves better. But I’m not
readytogiveanyonebetter,includingmyself.

WhenIleaveforschoolMondaymorning,Lucajusthappenstobeoutside,though,

eatinghiscerealandmessingaroundwiththegaragedoor.

“Holyshit,youdostilllivehere.Iwasbeginningtoworryyoumighthaveranaway

justtoavoidme,”hejokeslightheartedly,butthere’sanervousgleaminhiseyes.

“Wow, you think pretty highly of yourself, if you think I’d move just because of

you,”Iretort,unabletostopthewordscomingoutofmymouth.

“Yeah,you’reright.Butyouwerehidingoutbecauseofme.Admitit.”Hewaggles

hiseyebrowsatmethengrins.

I shake my head. This is so getting out of control. “I wasn’t hiding from you. I’ve

beengrounded.

He shovels a spoonful of cereal into his mouth as the garage door lowers to the

ground.“Forhowlong?”

“Indefinitely.”Isquirminmyownskin,hyperawareoftheBakerclaneyeballingus

fromthetruck.

“Did you ask Loki if you could at least spend a couple of hours showing your

awesomenewbestfriendaround?”heasks,wipingadribbleofmilkfromhischin.

I snort back a laugh. “Awesome new best friend? Is that the title you’ve given

yourselfnow?”

“What?It’stheperfecttitle.Justlikeyours.”
“Whichis?”
“My awesome-friend-who-loves-trying-to-sleep-on-the-side-of-the-road. I have to

say,I’veneverhadoneofthosebefore.”

Idon’tevenknowwhyIbotheredasking.Itonlyleadsmeintodangeroflaughing

andsmiling,andwithmysiblingsrighttherewatchingme,itjustdoesn’tseemright.
Notwhenanyofthemlaughanymore.

“Well,awesomenewbestfriend,”Irefrainaneyeroll,“hatetobreakittoyou,butI

askedLokiandhesaidnoexceptions,evenforyou.”

“You could tell him it’s for charity,” he suggests, balancing the bowl on top of the

fence.“Youcouldtellhimit’sfortheLucaisSuperLonelyandNeedstoGetoutofHis
HouseandAwayfromHisCrazyMomCharity.”

“Yeah,Idon’tthinkhe’dbuythat.”
He sighs dejectedly. “Fine, I guess I’ll just have to come up with something more

clever.”

I shift my weight to my good leg. “You could always try stunning him with you

candymind-readingtricks.”

Pickinguphisbowl,hebackstowardthefrontdoor.“That’sactuallynotabadidea.

I’mgoingtogopractice.”

“Iwasn’tbeingserious,”Ishoutafterhim,buthe’salreadyjogginginsidethehouse.
Mycreativemindconjuresupallsortsofpossibilitiesaboutwhathe’srushingtodo.

Practicingtelepathy?HisJedi-mindskills?

Ismackmyforeheadwiththeheelofmyhand.Seriously,Anna.Getagrip.
Shakingmyheadatmyabsurdity,Iturntogetintothetruck.
LokiwatchesmeinquisitivelyasIscootintothebackseat.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, combing my fingers through the

snarledlocksofmyhair.

HetradesagrinwithZharathenlooksbackatme.“Noreason.”
“Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” I demand, tossing my bag onto

the floor. They goofily smile at each other again, and it floors me. “Seriously, guys,
what’sgoingon?”

“They’rejustactinglikeidiotsbecauseyouweresmilinglikeadorkwhileyouwere

talking to the dorky neighbor guy,” Alexis sneers. “Jesus, I swear everyone’s losing
theirdamnminds.Imean,whogetsexcitedoverasmile?”

“Butsheneversmiles,”Zharasays,flinchingwhenIscowlather.
“Iwasn’tsmiling.”Itouchmyfingerstomylips.WasI?No.There’snoway.Butthe

possibilitythatIcould’vebeenplaguesmetothepointuntilIfeelsicktomystomach
again,justlikelastnight.HowcanIbehappywhennooneelseis?“Weweren’teven
talking.Lucawasjustbeingweirdandaskingmeallthesequestions,andIlistenedto
bepolite.”

“Polite’smorethanweget,”Zharapointsout,dustingafewcrumbsoffherpants.
I start to protest, but no noise comes out except a sputter. Agitated, I face the

windowandkeepmylipssealed.

The next morning, I move as slow as humanly possible while getting ready for

schooltoavoidrunningintoLuca.

ButLokigrowsreallyimpatientwithmeandhonksthehornrepeatedly.
Ithrowopenmywindow.“I’llbedowninaminute!”Iyelldownatthetruck,but

tensewhenIseeLucabouncingabasketballaroundinhisdriveway,sweaty,wearing
nothingbutapairofbasketballshorts.He’snotrippedoranything,buthe’sdefinitely
inshape,andIcan’thelpbutgawk.

“Oh,Anna.Oh,Anna,”hesingsongsastheballswishesthethroughnet,breakingme

frommytrance.“Letdownyourpurplehair.”

I stab my teeth into my lip to avoid any and all potential smiles. “That was really

lame.”

Heshrugsashebendsoverandscoopsuptheball.“Sowhat.Italmostgotyouto

smile.”

“Noitdidn’t.”Butitalmost did, and that scares the shit out of me. Happiness isn’t

supposedtobewhatI’mfeeling.Sad,sure.Guilty,yes.Butallsmileyandgooeyinside,
no.

Withmypulsesoaring,Islamthewindowshut.
ImanagetomakeitintothehousethateveningwithoutcrossingpathswithLuca.

Butlaterthenextnight,Ihearmutteringcomingfromthehouse.Itossandturn,then
bury my head under my pillow, trying to ignore it. But eventually, my curiosity gets
thebestofme,andIclimboutofbed,padovertothewindow,andpeeroutside.

Darkness blankets the neighborhood except for a few lampposts and porch lights.

Next door, a man is sitting on the steps with the phone pressed to his ear. His head’s
bowed down, and the sound of his sobbing cover up whatever he’s saying. I swallow
hardaspityclogsmythroat.Whatever’sgoingoniscausinghimalotofpain,justlike
Loki,Zhara,Niki,Jessamine,andAlexiswentthroughrightaftermyparentsdied.Ifeel
sorryforhim.Forallofthem.Ievenkindoffeelsorryforme.

No,Idon’tdeservepity,evenfrommyself.
Jerkingthecord,Iyankdowntheblinds,popmyheadphonesinandcrankupthe

mostearsplittingmusicIcanfind,thenstretchmylegoutontoapillow.Ihaveboxer
shorts on so my scars are visible. I trace the rough edges of the uneven skin,
rememberinghowsmoothitusedtobe.Rememberingwhatitfeltliketocirclemyleg
around, toes pointed as I lifted my weight. My body was stable and supported my
gracefulmovements,letmedancetotherhythm,getlostinthemusic...

“Ineedapill,”Imuttertomyself,rollingoutofbed.
Zhara,Loki,andNikolihavegoneouttoseeamovie,leavingAlexisandmewiththe

house to ourselves. The place is quiet except for the neighbor talking on the phone
again.

Iwanderdownstairstograbtheprescriptionbottlefromthecupboard,butwhenI

walkintothekitchen,Alexisisthere.

“Yourrootsareshowing,”Alexissayswithafakesmile.
“Yournosepiercinglooksinfected.”Iopenthefridge,pretendingIcamedownhere

forasnack.

“Yeah, it happens sometimes.” She collects a plate of pasta from the beeping

microwave. “And just so you know, I saw Loki searching your room yesterday while
youwereintheshower.”

Ipickupabowlofwhatlookslikemacandcheese.“Why?”
She shrugs indifferently as she gets a fork from the drawer. “I’m guessing it has

something to do with the conversation he had with that nosy bitch Laretta about the
signssomeone’sondrugs.”

“LikeLokidoesn’talreadyknowthesigns.Heusedtogethighallthetimeduringhis

senioryear.Rememberthattimewecaughthiminthegarage?Hesaidithelpedclear
hisheadandfigureoutthemeaningoflife.Likethatwasalegitexcuse.”

She chokes on a laugh, spitting out pasta all over the countertop. “Oh, my god, I

totally forgot about that.” She reaches for a paper towel to clean up the mess. “But I
don’t think that’s the kind of drug he’s worried you’re doing, and he decided to take
extremeprecautions.”Hergazetravelstothecabinetabovethesink.

EventhoughI’mdesperatetolookandseeifthepillsarestillthere,Icalmlyliftthe

plastic off the mac and cheese. “He can look all he wants, but he’s not going to find
anything.”

“He knows Miller got busted for possession,” she says, balling up the paper towel

andchuckingitintothetrash.“Justincaseyoudon’talreadyknow,he’satotalloser.
Youshouldreallystopseeinghim.”

“Whydoyouevencare?”
She diverts her attention to her food. “I don’t. I’m just sick of hearing Loki whine

aboutitallthetime.It’sstartingtogetannoying.”

I think there’s something she’s not telling me. “How’d Loki find out about Miller

gettingbustedfordrugpossession?”

“Probably through town gossip.” She throws me a wave over her shoulder as she

headsforthedoorway.“Well,it’sbeengreattalkingtoya,butIhavewaybettershitI
could be doing, and I’m sure you want me to get the hell out so you can raid the
cupboardandlookforthosepillsyoucamedownherefor.”

“Ididn’tcomedownhereforpills,”Isay,feelingwaytootransparent.AmIreally

thatobvious?

“Sureyouweren’t.”
“Iwasn’t,Alexis,sostopassumingthings.”Notingthesplattersofneonpaintonthe

back of her grey t-shit and holey jeans, I shift the focus onto her. “Wait. Are you
paintingagain?”

She scrapes her fingernail across one of the pink paint spots on her shirt. “Nope,

thesearefromlastnight.”

“You’re still in your clothes from last night . . . What, were you, like, at a rave or

something?”

“That’snoneofyourdamnbusiness.”Shovingaforkfulofpastaintohermouth,she

stridesoutoftheroom.

Momentslater,herbedroomdoorbangsshutandmusicboomsthroughthehouse.
Irushtothecupboardtocheckformypainmedsandimmediatelyflipout.They’re

gone.“Shit.”Islamthecupboardandmassagemytemples.

Idon’tneedthem.I’llbefine.
But my skin clams up just thinking about it, and as I head for the stairs, my body

feels so weighted, heavy, like I have absolutely no energy at all, yet my mind is the
opposite,wired,needy,beggingmetofeedthehungerinside.IswearI’mgoingtodieif
Idon’tfindawaytogetsomemorepills.IjustaboutbreakdownandtextMillertobuy
me some and bring them over, but then I picture the last time I saw him, how his
fingersmarkedmyskin,howheheldmedown.Mystomachburnsjustthinkingabout
it,andIknowI’mnotreadytogotoMillerforanythingyet.

WhenIshutmyeyesthatnight,thelastdoseofthepillItookisprettymuchoutof

mysystem.I’mshakyandoutofitandtumbleintoadreamforthefirsttimesincethe
accident.

I’mintheraininthemiddleoftheroadwearingtatteredballetshoestoosmallfor

myfeet.IknowI’msupposedtobesomewhere,butIcan’tgetmylegstomove,asif
thefleshofmyfeethasmeltedtotheasphalt,andthepainissounbearable,Inearly
passout.

WhenIwakeup,Idon’treallyunderstandthepointofit,butthefactthatIdreamed

at all doesn’t sit well with me. I end up getting my father’s journal and stare at the
envelope.

Dennis,whoareyou?
Drenched in sweat, I almost open it. But half an hour later, I put the book away

without looking inside. I spend the rest of the night streaming episodes of Buffy the
Vampire Slayer on Netflix and then turn on Halloween. Back in the day, I would’ve
watchedsomething cheery, like aromantic comedy, but mushinessis the last thing I
thinkIcanendureatthemoment.

Afteranightofhorrormoviemarathon,withhardlyanysleep,Lokibargesintomy

room,lookingstiffandawkwardinthebuttondownshirtandslackshe’swearing.His
shoes are shinier than lip-gloss, and even his hair is combed to the side. Only a year
ago,whenhecamehomefromcollegelastsummer,he’dbeensportingscraggilyhair,
ascruffybeard,andlotsandlotsofplaidshirtsandtornjeans.

Hetakesonelookatthebloodandgoreonthescreenandfrowns.“Youusedtohate

thiskindofstuff.Infact,you’dalmostpassoutifyousomuchasgotapapercut.”

Mygazeremainslockedonthetelevisionscreen.IfIlookathimwhileI’msober,

I’m going to crack apart. “Things change after seeing your leg flayed open and your
parentsbleedingoutnexttoyou.”

Hestudiesmefromthefootofthebed,thenleansovertocatchmygaze.“I’vebeen

thinkingandtalkingtosomepeople,andIreallythinkitmightbeagoodideaforyou
toseeatherapist.”

“No,thanks.Ialreadyspendwaytoomuchtimewiththeschoolcounselor.”
“Thisisn’tthesamekindofcounselor.Hespecializesincaseslikeyours.”
“Idon’thaveacase.Myparentsdied,andIchanged.That’sit.”Myvoiceistoohigh

—toorevealing.Iquicklyfocusonthetelevisionscreen.

“Youcan’tkeeprunningfromthepastlikethis.It’sunhealthy,andonedayit’llall

catchuptoyou.”WhenIremainsilent,heturnsoffthetelevision.“You’regoingtotalk
toatherapist.End.Of.Discussion.I’llsetupanappointmentonthesamedaysasyour
physical therapy, which you’re going to begin tomorrow. I have an appointment
scheduled,andItookoffthemorningsoIcanpersonallydriveyouthere.”Hesmiles
anah-ha-now-let’s-see-you-get-out-of-itsmile.

“I’m not going to physical therapy. It’s just a waste of time.” I pick up the remote

and flip the television back on “And, FYI, you really need to stop getting information
fromLaretta.ShemaythinkshecanrelatetoyoubecauseshethinksSteveislikeme,
but she’s not a twenty-one-year-old parent to four teenagers, so her opinion’s pretty
irrelevant.Plus,Steve’sbeeninjailmoretimesthanIcancount.”

“Don’t be so unsympathetic. Laretta’s a single parent.” He grows even more

frustratedwhenIdon’treact.“God,don’tyouevenfeeltheslightestbitbadforher?For
anyone?”

“Ifeelbadforyouthatyouhavetotalktoher.”Ifeelbadforyouforhavingtotake

careofme.Ifeelbadbecauseyoudon’tknowthetruth.IfeelbadbecauseIdo.Yes,Loki,
Ifeelbad,butIworryifItellyou,I’lltellyouabouteverything.Thepain.Thesecrets.The
lies. The confusion. Everything I’ve done over the last six months. Tell you about the
horriblepersonI’vebecome.

Hestealstheremotefromme,clicksoffthemovie,andsinksdownontheedgeof

thebed.“Ididn’tcomeinheretoarguewithyou.”Hetugshisfingersthroughhishair,
causingafewstrandstogoaskew.“IcametotellyouthatIhavesomegoodnewsand
badnews.”Herollsonesleeveofhisshirtupthenstartsontheother.“Thegoodnews
istheownersofthehomeyoubrokeintohavedroppedthecharges.Iguesstheyknow
whathappenedtoMomandDadandtookpityonyou.”

“Idon’twantanyone’spity...I’mnotacharitycase.”
“You should be damn grateful they do. Do you know how much shit you would

havebeeninifitwenttotrial...Youalreadyhaveshopliftingchargespendingagainst
youthatwehavetogotakecareoflatertoday.”

Ireachforabowlofstalepopcornonmynightstandandshovelahandfulintomy

mouth.Myheadispoundingfromthisconversationandmyearsfeelsupersensitiveto
noise.“Ithoughtthatwasnextweek.”

“Iremindedyouyesterdaymorningandthemorningbeforethat.”Hesnatchesthe

bowlfromme.“Getupandgetdressedsowecango.Iwanttogetthereearlyandtryto

look like I have some clue about what I’m doing. If you care about this family at all,
you’llatleasttrytocleanupalittle.”Heleavesmyroom,slammingthedoorbehind
him.

Isiftthroughtheclusterfuckofemotionscoursingthroughme.WhodoIgoas?This

versionofme,whoeverIamtoday?DoIgetdressedinsomethingappropriate?Who’s
going to court? Me? I glance at the mirror. Her? Black liner rings my eyes, and my
purplehairisatangledmess.

IreallystartmissingthepillsthemoreIthinkaboutit—themoreIthinkperiod.
Igetoutofbedandgointomyclosettofindsomethingtowear.AsI’mrummaging

forahoodie,myphonebuzzesfrommynightstand.Backtrackingtomyunmadebed,I
pickitup.EventhoughIdidn’taddhimtomycontacts,IrecognizeLuca’snumber.

Luca:Wordonthestreetisthebadgirlnextdoormightbegoingtojailtoday.
Anaudiofileisattachedtothemessage.Iconsiderdeletingit,butcuriositygetsthe

betterofme,andIpushplay.“FolsomPrisonBlues”byJohnnyCashturnson.Irollmy
eyes,butI’monthevergeofgrinningasanothertextcomesthrough.

Luca:Orwecangomoreemo,ifthat’swhatyou’rediggingtoday.
Another audio file is attached, and with hesitancy, I click on it. “Prison Song” by

SystemofaDownscreamsatmethroughthespeakerofmyphone.Myfingersdance
aroundthescreenasIreplyback.

Me:I’mgladyoufindmymesseduplifesoentertaining.
Luca:Idon’tfinditentertaining.I’mjusttryingtocheeryouup.
Me:Well,itdidn’twork.Notatall.
Luca:Yeah,right.Ibetyou’resmilingrightnow.
Ibrushmyfingersacrossmymouthandfindmylipsturnedupward.
Me:Whatever.Isoamnot.
Luca:YourshortresponsemeansItotallywin.
Myeyesshootinvisibledaggersatthephone.
Me:I’mtryingtofigureoutwhaturdealis...Whyursopersistentonmaking

mesmileandtalkingtomeandwantingtohangoutandbemy‘newbestfriend.’It
doesn’tmakesensewhenclearlyyou’veheardrumorsaboutme.Anduhaveeyes.
Plus,uwitnessedmeinfineAnnaformtheothernightwhileIwashurlingonthe
sideoftheroad.Thatwasn’tanact.Ireallyammessedup.

Luca:IalreadytolduI’mokaybeingaroundmesseduppeople.Andbesides,u

NEEDtosmilemore.

Luca:P.S.Utotallylostmeattheeyesthing.Pleaseexplainyourweirdo-ness.
Me:Imeantyoucancme,right?Urnotblind.UknowwhatIlooklike.
Luca:Um,yeah.Iprobablycumorethanuwantmeto.
Hisresponsemakesmeuncomfortable.
Me:Sohowdoesyourmomfeelaboutuwantingtomakemesmile?BecauseI’m

guessingulearnedaboutmycourtdatefromher.

Luca: My mom doesn’t really care about that. She tries to see the good in

everyone,maybetoomuchsometimes.

Iwonderifthatremarkhastodowithhissisterormaybeevenhisdadwhoseems

tospendsomuchtimecryingontheporch.

Me:Thatdoesn’tmattersinceIhavenogoodinme.I’mallwicked,myfriend.

Trustme.

Luca:Tryingtoscaremeawaywithyourwickedness?Becauseit’snotgoingto

work.Plus,ucalledmeyourfriendsoulose.

Ishakemyhead.Howcanhebesopositiveallthetime?
Me:I’mjusttryingtowarnuthatI’materriblepersonwhodoesbadthingsand

liestogoodpeople.

Luca: I’m not going to take your word on that. U have a messed up self-

perception.

Me:No,Idon’t.I’mjustsayingstuffhowitis.Uwon’tfindanythinggoodwithin

tenfeetofmenomatterhowhardulook.

Luca:Ibetyouadatethaturwrong.
Me:Noway.I’mnotbettinguanythingeveragain.
Luca:TooscaredI’mright,huh?
Me:No...Uknowwhat...consideritabet.Buturnotgoingtowin.
Luca:Trustme.I’lltotallywin.
“Anna!Comeon!Wehavetogo!”Lokiyellsupthestairway.
Me: Good luck with that. I have to go before my brother loses more of his

marbles.

Luca:K.Ijustwantedtowishuluck.Cheerupanddon’tletthemangetyadown

BythetimeIputthephoneaway,I’mgrinningagain.Itrytogetitundercontrol,

butit’simpossible.AsIheadforthecloset,Ipurposelytwistmyknee,justtoerasethe
happiness from my face. As my muscles wind into tight, painful knots, I realize how
seriouslyfuckedupIam,preferringpainoverhappiness.

IsthishowI’mgoingtobefortherestofmylife?
AsI’mslippingonastuddedleatherjacketovermybaggyshirt,someoneknockson

thedoor.

“I’mcoming!”Ishout.“I’mjustgettingmyshoeson.”
The door creaks open and Nikoli pokes his head in. “Hey. Can I come in for a

minute?”

“Oh,IthoughtyouwereLokicomingtobugmetohurryup,”Isay,reachingformy

clunkybootsthatarecakedinabouttwopoundsofmud.

Hetentativelyentersmyroom,instantlynotingmybarewalls.“Whathappenedto

allyourpostersandpicturesyouhadhangingup?”

“Itookthemdownalongtimeago.”Sixmonthsagotobeexact.Stuffedthemaway

withmyballetshoesandleotardsandhidtheminthebackofmyclosetwherethey’re
nowcollectingdust.

Heruffleshismessybrownhairintoplaceashefacesme.“Youshouldputsomeof

thembackupwhenyou’reready.Yourroom’skindofcreepywithoutanythingonthe
walls,likeatomborsomething.”

“Tomb?That’saninterestingchoiceofword.Areyoureadingghoststoriesagain?
Heshrugs,stuffinghishandsintohispockets.“ItwasthefirstthingIcouldthinkof

whenIlookedatyourroom.

“Did Loki send you up here to make me hurry up?” I ask, picking up a hairbrush

frommydresser.

He shakes his head, staring out the window. “Nah, I came up here on my own. I

wantedtotalktoyouaboutsomething...Iwanttoaskyouforafavor.”

I roughly comb the brush through my tangled locks. “You know I’m not good at

favors.”

Hemeetsmygaze.“Youusedtobe.”
Forafalteringmoment,Iseemyyoungerbrotherstandinginfrontofme,theoneI

usedtogetalongwithandtalkwithallthetime.TheoneIpushedintheswingwhen
wewerekids,stolecookiesfromthecookiejarwith,playedhide-and-goseekwith.

“Weallusedtobealotofthings,”Isayquietly,droppingthebrushontothedresser

asIswallowhard.

“Iknow.AndIknowthingshavechanged,andnoone’sthesame,butIreallydon’t

wanttoenduplivinginsomeweirdo’shouse,soI’dreallyappreciateitifyou’datleast
pretendforthedaythatyoucareaboutsomeoneotherthanyourselfandimpressthis
judgedude.”

“Noone’sgoingtotakeusaway,Niki.”Ifeelsobadthathethinksthat,andknowing

Nik,heprobablyworriesaboutitmorethanheletson.“Lokijustsaysthatsometimes
togetustobehave.”

“He used to, but I overheard him talking to someone on the phone the other day,

and he was muttering all these things about not taking us away and that he could
handleit.”Hescuffsthetipofhissneakeragainstthecarpet.“Please,justdothis,okay?
DoitforMomandDadbecausetheywouldn’twantuslivingwithsomeoneelse.And
youowethem.Theyweregoodparents.”

I feel sorry for him for being in the dark about the truth, but at the same time, I

envy him. It’d be so much easier to change my clothes and comb my hair—make
myselfpresentable—ifIcouldstillholdontothoseFourthofJulydaysfilledwithwarm
sunshine, showering fireworks, and the scent of apple pie. Now, every memory is
taintedwiththunderandlightning,andit’shardtoseeclearlythroughthedownpour.

“But anyway, that’s all I have to say. Thanks for listening.” He rolls his eyes and

leavesmyroom,asifhe’salreadyconvincedI’mnotgoingtogivehimwhatheasked
for.

I don’t want to do it. I want to wear my tattered clothes and smudge on more

eyeliner,covermyselfup,andsedatemybodyandmindbyswallowingacouplepills.
Walking into a courtroom as the shy, timid, fully aware of the consequences of her
actionsAnnawillbeahellofalotdifficult.Doesn’t-Gives-a-ShitAnnabellacandealwith
lifesomuchbetter.Candealwithdeath.Gettingintotrouble.Knowingthatshereally
doesn’thaveafutureanymore.

No,IneedtobeDoesn’t-Gives-a-ShitAnnabella.
But,asIreachfortheeyeliner,atsunamiofguiltcrashesoverme,piercesmyheart,

strikesmydarkenedsoul.

IattempttoignoreitasIsliponnumerousleatherbracelets,butassoonasIreach

forthedoorknobtoleave,Ihesitate.Aninvisibleropeistiedtomywaist,securedthere
byaguiltwovensothickly,Ican’tbreakit.

Letting out a sequence of curses, I shuck off my jacket, kick my boots aside, and

wipeoffmyeyeliner.Idabonsomelip-gloss,braidmyhair,andchangeintoaclean
purple, button down shirt. The fabric has been untouched for so long a layer of dust

coversit.Ibrushitoff,changemyholeyjeansforapairofblackslacks,andslipona
pairofballetflats.

Ignoringmyreflection,Ilimpdownthestairstothekitchen.
Loki’seyeswidenatthesightofme.“Wow,youlook—”
“If you say anything, I’ll go upstairs and change,” I tell him, grabbing a bottle of

waterfromthefridge.

Heelevateshishandsinfrontofhim.“Ididn’tsayaword.”
Iunscrewthelidoffthebottle.“Butyouwerethinkingit.”
“Iwasthinkingalotofthings.”
“Idon’tcarejustaslongasyoukeepthemtoyourself.”Otherwise,Iwon’tbeableto

handle this. I move toward the door, but halt when he doesn’t follow. “Why are you
juststandingthere?Ithoughtwewereonatimecrunchorsomething.”

Helingersnearthekitchenisland.“Weare,butit’sjust...”Heshakeshishead,then

brushesbymeonhiswaytothefrontdoor.“Nothing.Nevermind.Let’sgo.”

“Thisdoesn’tmeanI’mgoingtopermanentlychange,”Icalloutashehurriesout

the door. By the time I get to his truck, I’m out of breath and all worked up. “This is
only temporary. And I only did it because Nik said he overheard you talking to
someoneaboutusgettingtakenaway.”Iwaitforhimtounlockthedoor.“Isthattrue,
Loki?Issomeonegoingtotakeusaway?”

“No.” He pats his pocket for the keys. “I mean, yeah, Family Services has been

checkinguponthings,butnoone’sgoingtotakeyouaway.”

I can’t tell if he’s lying or not, but the idea that it’s possible—that I might end up

beingthecauseofourfamilybreakingapart—scaresmetodeath.

Whatifwegettakenaway?WhatifIneverseethemagain?Whatif?Whatif?What

if?

WhatifIwould’vejusttoldDad?
Afterweclimbintothetruck,Lokishutsthedoorandhisgazefastensonme.“Anna,

IpromiseI’mnotgoingtoletanythinghappentothisfamily.ImadeapromisetoMom
andDadthatI’dtakecareofyou,andI’mgoingtodothat,evenifitkillsme.”

Iclenchmyhandsintofists.“Noteverything’sinyourpower.”
“Iknow,butsomethingsare,likemakingthisfamilywhatiswas.ThatIcando.It’ll

takesometime,butI’mgoingtofuckingmakeithappen.”Hetapshisfootonthegas,
revvingupengine.

“You’re wrong. Sometimes you can make all the smart choices and do everything

right,butonerainstormcancomealongandripyourentirelifeaway,leavingyouleft
withnothing.Youcan’tfixwhatwewere.ThatlifediedwithMomandDad,itdoesn’t
existanymore,nomatterhowbadyouwantit.”

He turns in his seat, gaping at me. “You seriously don’t believe that you were left

withnothing.Pleasetellmeyoudon’tthinkthat.”

“None of us were. We’re all different and not for the better. No one’s happy

anymore. Everyone just seems confused and . . . drifting.” I fix my attention on a
hydrangeabushnearthefence,myeyelashesflutteringasIfightbackthetears.

When my mom planted the shrub, she said it was because she loved the purple

flowersthatgrewandthatitaddedlifetothelawn.Now,thebushsitsoutintheyard,
hauntingitwithmemoriesofher.

“We’re not drifting,” he tries to reassure me. “Yeah, stuff’s changed and we’re all

confused,butgiveitsometime.Eventually,we’llfigureouthowtowalkintheworld
again.”

The engine grumbles for another minute before Loki gives up and backs onto the

road. A few tears roll down my cheeks, and I swiftly wipe them away, hoping he
doesn’tseethem.

Theentirecarridetothecourthouseismadeinsilence.Lokikeepsmessingwiththe

stationsthenjustturnsoffthestereo.Oncethetruckisparked,wehopoutandmake
ourwayuptotherotatingglassdoors.Weemptyourpocketsandgetwhiskedthrough
security. We’ve been through the process so many times we’re on a first name basis
withthesecurityguards.

We silently ride the elevator to the third floor, and when doors ding as they glide

open,Lokipatsmyshoulder.

“Everything’sgoingtobeokay.Amilia’sgoingtomakethisgoawayandthenwecan

gohomeandfinishwhatweweretalkingabout.I’mnotgoingtoletyoukeepdrifting.
We’regoingtofixthis.”

I’mnotsureifIbelievehim,ifhereallyhasthatkindofpower,butnow’snotthe

timetoargue.

My gaze flits to the twin oak doors at the end of the corridor where a thirty-

something-year-oldwomanwearingawhitepantsuitiswavingatus.“Who’sAmilia?”

“Yourlawyer.”
“WhathappenedtoJane?”
“Shemoved.Butdon’tworry.I’veheardgoodthingsaboutAmilia.”
WemeetAmiliaatthedoors,andshegivesusabriefsummaryofhowshepredicts

thetrialisgoingtogodown.

“IreallywanttoworktheanglethatAnnabellaisgoingthroughatoughtimedueto

the recent loss of your parents,” she says, running her hands along the fabric of her
jackettosmoothoutthewrinkles.

“Butwon’tthatmakemelookbad?”Lokiasks,worrywrittenalloverhisface.
“It should be fine. The real concern right now is to make sure Annabella gets the

bare minimum sentence,” she explains, sorting through the papers she has with her.
She drops a few of them and bends down to collect them. When she stands up, she
offers us a smile as she yanks open one of the oak doors. “Don’t worry. Everything’s
goingtobeokay.”

Lokismileswithhope.
Ifrownwithdoubt.
Thirtyminuteslater,mydoubtisjustified.
The judge, a man who’s around my dad’s age and who used to come to the

bookstorealot,doesn’ttakepityonme.“Ihadthepleasureofknowingyourmother
and father. They were good people in the community.” He shifts in his chair,
overlapping his hands on his desk. “Having said that, this isn’t the first time you’ve
beenintroublelikethis,andlettingyouoffwithprobationdoesn’tseemtobehelping.
I’msorry,butI’mgoingtohavetohandoutamoreseverepunishment.Hopefully,this
timeyou’llbeabletolearnfromyourmistakes.”

Lokisqueezesmyhandasrealitypilesdownonmyshoulders.

Imayhavebeentryingtorunawayfrommylife—frommypast—butnotonlydid

itcatchupwithme,itknockedmedownhard.

Chapter12

T heanklebraceletIhavetowearoverChristmas,andallthewayintothenewyear,
itcheslikeabitch.It’salmostasbadashavingacaston.Plus,theyputitonmyinjured
leg,anditfeelslikeanotherscarhasbeenaddedtomylimb.Inasickway,though,I
guessthetorturouspunishmentisfitting.

“Youdorealizehowmuchtroubleyou’llbeinifyousetitoff,”Lokiwarnsforthe

millionthtimethismorning.He’sheadedtothestoreforafewhoursandishardcore
nervous about leaving me home alone. “You can’t mess up anymore. You heard the
judge.Therewon’tbeanotherchance.Nexttimeyou’llgetjailtime.”

“Yeah,Igotit.”Istirthebarelytouchedbowlofcerealinfrontofme.
Without any pills, alcohol, or Miller to distract me, the last few days have been

difficult. I’ve spent a lot of time confused and way too emotional, on the verge of
burstingintotearsatanygivenmoment.Ifeeloutofplaceinmyownshoes,likeI’m
walkinginsomeoneelse’slife,onlyit’smyownlife,thelifeIhavenow,andIhaveno
clue how to deal with living it. During the day, I feel sluggish, like I’m sinking into a
sinkhole. At night, I sleep restlessly, dreaming of dancing onstage, of my mom
backstageencouragingme.Mylegmoveselegantly,mytoecurvedattheperfectangle.
ButthenIwakeup,andallIfeelisthepain.

“Are you sure you get it?” Loki asks as he rinses off a pan. “Because sometimes I

havethefeelingthatyouseemlikeyouhearthings,butyoureallydon’t.”

Ipokeapieceofsoggycereal,watchingitbobupanddowninthemilk.“IsaidIwas

sorryyesterdayandthatIgetwhat’sgoingtohappentomeifIdon’tbehave.I’mnot
surewhatelseyouwantmetosay.”

He closes the dishwasher and presses the start button. “How about the truth for

once?That’sallIreallyeverwantfromyou.”

“Yousayitlikeit’ssoeasy,”Igrumble.
“Itusedtobeeasyforyou.”Hegathershiscarkeys,wallet,andamanilafolderfrom

thecounter.“Infact,youweresometimestoohonestforyourowngood.Likethatone
timewhenIaskedyouifIlookedgoodenoughformydatewithIzzyWaltersen,and
youtoldmeIlookedlikeaboybandwannabe.”

Thecornersofmymouthtwitch.“Youdidlooklikeaboybandwannabe.”
“Andyouknowwhat?EventhoughIwasprettypissedoffatyouformakingmefeel

likeadouchebag,IwasgladyoupointeditoutbeforeImadeanassofmyselfinfront
ofIzzy.”

Ipropmyelbowonthesmudgedcounterandrestmychinonmyfist.“Idon’tthink

Icareenoughtotellthetruthanymore.”ButIknowthatI’mlyingtohim,andmyself.

Yesterday,asIstoodinthecourtroom,listeningtothejudgereprimandmeformy

actions, I wanted to tell Loki everything. Explain to him why I’ve made so many
mistakes.ThatI’llworkonchanging.Butwithallthestresshealreadyhas,howcouldI
putthatonhim?HowcouldIchoosetomakehimfeelthesamewayIdoaboutour

mom?Soangryallthetime.Sobitter.Andsoguiltyforfeelingsoangryandbitter.

“Iknowyoudon’tmeanthat,andthatsomewheredeepdowninsideyou,youstill

care about your family and your life, even if you don’t want to admit it.” He digs
through a drawer full of paper clips, pencils, and markers until he finds a pen. “The
physicaltherapistwillbehereinaboutanhour.”HeholdsuphishandwhenIstartto
protest.“Iknowyoudon’twanttogetbetter,butthisisthefirststepinhelpingyoustop
drifting.Andyou’regoingtobesupergratefulforit.Noteveryonegetstheluxuryof
having a therapist do home visits. You’re lucky Easton’s an old friend of mine and is
doingusahugefavor.Zharaisgoingtokeepaneyeonyouandhasbeeninstructedto
call me if you so much as even step toward the edge of the property. I’ve also asked
Tammytophonemeifsheseesyoutryingtorun.Shemightstopbyandbringlunchto
youguys,too.”

Idropthespoonintothebowlandsitupstraight.“WhyareyoubringingTammy

intoourmess?”

“Ididn’tbringherintoourmess.SheofferedtohelpafterMissMonelysontoldher

aboutourlittlepredicament,whichsheheardfromMabeldownthestreet.”Heshakes
his head, annoyed. “God, I forget how fast gossip spreads around here. It makes me
misscollege...”hetrailsoff,releasingadeafeningbreath.Everytimehesomuchas
mentionscollegehegetsareallyheartbrokenlookonhisface.Icantellhemisseshis
oldlife,butherefusestoeversayitaloud.“But,yeah,I’llbebackaroundtwo.Stayout
of trouble until then.” He fans through a stack of papers in the folder, pulling out a
letter-sizeenvelope.

“Whatareallthosepapersfor?”
“Doesn’tmatter.They’renotimportant,exceptforthis.”Withuncertainty,heplaces

theenvelopeinfrontofme.

Onthefrontofit,mynameiswritteninmymother’shandwriting.
“Whatisthat?”Iaskinastrangledwhisper.
“It’sfromMomandDad...Therewasoneforeachofuswiththewill...”Heclears

his throat before continuing, “I was supposed to give it to you when you turned
eighteen,butconsideringhowthingshavebeengoinglately,Ithoughtitmightbetime
foryoutoreadit.Maybeitcouldhelpyoudealwithwhateveryou’regoingthrough.”

Ipanicandflicktheenvelopeawayfrommelikeit’smadeofpoison.“Idon’twant

toreadit.”

“That’s your choice,” he says with a disheartened shrug. “I’m just giving you the

option.”

“Whatelseisinthatfolderyou’recarrying?”Mygazebouncesbetweenhimandthe

envelope.

Theywrotemealetter?When?Why?
“JuststuffIneedtotakecareof.”Hewindsaroundthecounter,stridingtowardthe

back door. “I’ll be back around two. Stay out of trouble. Please.” He waits for me to
agree, and with reluctance, I nod. “Okay.” He seems thrown off by my willingness.
“Thanks,Anna,fornotputtingupafightthistime.”

“It’snotabigdeal.Ican’tgoanywhereorthepolicewillshowup,trackmedown,

andtakemetojail.”Iliftmylegandjigglemyanklethebraceletislockedaround.“I’m
officiallyaprisonerinmyownhome.”

“Iknowthat,butIstillneedtomakesurethatyouknowyouhavetobehave.The

policecan’tshowuphereforanyreason,understand?”

“Igotitthetenthtimeyousaidit.”Mygazezeroesinonthefolderinhisarms.“Are

thosepapersfromFamilyServices?”

“Youdon’tneedtoworryaboutthat.”Hisjawticks,ahabitofhiswhenhe’slying.“I

havetogoorI’mgoingtobelate.Callmeifyouneedanything.”Hewavesatmethen
boltsoutthedoor.

SilencesetsinasIstareattheenvelopeonthecounter.Finally,Igetbraveenough

topickitupandlifttheedgewithmyfingernail,butchickenoutandwrenchmyhand
away.

Ishouldjustripitup,butIcan’tseemtobringmyselftodoit.So,foldingitup,Ituck

itintomybackpocketandpadacrossthekitchen.Thehardwoodfloorfeelscoolonthe
soleofoneofmyfeetbuttheotherisnumb.Icampoutonthelumpysectionalinthe
livingroomandchannelsurfforsomethingtowatch.SinceChristmasisinlessthana
week,alltheshowsandcommercialscenterontheholidays.

Last year, our living room had been decked out with an oversized tree covered in

tinselandornaments,andpresentstuckedunderneathit.Awreathandstockingshad
hungoverthefireplace,andtwinklylightshadbeenwoundaroundthebanister.The
entire place had sparkled. Now, it looks dull and lifeless with the Charlie Brown tree
LokibroughthomeyesterdayandthehandfulofpresentsZharastuckunderit.

Myheadthrobsachinglyasmychestoverflowswithlongingtohavewhatusedto

be.Icravetogetoutofthehouse,runaway,drink,swallowpills,anythingotherthan
feelthisway.Iglareattheanklebracelet,hatingmyimprisonment,hatingthejudge
whogavemethepunishment,butworstoffall,hatingmyself.

Thisisallyourfault,sodealwithit.
IwatchTV,butdon’treallypayattention,gettinglostinmythoughts.Thingsareso

screwedup,andIrealizeallIcandoisdealwithitnow,spendmytimelockedupina
homeI’vebeenrunningawayfrom.

There’snoplacelefttorun.
TrappedAnnabella.
My phone buzzes, and I distractedly fish it out of my pocket. I come too close to

smilingwhenIreadthenameonthescreen.

Luca:So,I’mstaringatapictureofyourightnow.
Idroptheremoteontothecoffeetabletotextback.
Me:Whatrutalkingabout?
Luca:Ulookreallycuteinatutu.
Me:Whyruatthedancestudio?
Luca:NowwhywouldItelluthat?It’smorefunifuguess.
Me:Noway.Uclearlytextedmetotellmeyouwerethere,sonowuhavetofess

up.

Luca:Noway.ItextedubecauseIsawapictureofuhangingonthewall...U

lookcutewhenusmile.Ushoulddoitmoreoften.

Me:Nothanks.Ipreferfrowniefaces.
Luca:Why?Doessmilingnotgowithyouremorebellionthing?
IrollmyeyesasItype.

Me:Yep.How’duguess?
Luca:LikeIsaid,I’msuperperceptive;)
Afterthecandything,IthinkIbelievehim.
Me:Rureallynotgoingtotellmewhyurhangingoutaballetstudio?
Luca: Not over the phone. This gives me an excuse to come over and tell u in

person:)

Me:Ican’thangout.I’mgrounded,remember?
Luca: I’m coming over when my mom brings lunch, so technically it’s not

hangingout.

Me:Trustme,udon’twanttocomeover.It’ssuperboringhere.
Luca:It’sbetterthanspendinganotherdayinmybedroom,watchingre-runs.
Me:Ifusayso.
Luca: I do say so. I find u interesting . . . I’d say make sure to be there when I

comeover,butIdon’tthinkthat’sreallynecessarysinceucan’tleaveurhouse.

I’mnotsureifhe’sjoking,andIhavenocluewhattotextback.CluelessAnnabella,

anoldtraitofmine.

WhenIdon’treply,anothertextpingsthrough.
Luca: Ok, so I just reread my text and realized I might’ve sounded like an

asshole.IswearIwaskidding.ItoldyouIhaveatwistedsenseofhumor.

Idecidetomessaroundwithhim,blasthimwithadoseofhisownmedicine.
Me:I’mgladufindmymesseduplifesofunny.
Luca:I’msosorry,Anna.Seriously.Ididn’tmeanit.Letmemakeituptou.
Me:I’mnotsureucan.Thatwasreallyalowblow.
Luca: I know. I’m such an ass. C, this is why my mom says I have issues with

sayingtoomuch.

Me:She’sright.Ukindado.
Luca:Iknow.I’mworkingonit...So,douforgiveme?
Me:Onlyifudomeafavor.
Luca:Unameitandit’syours.
Me:Takedownthatpictureofmeandbringittome.
Luca:Isn’tthatstealing?
Me: Nah, not technically since it’s a picture of me. But u might not want to let

anyonecu.

Luca:Rusureit’sokay?IfeellikeI’mbeingwatched.
Ibitebackagiggleandslapmyhandovermymouthinshock.
Me:Yeah.Justgrabitandputitinyourpocket.Noonewillnotice.
Luca:Wow.Instructionsfromanexpertthief.Ifeelsolucky.
Luca:Dammit,Ididitagain,didn’tI?I’msuchanass.
Me:Yeah,butI’musedtoitbynow.
Iwaitforhimtoanswer,buthedoesn’t.
Me:Didyougetthepic?
Luca:Runningoutofthestudiorightnowwithitinmypocket.
Me:Walk.Don’trun.It’llmakeyoulookmoresuspicious.
Luca:Toolateforthat.
Irestrainanotherdamnlaugh.

Me:AndFYI,Iwasneverupsetbyanythingusaid.
Luca:Wow,Itotallygotschooled.Ifeellikeasucker.
Me:Sorry.ButIreallywantedthatpicdown.Itdoesn’tbelongthereanymore.
“Whoareyoutexting?”
MygazerisestoZharawho’sstandinginthedoorway.“Noone.”
She nervously fiddles with the bottom button of her cardigan. “You looked really

intoit.”

“It’sjustatext.”Itossthephoneontothecushionwhenitbuzzes,eventhoughmy

fingersitchtoreadthereplyLucasent.

“Okay,ifyousayso,”shesays,buthertoneisscrutinizing.
“Idosayso.”Butreally,IwassocaughtupintextingthatIforgotabouteverything

goingoninmylife.

Shesitsdownonthearmrestandcrossesherlegs.“Ijustcamedownheretocheck

onyou.Areyouokay?Doyouneedanything?”

“I’mcool,butthanks.”
Ihearamanonthetelevisionyammeringabouthisundyinglove,soIreachforthe

remotetochangethechannel.

“Howaboutsomethingtoeat?”sheasks.“Ithinktheremightbesomepizzainthe

fridgethatIcouldheatup.”

“I’mfine,Zhara.Stopworryingsomuch.”
She angles her head to the side, her cat eyes analyzing me from head to toe. “Are

yousure?BecauseIcancookyousomethingifyouwant.Justnameitandit’syours.”

“Youdon’tcook,though.”
“I used to not cook, but I took home ec last semester and I did really well. Plus,

Jessamine’sbeengivingmealotoftipsoverthephone.”

“Howoftendoyoutalktoher?”
Sheseemsshockedbymyquestion,andhonestly,sodoI.It’sbeenawhilesinceI’ve

showedanysignsofcaringaboutanyone.

“Everycoupleofdays.”Shegivesmeanencouragingsmile.“Youshouldcallher.I

knowshemissesyou.Plus,sheheardaboutwhathappenedandissuperworried.”

“Shedoesn’tneedtobe.”Isurfthroughthechannelsagain.“I’mperfectlyfine.”
“No,you’renot,”shewhispers,hereyeswide.
Itrainmygazeonthescreen,unblinking,andittakesallmystrengthnottocry.
Zhara springs to her feet, her face lit up like a firecracker. “You know what? I’m

going to go cook some chocolate chip fudge brownies for you.” She pats my foot. “I
knowthey’reyourfave,sojuststayput,andI’llletyouknowwhenthey’redone.”

“Thosearen’tmyfavoriteanymore—”Istart,butshe’salreadygone.
IconcentrateonthemovieuntilIgetawhiffoffreshlybakedbrowniesthenIgetup

andsneakoutsidetogetabreathoffreshair.

Istareattheroadasthewindblowsthroughmyhair.God,whatI’dgivetojusttake

offandrun.

“Plotting your escape?” Luca asks as I’m edging toward the front lawn. He trots

downthefrontstepsofhishouseandstrollsdownthesidewalktowardthefencethat
dividesourproperties.“Orareyoujustlivinguptoyourwanderingtendencies.”

Igathermyhairintoaponytailandsecureitwithanelasticfrommywrist.“Abitof

bothactually.”

Hestuffshishandsintothepocketsofhisjeans,assessingmewithhisheadtiltedto

theside.“Youknowthat’sastupididea,right?Thepolicewouldfindyouthemoment
yousteppedoutofrange.”

Icrossmyarmsovermychest.“Yousaythatlikeyou’reanexpert.”
Heshrugs.“I’mjustgivingyouawarning.Trustme,don’ttryit.”
“Haveyouhadananklebraceletbefore?”
Hegazesdazedlyoutatthestreet,hisjawsettight.“No,butIknowsomeonewho

has.”

“Yoursister?”Iwonder,thinkingaboutwhathesaidtheothernight.
Heswingshisgazetome,andIalmostfallbackfromtheintensityinhiseyes.“Can

youkeepasecret?”

Ipanic.No,nomoresecrets.
Butwhenhefrowns,lookingdeflated,Isputter,“Fine.Y-yeah.”
“Good,becauseIreallyneedtotalktosomeoneaboutthis.”Hegrabsontothefence

andleapsoveritwiththegraceofahighjumper.

There used to be something magical when someone trusted me with a secret.

AlthoughIwasneverahugefanofthem,Iwassogreatatkeepingthem.Iheardaton
ofwhisperedstoriesandwishesthatmyfriendsandfamilytoldmeovertheyears.But
thatwasthenandthisisnow,andthesecretI’mcarryingformymomishardenough
tolugaroundwithmeallthetime.

I open my mouth to retract my answer, but his eyes zone in on my leg, and I’m

remindedofanotherproblem.Feelingsuperlazythismorning,I’dthrownonapairof
cut-offs. I haven’t worn shorts since the accident. Right now, my scars are on full
display,tellingmystorywithoutmypermission.

Isplaymyfingersovermyscars,concealingthemthebestIcan.“Didyoubringmy

pic?”

“Yep.Isuredid.”Heretrievesthecrinkledphotofromhisbackpocket.“Justsoyou

know,itwaswaymorecomplicatedtostealitthanyousaid.”

“Hmm . . . really?” I ask, but I’m not surprised. My old dance instructor watched

anyonewhowanderedintoherstudiolikeahawk.

Henods,handingmethephoto.“Thedanceinstructorchasedmedownandalmost

mademegiveitback.ShethoughtIwasbeingacreeper,whenshewastheonewho
chasedmedowninballetshoesandtights,doingsomesortofweirdshufflingthing.”

Irubmyhandacrossmyfacetoeraseasmile.“That’dprobablybeachásse.”
“Well, whatever it was, she looked ridiculous and super creepy doing it down the

sidewalk.”

Myfingerswraparoundthephoto,curlingtheedges.“Sorrytobreakittoyou,but

the fact that you were hanging around a dance studio, with no intention of dancing,
makesyouacreeper,too.”

“Hey,Iwasthereforagoodreason.Iswear.”
“Okay.What’sthereasonthen,creeper?”
He chuckles at me then shakes his head before glancing from left to right then

lowersdowntothebottomstep.“It’spartofthesecret.”Hepatsthespotnexttohim
thenrestshishandsonhisknees.“Comesitwithmeforaminute.”

My heart pitter-patters as I keep my hand over my scars and plant my ass on the

step beside him. “Before you go spilling your guts, you should know that I suck at
keepingsecrets.”

Hisgazeglidestome,andheraisesabrow.“Forsomereason,Ihaveahardtime

believingthat.Youseemlikethekindofgirlwhoknowsawholelotmorethanshelets
on.”

Ieaseagainstthestepbehindme.“Believewhatyouwant,butit’sthetruth,sodon’t

sayIdidn’twarnyou.”

“Warning taken and dismissed.” He removes his glasses and cleans off the lenses

withthebottomofhisshirt.

“Why do you only wear glasses half the time I see you?” I ask, wanting to avoid

hearinghissecretforaslongaspossible.

“Because I’m only this awesome half the time,” he jokes, slipping his glasses back

on. I shake my head, stifling a smile, and he winks me. “I wear contacts when I’m
tryingtoimpresssomeone.”

“Soyou’renottryingtoimpressmenow?”Iaimforaboredtonebutfailepically.
“You don’t need to sound so sad about it.” He playfully nudges my shoulder then

tucksastrandofmyhairbehindmyear.

Themovementissocasual—socomfortable—thatmymuscleslockup.Hedidthe

samethingtomewhenIvomitedontheroad.IhavenodoubtLucaisaniceguy,and,
god,whatIwouldn’tgivetohavemethimsixmonthsago,whenIwasthenicegirlhe
deservestobewith.

“I’mnotsad,”Isay,whichcauseshisgrintoexpand.“Andifthat’stherealreason,

thenyoutriedtoimpressmethatnightyoupickedmeup.”

Heholdsuphishandsinfrontofhim,thegoofygrinstillonhisface.“Youcaught

me.Butthequestionis,diditwork?”

Ikindofprefertheglasses,butI’mnotabouttotellhimthat.
Hegivesmeaknowingsmile,likehecanreadmymind,andmyheartdoesanother

pitter-patter,onlyquicker—moreintense.Itfreakstheshitoutofme.

Iscrambletomyfeet.“Ineedtogetbackinside.”
He snags the bottom of my t-shirt and pulls me back down. “Wait, I haven’t even

toldyoumysecret.”

“You’restillstuckonthat?”
“Ofcourse.Iwon’tbeunstuckuntilIgetitout.”
Iexhaleexasperatedly.“Fine.Spillit.Tellmeallyoursecrets,LucaBenton.”
“Wow,Igotafreebiesecretpass.Ifeelsospecial.”
“Youshouldbe.Ineverhandthemout.”
He skims over the two-story homes and grassy lawns around us before leaning in

towardme.“Ineedyoutopinkieswearthatyouwon’ttellasoul.”

“Didn’twealreadygooverhowbadofasecretkeeperIam?”
“Iknow.That’swhyI’mgettingcollateral.”
“By getting me to pinkie swear?” I question with cynicism. “You do get that there

aren’tanyrealconsequencesifyoubreakthepromise.”

Hepresseshishandtohisheart,amusementplayingathisthecornersofhislips.

“Pinkie swears are like the most unbreakable vow ever, Anna. Seriously. Never, ever

question the bond between two people and their pinkie promises.” He sticks out his
handwithhispinkiehitchedandwaitswiththemostseriouslookonhisface.

Irollmyeyesathisabsurdity,buthookmypinkiewithhis.“Fine.IpinkieswearI

won’ttellanyoneyoursilly,littlesecret.”

“It’snotasillysecret.”hesays,aghast.“Takethatback.”
Igiveanexaggeratedsigh.“Fine,tellmeyourdull,normalsizedsecret.”
Hesmiles,buthislipsfalterwhenheglancesatmythigh,completelyexposedagain.

Ipullawaytocoverthescars,buthispinkytightensaroundmine.Iawkwardlycross
myleftarmovermyrightandplacemyfreehandovermythigh.

“It’saboutmysister,”hesaysinallseriousness.“Andmymomanddad.Iguessit

includesme,too,ifyoureallywanttogettechnical.”Hisentiremoodhasplummeted
inthesnapofafinger.“Iwasatthedancestudiowithmymomtodaybecauseshewas
lookingintoclassesformyniecesinceshe’scomingtolivewithusinaboutaweek.”

That secret doesn’t seem too bad. Although it does hurt thinking about how lucky

hisnieceisthatshegetstodance,learntoliveandbreathemusic.

Iclearmythroatassadnesssweepsoverme.“Isyoursistercoming,too?”
He shakes his head. “That’s where things get really complicated. My mom’s still

being really persistent that no one knows Rowan exists . . . Rowan’s my older sister.
Shehas...someproblems.”

Westillhaveourpinkieslatched,soIpullawayagain,buthisfingersclampdown

onmineashelowersourhandstohisleg,trappingthemthere.

“Sinceshewasaboutsixteen,she’sstruggledwithdrugaddiction.”Hescratcheshis

forehead.“Bria—herdaughter—usedtolivewithus,butthenRowangotpissedatmy
momonedayandtookoffwithher.Myparentssearchedeverywhereforherforover
a year. It was crazy. They even filed a police report and everything.” He cracks his
knucklesagainsthisleg.“Rowan’snotagoodmom,soIgetwhymyparentswereso
deadsetonfindingher,butIfeltlikeIwasinvisiblehalfthetime.”

“I feel that way sometimes, too,” I say without thinking, and he offers me an

empatheticlook.“Don’tfeelsorryforme.Ibringthefeelingonmyself.”

Hesqueezesmyhand.“Still,youshouldneverfeelthatway.”
“So, why’d you guys really move here, then?” I put the focus back on him, not

wantingtofixateonme.

“That part was actually true—we really did need a change . . . Our lives got too

caughtupinRowan.EventhoughIlovedL.A.,Iwaskindofexcitedtogetthehellaway
from that house where all the shit went down. But then, about a week ago, Rowan
called, crying to my dad that she couldn’t handle being a mom anymore and that he
neededtocomegetBria,butinRowanstyle,there’sastipulationbeforeshehandsover
Bria.”Hesucksinabreath,andIwonderifhe’sonthevergeofcrying.“Shecallsevery
freakin’night,tryingtoblackmailmymomanddadintogivinghermoneybeforethey
canhaveBria.”Heshakeshishead,grindinghisteeth.“Weallknowsheonlywantsthe
moneytobuydrugs.”

“IthinkI’veheardyourdadtalkingtoheratnight,”Itellhim,becauseIcan’tthink

ofanythingelsetosay.

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows hard. “Yeah, he talks to her

outside because he doesn’t want to upset my mom . . . She’s not the best person at

handlingthehardstuff.Shehasthisrealissuewithbeingoverlyniceandcheerfulall
thetime.”

“Thatdoesn’tsoundsobad.”Mypulsethudsmadlywhenhestrokesthebackofmy

handwithhisthumb,andbutterfliesflutterinsidemystomach.It’stheexactopposite
ofhowIfeltwithMiller.IhatethatLucamakesmefeelthisway.Loathehimforit.But
mostofall,Idespisemyselfforwantinghimtodoitagain.

“It doesn’t sound bad, but it is. Imagine never getting angry over anything and

holding it all in.” He stares down at our hands as he caresses the back of my hand
again.“Eventually,you’regoingtoexplode.”

Ishiverfromhistouch,fromhiswords.Isthatwhat’sgoingtohappentome?“Has

sheeverdonethatbefore?Imean,explodedbecausesheheldtoomuchin?”

“Yeah,acoupleoftimes,andit’sreallystartedtotakeatollonher.Plus,whenshe’s

inoneofhercrazynicemodes,shealmostbecomestoohelpfulandturnsintoRowan’s
crutch.”Hefinallyfreesmyhand,andIbreatheinahugegulpofairasthebutterflies
settledown.“CanyoubelievethatsheactuallywantsustotelleveryonethatBria’sher
daughter?It’sfuckingnuts.”

“So,they’regivingRowanthemoney?”
“It’snotreallyachoice.Crutchornot,thisisn’taboutRowan.It’saboutBria...”He

shudders.“Godknowswhatshe’sgonethroughoverthelastyear.”

“Luca,Igetwhythey’relettingBrialivewiththem,butwon’titseemreallyweird

foryoutosuddenlyhavealittlesisterwhenyourmom’sbeentellingeveryoneyou’re
anonlychild?”

“That’sprettymuchwhatmydadandItoldher.”Hepicksupapebbleandchucksit

across the grass. “But, like I said, my mom’s sanity is really questionable sometimes.
ShehatespeopleknowingaboutRowan.Shesaysit’sbecauseshedoesn’twantanyone
toknowaboutourproblems,butIthinkshereallydoesitbecauseitmakesiteasierfor
hertoignoretheproblems.”

Itracemybumpyscars.“Icankindofseewhereshe’scomingfrom.”
“Youdon’treallymeanthat.”Headjustsbackonhiselbows,hisgazefollowingthe

movementofmyfingers.“Whenpeopleactlikethat,thepeoplearoundthemsuffer.
Mydad,evenme,hassufferedfromthecrazychoicesshe’salwaysmaking.Itmakesit
hardtobehappysometimes.”

Hiswordsstrikemehard.Iknowthat’swhatI’mdoingtomyfamily.Makingthem

suffer because I won’t deal with my problems; instead, I get arrested, refuse to go to
physicaltherapy,andrunawayfrommyfeelings.Buthearingwhatit’slikefromthe
other side of the fence, makes me realize just how bad it’s probably been for my
brothersandsisters.Ithoughttheyweren’thappybecauseourparentsdied,butmaybe
I’mthecausebehindsomeoftheirmisery.

Ishakemyheadthenshrug,notsurewhattosay,whatIbelieveanymore.“Luca,

I’msorryyou’relife’sbeenhard,butIneedtoknow...whyareyoutellingmethis?It
doesn’tmakeanysense.Youdon’tknowmeverywell,andit’snotlikeI’vebeenvery
nicetoyou.”

“You’vebeenalotnicerthanmostofthepeoplearoundhere.”
“Ifthat’sthetruth,it’ssad.”
“Sadornot,it’sthetruth,”hesays.“Theydon’tseemtoowelcomingtonewpeople.”

“They just need time to warm up,” I explain. “That’s just how people are around

here.”

“Okay,butstill.IfeellikeIkindofoweyouasecretafterwhatyoutoldmetheother

night.”

Myeyeswiden.“Oh,mygod.What’dItellyou?”
“Youcan’tremember,huh?Interesting.”Heseemswaytoopleasedaboutit.
I sort through my memories of the other night. “I remember a lot of things, like

wanderingaround,pukinginfrontofyou.”Iwince,mycheeksheatingatthememory.

“That definitely wasn’t one of your finer moments,” he says. “But I did enjoy

hearingyoutellmehowgoodIsmelledwhenIwashelpingyouintothecar.”

“Ididnotsaythat.”
“Yeah,youkindofdid.Youevensniffedmychest.”
Ilowermyheadintomyhands.“Isweartogod,Ican’trememberdoingthat.”
“Don’tworry,itwaskindofcute,”hepromisesme.“Youlookedtotallyoutofit,too,

soImostlyshruggeditoff.Idowonderifyoumeantit,though.”

Itipmyheadtothesideandpeerathimbetweenmyfingers.“Wonderwhat?Ifyou

smellgood.”

Henods,restinghisarmsonhislegs.“It’snoteverydayIgetacomplimentlikethat

fromanextremelybeautifulgirl,justtorealizesheprobablydoesn’tevenknowwhat
she’ssaying.”

I make a gagging face. “Luca, do you want me to smell you and see if you smell

good?”

Hebobshisheadupanddownthenleanstowardme.Asmileplaysathislips,andI

know he’s messing around with me. Still, I lean in toward him, so close his shirt
brushesagainstmycheek.Milleralwayssmelledlikecigarettesandbooze,whichIwas
neverafanof.Lucasmellsamazing,likecologneandsoapandearth.

Sneakinganothersniff,Ileanback.“Yousmellokay.”
Hefrowns.“Justokay?Seriously?Well,thatsucks.”
Irollmytongueinmymouth.“Fine,youwinthisone.Yousmellgreat.Waybetter

thananyotherguyI’veeversmelled.”

“Doyoudothatalot?”heteases.“Goaroundsmellingguys?”
“SometimeswhenIgetreallybored,”Iretort.
He grins. “Well, thanks for the compliment. And I’m going to do you a favor in

returnandletyouknowthatthatwasn’ttheonlythingyoutoldmethatnight.”

“Crap,really?”
“Unfortunately,yes.”
Thequietnessthatfollowsismaddening.
Iclaspmyhandsinfrontofme.“Fortheloveofgod,wouldyoupleasejusttellme

whatIsaid,orit’sgoingtodrivemecrazy.”

“Goingtodriveyoucrazy?”
Ilightlyshovehisshoulder.“That’snotfunny.”
He laughs. “I’m not trying to be funny. Some of the stuff I’ve seen you do makes

youcomeoffalittle...”Herotateshisfingerinacircleatthesideofhishead,making
acuckoomotion.

Isuppressalaugh.“AreyougoingtotellmewhatIsaidornot?”

His hand falls to his lap with his forearm up. He’s wearing a short sleeve black t-

shirt,andIcanseehistattooclearlyinthedaylight.Hesaiditmeansstrength,butwhat
doesheneedstrengthfor?Thestuffgoingonwithhissister?

“Youtoldmeaboutthrowingtherockattheshopowner’swindow,”Lucareveals,

observingmyreaction.

Animageofmesittinginhiscar,babblinggodonlyknowswhattohim,appearsin

theforefrontofmymind.“Ikindofremember...Vaguely,anyway.”ButIworryjust
howmuchItoldhim.Whatifitwaseverything?

“Youwerealittleoutofit.Youneversaidwhyyoudidit,though.Onlythatthestore

ownerwasanasshole.”

Avoidinghisgaze,Istareatthebackofmyhands,flexingmyfingers,evadingthe

questioninhiseyes.“YounevertoldmehowyouguessedwhichcandiesIwanted.”

“That’s a secret for another day,” he says, sounding a tad disappointed that I’m

shuttingdown.

“But you will tell me one day, right?” I glance up at him. “Because it’ll drive me

crazyifyoudon’t.”

His lips pull to an adorable half grin. “I thought we already decided you were

already crazy.” I playfully shove him again, and he laughs softly, fiddling with his
leatherwristband.“CanIaskyousomething?”

Thechangeinhistonesendswarningflagspoppingup.Whenhisattentiontravels

tomythigh,mybodygoesasrigidasaboard.

Pleasedon’taskmeaboutmyscars.Pleasedon’task.Please.
“Whypurple?”
“Whypurple...huh?”
Hecoilsastrandofmyhairaroundhisfinger,andIstudythewayhelooksatme,

totallymesmerizedbyhowfascinatedheseemstobewithmyhair.“Isityourfavorite
color?BecauseI’vereallybeenwondering,whypurple?Imean,whynotblueorpink
orgreen?”

“Becausepurple’sawesome,”Ijoke,thenshrug.“Butifyoureallywanttoknow,it

wasthefirstboxofhairdyeIpickedupwhenIdecidedtostealone.”

Heunravelsmyhairfromhisfingerandpointsatmeaccusingly.“Youreallyarea

littlethief.”

Iholdupthecrinkledphoto.“Soareyou.”
“Iguesswe’reperfectforeachother,then.”
“Do you come up with those cheesy lines all on your own? Or steal them from

movies?”

“Thoseareonehundredpercentoriginalcheesylines,”hequips.“Anddon’tpretend

likeyoudon’tlikethem.Icantotallytellthatyoudo.”

ThereallysadpartissometimesIdo.“Don’tflatteryourself.”
“Idon’thaveto.YoudoitformeeverytimeyousmileatsomethingIsay.”
Istareathim,unimpressed.
He chuckles amusedly. “You know, I knew the first time I saw you that you were

going to be hard to impress, but I didn’t expect it to be this tough. Seriously, it’s a
workouttryingtogetyoutosmile.”

“Maybeyoushouldgiveup,then,”Isuggest.“It’dbeeasier.”

“Becauseit’sfunwatchingyoutrytostaypissedatme.”Hetoucheshisthumbtothe

corner of my lips, and my breath hitches in my throat. “Your mouth gets all twitchy
whenyou’retryingsohardnottosmile.”

Anervousexhalepuffsfrommylips,andIcringe,knowinghehadtohaveheardit.

“Luca,It-thinkweshouldtakeiteasy...”Istutterovermywords,justlikeIdidwhenI
invitedBentomybirthdayparty.

But I can’t breathe, think, do anything as Luca’s gaze lingers on my mouth. “I’m

reallyconfusedrightnowandI…”AndIwhat?Ihavenoidea.

“We can do that, if that’s what you want,” he says, but then contradicts himself

whenhestartstoleanin.

Igulpasmystomachsomersaults.Holyhell,myheartisracingsorapidlyIswear

it’sgoingtoleapoutofmychest.Idon’tknowwhattodowithhowI’mfeeling.Don’t
knowifIhateit.Likeit.What.

I’mthemostconfusedgirlintheworld.
LostAnnabella.
Rightbeforeourlipsconnect,Iunexpectedlyletoutacough,shatteringthemoment

intopieces.

Feelingstupidandconfused,Imutter,“Sorry.”
“It’sokay.”Lucaturnsaway,scratchingathistattoo.
Whyisthissohard?ItwasalwayssoeasywithMiller.
AnunevenbreatheasesfrommylipsasIrealizewhythatis.WithMiller,itnever

meantanything.WithLuca,itmeanssomethingbecauseIliketheideaofkissinghim.
Likesilly,dreamy,girlycrushkindoflike.

But what would happen if I did it? Would I get the same numbness I did when I

kissedMiller?Idon’tthinkso,sincetheideaofakisswithfeelingmakesmypulserace,
in a good/bad kind of way because I fear feeling too much, yet it feels so nice at the
sametime—sofullofpossibilities.

GoosebumpssproutacrossmyarmsasIrecollectmybirthday,theexcitementand

hope of experiencing my first kiss with Ben. I wanted it to be perfect but then
everythingchanged,andthatperfectfirstkissendedupbeingjustakisswithMillera
couple of weeks later. Another dream gone that I’ll never get back. Unlike my leg,
though,Ichosetogiveupmyfirstkissdream.

“CanIaskyousomething?”Lucaasks,breakingthesilence.
No,nomorequestions.Ican’thandleanymore.
Istarttoshakemyhead,butthankfully,asilverHondarollsupintomydriveway

andsavesmethetroubleofbeingabitch.

Easton,myphysicaltherapist,getsoutofthecar,grinningatme.“Aw,youwaited

forme.Howsweetofyou,Anna.”

EastonisthesameageasLokiandlikestowearalotoftrackpantsandt-shirts,at

least when he’s working. He has what Luca would probably call a “twisted” sense of
humorinthesolefactthathisjokesseemtocenteraroundmakingmeuncomfortable.
Loki knows Easton from high school and chose Easton as my therapist knowing he
won’tputupwithmybullshit.Personally,hedrivesmeinsane.

WhenIpushtomyfeet,mylegsfeellikeJell-O,andIhaveanirritatingsuspicion

thathastodowithLucaandouralmostkiss.“Don’tflatteryourself.Iwasn’twaitingfor

you.Iwastryingtothinkofawaytoescapeyou.”

“Kindofhardtodowhenyoucan’tgoanywhere,”hejokes,poppingthetrunk.
LucaglancesbackandforthbetweenEastonandme,thenhisbrowsfurrow.Iknow

he’s wondering who Easton is, but I don’t want him getting involved in this—he’s
alreadybeeninvolvedintoomanythings.

“I’llmeetyouinside,”ItellEaston,thenturnforthefrontdoor.
“Aren’tyougoingtointroducemetoyourfriend?”hecalls,humorlacinghistone.
I reel around too quickly, my knee buckles, and I grasp onto the railing tighter to

keepfromfalling.

“I’m her neighbor,” Luca introduces himself. “Luca Benton. We were just . . .

hangingout.”Hesneaksapeekatme,andhiseyessparklemischievously.

“I’mEaston.IhelpwithAnna’sphysicaltherapy.Well,whensheshowsupforour

appointments,anyway.”Headjuststhestrapofhisduffelbagoverhisshoulder.“You
wouldn’twanttohangaroundandhelpme,wouldyou?Annagetskindoffeisty,andI
couldusesomeonetoguardthedoorandtackleherincaseshedecidestotryandbolt.”
He shoots me a grin, and I retaliate with a glare. “She has a knack for doing that
sometimes.”

“Yeah,I’venoticedshe’skindofawanderer.”Lucashootsmeanimpishgrin.
“Oh,mygod.I’minsarcasmhell.”Iopenthescreendoor.“I’llbeinside.Whenyou

twofinishwithyourAnnajokes,feelfreetojoinme.”

ThescreendoorbangsshutbehindmeasIstepinside.Thesmellofbrowniesand

chocolateengulfsmethemomentIreachthelivingroom,andpotentmemoriesswirl
around me. My gaze drops to the flakes of glitter still stuck in the cracks of the
hardwoodfloor,rightthereforeveryonetosee,yetnooneseemstonotice.

“Oh,mygod,yousohavetotrythese.”Zharaskipsuptomewithabrownieinher

hand.Shehasflourinherhair,chocolateonhershirt,andahugesmileonherface.
“They’resogood.”

My mouth salivates at the gooey dessert, but I shake my head, knowing I can’t

handleanymorememoriesfortheday.“I’mnotreallythathungry.”

Herexpressionsinks.“Oh,okay.”Sheturnsaway,lookingassadasakickedpuppy.
Justlethergo.She’llgetoverit.
Theglitterstillstuckinthecracksofthefloorboardssparkleundermyfeet.
“It’sabirthdaymiracle.”Gigglesfloataroundme,andIlaugh.
Everyoneusedtobesohappy...
“Ifyou’regoingtosulkaboutit,thengivemethedamnbrownie,”Isay,stickingout

myhand.

Shespinsaround,perkingupasshehandsmethedessert.“You’regoingtoloveit.It

tastesjustlikeMom’s.”

Mom’sbrownieswerefulloflies,bakedwithsecrets,cookedbyawomanwhodidn’t

reallyexist.

I lift the brownie to my mouth and take a bite. They’re not great, but they're

definitelyedible.

“They’regood,right?”sheasks,eagerlywaitingformyanswer.
Itakeanotherbitejusttomakeherhappy.“They’regreat.Youdidagoodjob.”
Amassivesmilelightsupherface.“Youknow,that’sthefirstnicethingyou’vesaid

tomeinmonths.”

Ilickadropofchocolatefrommybottomlip,unabletoshakeoffthetruthofher

wordsanymore.IknowhowmeanI’vebeentoherlately,butwithallthecrapIwas
ingesting, I didn’t feel enough to care. Now, standing here, fully aware of everything
I’ve done, I hate myself. I think of Luca and his mom, who runs away from her
problems,andhowsadhelookedwhenhetoldme.

“I think I just heard a timer go off.” I struggle to keep it together. I want to cry. I

wanttoscream.Iwanttoapologizeforeverything.“Didyoucooktwobatches?”

“Crap.”Shesmacksherforehead,leavingachocolatehandprint,beforesherushes

offtothekitchen.“Iforgotaboutthem.”

I nibble on the brownie while sorting through my ever-growing guilt. It’s not just

aboutmydadanymore.It’saboutZharaandLoki—myentirefamily—andthehellI’ve
put them through. My head feels like it’s going to combust as I think of one bad
decisionafteranotherthatI’vemadeoverthelastseveralmonths.

I’mthemosthorriblepersonintheworld.
Thankfully, the screen door creaks open and offers me a distraction from myself

beforeIendupbawlingonthefloor.

EastonandLucastepinsidethehouse,chattingaboutsomething.
“I so want to try when I turn eighteen,” Luca says, looking giddy. “I probably

would’vedoneitalready,butmymom’sgotthisthingaboutdoingriskyshit.”

“TheygiveclassesdownatHoneytonSportShopthatarecompletelysafe,”Easton

tellshim.“Youshouldcheckitout.It’sastart,andit’sgoodpracticefortherealthing.”

“Thanks.I’mgoingtodothat,”Lucatellshim,andthentheydothisknucklebump,

weird,guy-onlyhandshakething.

“Whatareyoutwogettingallgigglyabout?”Ipreparetogetthembackforallthe

teasingthey’vedonetome.

“Easton was telling me about his rock climbing adventures,” Luca explains to me,

readjustinghisglassesintoplace.“WhichissocoolbecauseI’vealwayswantedtotry
it.”

“Youmeanlikeyou’vealwayswantedtoexplorethetownandhaveadventures,”I

saysinisterlyasIlickadropofchocolateoffmyfinger.

His eyes turn to slits, but his lips curve upward. “I never said that. You’re

rememberingwrong.”

“That’snotwhatyourmomsaid.”Istuffhalfthebrownieintomymouthandsmirk

athim.

“Gladtoseeyoufoundyoursenseofhumoragain.”Eastonpatsmeontheshoulder

as he whisks by me and into the living room. He drops his bag onto the floor then
placeshishandsonhiships.“Now,where’sanofficechairIcanuse?”

“Upstairsinthefamilyroom.”There’sactuallyoneinthekitchencloset,butIwant

toprocrastinateforaslongasIcan.

“I’llberightback.”Eastonjogsupthestairs,callingoverhisshoulder,“Youbetterbe

readyforsomepain.”

The moment he’s out of earshot, I zero my gaze in on Luca. “You have to leave.”

Whenhedoesn’tbudge,Iadd,“Pleaseleave.Youcan’tbehereforthis.”

Hejutsouthislip,pouting.“EastonsaidIcouldstay.”

“Idon’tcarewhatEastonsaid.”Ishoohimtowardthedoor.“Idon’twantyouhere

for...”Irubmyinjuredleg,feelingsoself-consciousIwanttohide.“Noonegetstosee
melikethis.”

“Okay,I’llleavebutI’mcomingbackwhenyourtherapy’sover.I’mnotgoingtogo

backtosittinginmyhousealoneagain.”Histongueslipsoutofhismouthtowethis
lips.It’snotanintentionalmoveoranything,butitremindsmeofthealmostkissand
makesmystomachdoallsortsofcrazythings.

“Youcan’tcomeoverlater...I’mdoingstuff.”
“ThenI’llhelpwiththestuff.”
“Whatifit’ssupergirlystuff?”
Heglancesatmewithskepticism.“Yeah,Idoubtthat.Youdon’tseemlikethegirly

type.”

“Iusedtobe,”Isaysoftly,thencoughintomyhand,givingmyselfamomenttopull

ittogether.“Look,I’mjustnotsureifit’sagreatideaforustohangout.”

“GoodthingforusIknowit’sagreatideaifwedo.”Hestealsthehalf-eatenbrownie

frommyhand.“Seeyouinabit,Anna.”

“Don’tyoudareeatmybrownie,”Iwarn,lungingforhim.
Hewinksatmethenstuffsthebrownieintohismouth,wolfingitdowninonebite.

“Mmm.Thatwasyummy.”Hegrinsarrogantlybeforesaunteringoutthedoor.

Mychinprettymuchsmacksthefloorasthebutterfliesinmystomachcometolife

again. I never felt them with Miller, but I felt them with Ben and countless other
crushesIhadbefore...

Myparentsdied.
MyfingersfumbleasIretrievetheenvelopefrommypocket.
WhenIwastwelveandhadmyfirstcrush,Iaskedmymomaboutthebutterflies.
“IfeelthemeverytimeIseehim,”Itoldherinagigglytone.
Shewassittingbehindme,leaningagainsttheheadboard,braidingmyhair.“Ifelt

thatwaywithyourdad,too.”

“Really?”Ipeeredovermyshoulderather,andshenodded.“Washetheonlyguy

thatevermadeyoufeelthatway?”

Herfingersstoppedmovingthroughmyhair.“Ofcourse.”
Lookingback,Inowknowshecouldhavebeenlying.Maybetheguyattheantique

storemadeherfeelthesameway.Perhapsthereweremoreguys.Moresecrets.More
thanIcouldever,orwillever,understand.

Shovingtheenvelopebackintomypocket,Isniffbackthetears,wishingshewere

here with me so I could just ask her. I could even talk to her about how I’m feeling
now.Ayearago,shewould’vetakenmeintomybedroomandtoldmetopourmysoul
out.Eventually,Iwould’vetoldhereverythingaboutthewayIfeltbecauseItrusted
her.

Iglancearoundatthebanisternickedwithmemories,theglitterstuckinthecracks,

andthegougesinthefloorboards,mainlyfrommedancingaroundintapshoeswhenI
wasyounger.

Islidethephotooutofmypocket.Itwastakenaboutayearago,rightbeforeIwas

about to go on stage. I was decked out in a swan costume, covered in feathers,
sequence, and tulle. Standing in fifth position, my posture was perfectly straight, my

legsstrong,unscarred.

Butthatgirldoesn’texistanymore.
Icrumpleupthephotoandchuckitinthetrash.
Allthat’sleftofmylifenowisascarredlegandanemptyhouse.

Chapter13

I t seems like it takes forever for Christmas Eve to arrive. I spend most of the day
watching horror movies and munching on the snowman sugar cookies Tammy
broughtover,tryingmybesttocurbtheneedforpillsandalcoholwithsugar.Shehad
set aside one that was covered in purple Skittles, and for some reason, that cookie
endeduptastingthebest.

The house is empty and extremely quiet today. My family went out to visit my

parents’ graves and decorate the headstones with wreaths Zhara made. It’s really
botheringmethatIcouldn’tgowiththem.Iusuallydon’tcare,buttoday,it’sgotme
throwingmyselfapityparty.ImissthenumbnessfromthepillsIusedtopopandthe
nightsofgettingdrunkandforgetting.Thosenightsusedtobesouncomplicated.Butit
wasthosenightsthatgotmetrappedinmyownhome.

IgrowdesperateenoughthatIransackthehouseforalcoholandpills,butLokidid

toogoodofajobclearingouteverything.Weirdly,I’mrelievedwhenIcomeupempty
handed.Asnumbingasitwastobeoutofitallthetime,nowthatI’mnotanymore,I
realizeitgetsexhaustingtryingtostayhightoescape.Alltheemotions,pain,thepast,
thefutureIwasrunningawayfrom,stillexistedundertheseaofpainkillersandbooze.

Ireturntothesofa,butthesecondmybutthitsthecushion,thequietunsettlesme

again.IcontemplatetextingMillerandaskinghimtocomeovertodistractmelikehe
usedtodo.

I haven’t spoken to him since the cabin incident, but from the rumors Alexis told

me,hehasn’tgonetojailyet,butthere’sagoodchancehewill.Idon’tfeelbadthathe
might; after everything that happened, he kind of deserves whatever punishment is
headedhisway.

JustlikeIdeservemypunishment.
Growingwaytooemotionalagain,Iopenanewtextmessage.
Me:Hey,I’vebeenthinkingaboutwhathappened,andIjustwantedtosaythat
SaythatIwhat?Stillfeelsuperpissedthatheforcedmedownonthebedandleft

bruisesonmyarm.ThatIwanttovomiteverytimeIthinkaboutit.ThatI’mgladhe
gotarrestedbecausehedeservesit—deservesmore.

“WhatamIdoing?”Ihammermyfingerrepeatedlyagainstthedeletebuttonand

switchtoadifferentmessagefeed.

Me:Sawuleavethehousethismorning.FYI,ulooksuperdorkyinaSantahat.
Luca:Yeah,right.IfIlookeddorky,thenuwouldn’tbelooking.
Me:HowcouldInotlook?Ulookedridiculous.
Luca:Keeptellingyourselfthat.Webothknowthat’snottrue.Usecretlyliked

it.Justlikeusecretlylikeme.

A smile tickles my lips. I haven’t seen much of Luca since the day he told me the

secretabouthissister,eventhoughhedidsayhewasgoingtocomeover.Buthenever
showedup.Ithoughtsometimeawayfromhimwouldmaketheridiculousgrinning

andbutterfliesvanish,butclearlythatisn’tthecase.

Isetthephonedownonthecoffeetableandtuckmyhandsundermylegs.“Don’t

text him anymore.” The phone buzzes. “Don’t pick it up.” It vibrates again, and
growlingatmyself,Iscoopupthephone.

Luca:Uwanttoseesomethingreallycrazy?
Luca:Checkthisout.
Attached to the message is a picture of his mom decked out in a red sweater with

bellssewnonit.Onthetopofherheadisagreenelfhatthat’sembellishedwithpointy
ears.Hercheeksarepaintedpink,andshe’sgrinningasshehugsamandressedupas
Santa.

Luca: And that man she’s hugging is my dad. This is how I’ve spent the entire

morning—hangingoutatmydad’sstorewiththesetwoweirdoes.

The two of them look silly, and the photo should make me laugh, but for some

reason,awaveofsadnesswashesoverme.Myparentsusedtodogoofystufflikethat
aroundtheholidays,butnowthatIthinkaboutit,itwasmoremydadthanmymom
whoencouragedit.

Me:Theylookreallyhappy.Urlucky.
Luca:Anna,Ididn’tmeantomakeusad.I’msosorry.
Me:I’mnotsad.Ipromise.
Luca:Don’tlietome.Perceptive.Remember?Nowtellmewhat’swrong.
Iforcedownthelumpwedgedinmythroat.Hewantsmetotellhimwhat’swrong?

Is it that simple? To just type it? Say it? Just throw out the secret I’ve been carrying
aroundforsevenmonthsnow?

Me:Ihavetogo.Eastonjustpulledup.
I toss the phone onto the table, flop back on the sofa, and focus on the woman

runningforherlifeacrossthetelevisionscreen.Butmyattentionkeepsdriftingtothe
sad looking, undecorated tree in the corner. It makes the room feel cold and empty,
still,likeagraveyard.Ifmydadwerehere,he’dbesosadthatthisiswhatweturned
Christmasinto.

ThelasttimeIsawmydadflashesthroughmymind,andwithouteventhinking,I

stride to the garage to get a box of Christmas stuff. I tell myself just one box of
ornaments. For him. But then I come across the matching stockings my dad bought
everyoneacoupleofyearsago—purpleforthegirlsandgreenfortheguys—andend
upgrabbingthose,too.

Ireturntothelivingroomanddroptheboxesontothefloor.ThenIdustthedirtoff

myhandsandcrankuptheiPodthat’sonmantle.“6Months”byHeyMonday,asong
Alexislistenstosometimes,blaresthroughthespeakers.

IopenthefirstboxanddustpuffsoutalongwithacloudofmemoriessostrongI

almostbackout.ButIpushthroughthepainforhim,becauseit’stheonlythingIcan
do.There’snogoingbackintime,norewindinganddoingthingsdifferently.Ican’tgo
backandtellhim.Can’terasemylovefordancing.Can’trunfromthepainandangerI
feeloverthelossofmyparents.WhetherIcanrunornot,thepasthappened.Allofit.
Thegooddaysandthestormyones.

By the time I’m finished, the tree branches are drooping down with the weight of

way too many ornaments, and the stockings hang crookedly above the fireplace. It’s

notperfect,butitmakesthelivingroomlesscoldandempty.

Wiping away a few tears that managed to escape my eyes, I settle in the sofa and

continue watching my movies until Easton shows up for my third session this week.
ThemomentIhearhimknockonthedoor,thepaininmylegamplifies,asifitknows
realityhasfinallyarrived.ButsinceIcan’tescapefromit,Ihavenochoicebuttoopen
thedoorandfacetheinevitable.

***

“I don’twanttodothisanymore,”IcomplaintoEastonashemakesmecontinuously
pushthechairaroundthecouch.Icanonlyusemyinjuredlegbecause,accordingto
Easton,Irelytoomuchonmygoodleg.“Mylegfeelslikeit’sgoingtofalloff.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to feel,” Easton says, eyeing the gory movie on the

television.“Doyoureallywatchthisstuffallthetime?”

“What can I say? I have a morbidly twisted fascination with fear.” I groan as the

chaircrashesintothecornerofthesofa.“Thissucks.Myleghurtssobadly.”

“Noonesaidphysicaltherapywassupposedtobefun.”
“Um, yeah, you did. At our first appointment, you said, ‘I promise you’re going to

havefun,Anna,’”Ideepenmyvoice,mimickinghis,whilemakingairquotes.

“Isaidthattobringpositivitytotheatmosphere,butsinceitdidn’tworkonyou,I’m

tryingamorebluntapproach,”hereplies,pattingmeonthehead.

Mylipcurls.“I’mnotadog.”
“Youkindofare,though,withhowmuchgrowlingyoudo.”Hegrinsatme.“Kindof

likeafeistylittleChihuahua.”

I don’t give him the benefit of a growl. “Can I do something else now? All the

spinningincirclesismakingmedizzy.”

“Iwassohopingyou’daskthat.”Bendingover,herummagesaroundinhisduffel

bagforsomething.

Idon’tlikehowhappyhe’ssuddenlygotten.“Maybeyoushouldgoeasyonme.I’m

gettingtired.”

Heglancesoverhisshoulderatme.“Goingeasyonyouwon’thelpyougetbetter.”
“Can we at least take a break?” I ask, clasping my hands in front of me. “It’s

ChristmasEve,andwe’resupposedtobecelebrating.”

He stands up with a silvery bow in one hand and an old school CD player in the

other.Hesticksthebowontopofmyhead.“There.Nowyou’realldeckedoutforthe
holidays.”

Ipluckoffthebowandpressittothebackhisshirtashewalksoff.HesetstheCD

player down on the end table and leans over to plug in the cord. He presses the play
buttonthenspinsaround,rubbinghishandstogetheras“Bright”byEchosmithcomes
on.

“Letmeguess.Youlisten tothisinyour caronyourwayto work.Ibetyou even

dancearoundintheseat.”Irollmyshouldersandshimmymyhips.

“Actually,Ido.”Heflashesmehispearlywhitesashesnapshisfingers.“Now,stand

up.It’stimetohavethatfunIpromised.”

Iknowwherehe’sgoingwiththis,andIdon’tlikeitatall.
Icurlmyfingersaroundthechair.“Noway.”
“Anna,thisisimportant.”Hegentlygrabsmyarmanddragsmetomyfeet.“When

wehadourfirstvisit,Lokireallystressedthathewantedyoutobeabletodanceagain.”
Hisexpressionsoftens.“Now,Ican’tpromiseyouthatyou’llbeabletodancelikeyou
usedto,butwecanatleastworkondancingagain.”

“Thenwhat’sthepoint?”Iwigglemyhandfromhisholdandinchback.
“Thepointisthatthisispartofthehealingprocess,”hesays.
Shakingmyhead,Iinchbackuntilthebacksofmylegssmashintothetable.“I’m

notdancing,especiallywithyou.”

Hechuckles,offeringmehishand.“IpromiseI’mreallygood.Iwon’tevenstepon

yourtoes.”

Iscrunchmynose.“It’stooweird.”
“It’sonlyweirdifyoumakeitweird.”
ThelastthingIwanttodoistrytodancewhenIusedtobeabletoeffortlesslytwirl

andleap.“You’retoo...old.”It’salameexcuse,butit’sallIcancomeupwithatthe
moment.

Heshufflesbackwithhishandpressedtohisheart.“Thatwasalowblow.”
“I just mean that you’re older than me, and it’d be weird if we danced together,

becausewe’refromdifferenteras.”

“I’monlythreeyearsolderthanyou.That’snotadifferentera.”WhenIwaver,he

puts his hands up in front of him, surrendering. “Fine, I won’t make you dance with
me.”

Icalmdown,breathingfreelyagain.“Seriously,thankyou.Thatmightbe,like,the

nicestthingyou’veeverdoneforme.”

Heleansback,peeringoutthewindow.“Hangon.Ihaveanidea.”
“No!Noideas.Idon’tevenwanttodance,anyway...”Itrailoffasherunsoutthe

frontdoor.

Isinkintothechairandletmyheadfallback.Iwon’tdothis.Ican’t.Ineedtofinda

wayout.Runningawayisn’tgoingtoworkthistime.Throwingafitmighthelp,butit’s
afifty-fiftychancewithEaston.

Panic overwhelms me, and without warning, I’m back in that damn car, hanging

upside down, blood rushing to my head. Everything feels so fuzzy, so distant, so
nonexistent.

TheDoctorlooksatmewithpity.“Let’sjustworryaboutgettingyouwalkingproperly

again,okay?”

IrealizeI’mnotbreathing,andIgaspforair.Thesongends,butEastonmust’veput

itonrepeatbecauseitplaysagain.Istanduptochangeit,buthaltwhenIspotEaston
andLucaheadinguptheporchsteps.

“Oh, my god, he didn’t.” I spin around to bolt for the stairs, but move way too

quickly,andmyfeetflyoutfromunderme.

Ilandflatonmybackandblinkbacktears.
“YoudancewhileIcook,”mymomsayswhilecrackingeggsandmixingbatter.

Ipirouettearoundthekitchenonmytoes,myarmsformingaperfectcircleinfrontof

me,mylongbrownhairwhippingaroundandaround.“Ilovedancing.”

“Iknowyoudo,sweetie.”
“WhenIgrowup,I’mgoingtobeaballerina.”
“Ofcourseyouare.”
WhenEastonandLucaenterthelivingroom,I’mstillsprawledoutonthefloor.
“Whathappened?”Eastonrunsovertomeandextendshishandtohelpmeup.
“I’mfine.”IshoohishandawayasIsitup,stretchingmylegs.“Iwasjusttakinga

break.”

Hedoesn’tbuyintomybullshit,buthedoesn’tcallmeoutoniteither.“Readyfor

thelastexerciseoftheday?”heasksme.

“When you put it like that, then yeah.” Grabbing hold of the table, I grit my teeth

and hoist myself up. When I get my feet under me, I turn to Luca. “Whatever he
promisedyouinexchangefordoingthis,justknowthey’realllies.”

Luca’sgazeskimsacrossmysloppyponytail,baggyshirt,shorts,andkneebrace.I

wonderwhathethinksofmymessylookthenrealize,moreoftenthannot,he’sseen
melookinglikeahotmess.

Luca glances at Easton then inches toward me. “He didn’t promise me anything,

otherthanI’dgettospendtimewithyou.”WhenIfoldmyarmsacrossmychestand
archabrow,helooksatmeinnocently.“What?I’mbeingserious.”

“Yousoaren’t.”Iassesshimclosely.“What’dhepromiseyou?Freerockclimbing

lessons?”Lucashiftshisweight,shovinguphissleeves,seemingtwitchy,andIfeellike
I’vewonaprize.“That’sit,isn’tit?”

“I would’ve done it, anyway,” he insists. “The rock climbing lessons are just an

addedbonus.”

“It’scool,”Isay,wavinghimoff.“Itmakesiteasieronmethathehadtobribeyou,

anyway.”

“Whywouldthatmakeiteasier?”
“Becauseitmeansyoureallydon’twanttobehere.”
“ButIwanttobehere,”Lucaprotests,tuggingthebeanieoffhishead.Strandsofhis

darkbrownhairstickupeverywhere,andherunshisfingersthroughit,tryingtotame
it.

Ivisualizemyownfingersthere,playingwithhishair,whichIbetissupersoft.
Iblinkfromthedaydream,realizingLucaisstilltalkingtome.“Huh?”
Hisforeheadcreasesashestudiesmeclosely.“IsaidIofferedtohelpbeforeEaston

evenaskedforthefavor.”Hesticksouthishandformetotake.“Honestly,heprobably
should’vebribedyou.”Heleansinandwhispers,“Isuckatdancing.”

Myheartpoundslikeadrummerrockingoutandathintrailofsweatdripsdown

thebackofmyneckasIeyeballhisofferedhandwithreluctance.

Justtakehishand.Asimplehandhold.Don’tletitmeananythingmore.
I’mnotsureIcandothis,andIhatemyselfforactingweak.
It’sjustdancing.
Butit’ssomuchmore.
Asifsensingmypanicattack,Lucagentlythreadsourfingerstogetherthenreaches

formyotherhand.Helightlyplacesmypalmsonhisshouldersthenstepsclosertome

untilthetipsofhissneakersbrushmytoes.

“See,notsobad,”hesays,loopinghisarmsaroundmywaist.Hisfingerstremblethe

slightestastheyspreadacrossmylowerback,contradictinghiswords.

Itrynottonoticethesmellofhiscologneorthathe’snotwearinghisglasses.ButI

notice.Alot.“Notsobad?We’rebeingforcedtodanceinmylivingroom.IfeellikeI’m
atamiddleschoolprom.”

“Justbethankfulthere’snoonewatchingus,”hejokeswithahalfsmile.
“Yeah,right.”IraisemyvoiceloudenoughsoEastoncanhearme.“There’sacreepy

olddudewatchingusinthecorner.”

“I’m not that old,” Easton argues, crossing his arms. “Now, come on. Move faster

anddoafewspins.”

Panicseizesmythroat.“Ican’tspin.I’llfallonmyass.”
“Just go slow,” he instructs, sitting down on the armrest of the sofa. “And let Luca

holdmostofyourweight.”WhenIhesitate,headds,“Youcandothis,Anna.Otherwise,
Iwouldn’tpushyou.”

“I’mgoingtofall,”Iwhine,myfingertipsstabbingintoLuca’sshoulders.
“No,youwon’t.”Eastonpropshisfootonhiskneeandsitsback,completelyatease.

“JusttrustLuca,andyou’llbefine.”

“Yeah,justtrustme,”Lucateases,softlypinchingmyside.
Ashivertinglesupmyspine.“Please,justdon’tletmefall,”Ibeg,ourgazeslocking.
Luca’sexpressionsoftens.“IpromiseIwon’t.”
Ishovedownthelumpinmythroatandnod.Westartswaying,turninginaslow

circle.Lucaleadsandsupportsmostofmyweight.Ifeellikesomeone’sstranglingme,
andIcan’tgetairintomylungsasmyheadspinswithafoggymemory.

“Anna,youlooksobeautifulonstage,”mymomsays,pullingmeinforahug.“You’re

becomingsuchanamazingdancer.I’msoproudofyou.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I wrap my arms around her and breathe in deep, feeling so loved.

“Andthanksforsupportingmydreamandalwaysdrivingmetolessons.Iknowyou’re
busy.”

“I’mnevertoobusytosupportyourdreams.”Shekissesthetopofmyheadthensteps

backtolookatme.“You’llalwayscomefirst,nomatterwhat.Allofmykidswill.”

Ibreatheinandoutasmybloodboilswithanger.
Lies!Alllies!Whereareyounow,Mom?Notheretodrivemetolessons,tohelpAlexis

withherart,towatchNikoliplayfootball,ortoobsessoverbookswithZhara.That’sall
beenputonLoki.

“Anna,areyouokay?”Lucaasks,concerned.
I nod my head up and down and step closer to him, holding on tighter than I

probablyshould.ButI’mafraidifIletgo,I’llfall,andImightneverwanttogetup.His
breathticklesagainstmyskin,andquickensthecloserweget.Hisfingersareunsteady
onmyback,andIfeelsicklygratifiedthatI’mnottheonlyonewho’snervous.

We continue to dance through the entire length of the song, and I gradually calm

down enough to rest my head on his shoulder. We’re so offbeat, though, that the
dancerhidinginsidemejustaboutloseshermind.Iwanttotakeover,showthemhow
it’sdone,butI’mscaredtodeathtostepintothoseshoesagain.Theynolongerfiton
thefootofmyscarredlegthatdoesn’tmoveasflawlesslyasitusedto.

“Sowhat’supwiththezombiemovieontheTV?”Lucawhispersinmyear,brushing

myhairoutoftheway.“Seemslikeanoddchoice,consideringit’sChristmasEve,but
I’mbettingyouhaveyourownweirdreasons.”

“Ifinditcalming.”Ishudderfromthefeelofhisfingerssketchingapathbackand

forthacrossmyback.

Alowchucklereverberatesthroughhischest.“Forsomereason,I’mnotsurprised.I

mean,wedidestablishthatyouwerealittlecrazy.”

Iclosemyeyes,andafaintsmiletouchesmylips.Fortunately,myheadisturnedto

thesidesonoonecanit.“Youdon’tknowmethatwell,LucaBenton,sodon’tassume
youdo.”

“But I do, Annabella Baker. You’re the girl who likes to wear leather jackets and

sweatersinninety-sixdegreeweather,whohatesgettinghelp,whowandersmorethan
anyoneI’veevermet,wholovesSnickersandM&Msmixedtogether,andwhosecretly
likesclassicrockandguyswhoareoldschool.”Heleansback,looksatme,andgrins.

Isuckmybottomlipbetweenmyteeth.HeknowsmoreaboutmethanIthought.
Hisgrinexpands,andhetugsmebackagainsthim,crashingourbodiestogether.
There’ssomethingintimateaboutthewayourchestsandlegsarealigned,howmy

headisrestingagainsthisshoulder,andhowhegrazeshisfingersacrossmyback.Ican
tellhe’snervousbyhisfalteringexhalesanditmakesmelikehim.AndImean,really,
reallylikehim.Ilikethewayhesmells.Thewayhedoesn’toffermeachemicalescape
fromreality.Thewayheteasesme.Thewayhesendsmelittletexts.They’realllittle
things, but they’re the little things I always imagined the guy I dated would do. Cute
and sweet instead of sloppy and rushed. Just like how I believed my parents were.
Their relationship may not have been what I thought it was, but I still want what I
thoughttheyhad.AndIdon’tknowwhattodowiththat.

Lucatripsandstompsonmytoe.“Sorry,”heapologizesasaflushcreepsacrosshis

cheeks.

“You’refine.”IheaveasighandglanceatEaston.“Howlongdowehavetodothis?”
He’smessingaroundwithhisphoneandsingingthelyricsunderhisbreath.“I’lllet

youknowwhentime’sup.”

Knowing Easton, he’ll make me do this until my leg hurts so badly I’m in tears. I

make a choice, mostly blaming the decision on Easton, but just thinking about it
breatheslifeintomylungsforthefirsttimesincethecarwreck.

Looseningup,Imoveleftandright,thenbackandforthwithflawlesslytimedsteps.
Lucastaresdownatourfeet.“Whatareyoudoing?”
“Dancing.”Myfingernailsdigintohisshirtwhenmylegwobbles.Iwon’tfall.Iwon’t

fall.“What’reyoudoing?”

Ourgazescollide,andhislipsquirk.“Apparently,takingthechick’srole.”
I snort a laugh, and Easton’s head whips in our direction, his face contorted in

confusion.“Areyouokay?”Helooksatmelikemylaughisontheendangeredspecies
listorsomething.

TodistractEaston,andmyself,frommytemporarylossofsanity,ItellLuca,“Spin

me.”

Hepullsawaryface.“Areyousure?Ikindofsuckatallofthis.”
I’ll do anything for Easton to forget about my laughing because he’ll tell Loki and

then Loki’s going to make assumptions about the nerdy guy next door and how he
makesmefeel.

Ibobmyheadupanddown.“Doit.Justdon’tletmefall.”
“IpromisedIwouldn’t,”heremindsmeashishandskatesupmyarm.
His fingers circle my wrist right above my hammering pulse. He has to know I’m

nervousbut,thankfully,doesn’tcomment.Liftingmyarmabovemyhead,hebraces
hishandonmybackandguidesmearoundinacircle.Ileanintohim,keepmyscarred
legstraight,andholdingmybreath,Ispinaroundonmygoodfoot.

When I make a full circle, relief sweeps over me. I clutch one of Luca’s arms and

freetheairtrappedinmychest.

“Yougood?”Lucaasks,wrappinghisarmsaroundmywaist.
“I-Ithinkso.”
“I’mimpressed,”Eastonsays,clappinghishands.“Ididn’tthinkyou’ddoit.”
“Iknewyou’dbugthecrapoutofmeuntilIdid.”IfeellikeI’mgoingtovomit.Feel

likeI’mgoingtocry.FeelsomuchIalmostfalltothefloor.

LucapullsmeagainsthimasIswaydizzily.“Yougoingtomakeitthere?”
Ishakemyheadbutthennod,confusingthehelloutofhimandmyself.
“No,you’renotokay,”hesaysgently.“Anna,tellmewhat’swrong.”
“Ican’t.”Myvoiceishoarse.
Itrytosuckitup,butsadnessconsumesme.Imissdancingsomuch.Missthepast.

ThefutureIoncehad.Missmyparents.Myfamily.Butmostofall,Imissthesunshine
andrainbowsgirlIusedtobe.Theonethatcouldonlyseethesunshinebecauseshe’d
nevernoticedthecloudsuntiltheycompletelycoveredthesky.

“Sitdownandtakeabreak.”Eastonrisestohisfeetandturnsoffthesong.
Iwipemysweatypalmsoffonthesideofmyshortsandsitontheedgeofthecoffee

table.IcanfeelLuca’sandEaston’seyesonme,butI’mtooclosetocryingtolookup.

Breathein.Breatheout.
Justbreathe.
“Justbreathe.Iknowit’shardgettingonstage,butyou’lldogreat,”mymomsaysas

wewaitbackstage.

Soundsofviolinsandthelightbrushofpointeshoesfilltheair.Myhairispulledinto

suchatightbunmybrainhurts.ButallIcanfocusonishowterrifiedIamtogooutthere
anddanceinfrontofthecrowd.

Ifoldmyarmaroundmystomachandhunchover.“IfeellikeI’mgoingtothrowup..

.Idon’tthinkIcandothis.”

“Stagefrightisperfectlynormal.”Shesmoothesherhanddownmyback.“Withtime,

you’llgetoverit.”

Itiltmyheadbackandlookupather.“WhatifIdon’t?WhatifIstaythiswayand

nevergetoverit?”

“Aslongasyoupushpastthefearandmakeituponstageeverytime,thenyou’llbe

just fine,” she says. “Having a fear doesn’t make someone weak. It’s letting the fear
controlyouthatdoes.”

IdrowninmemoriesandallIcandoisremember.
Nomatterwhatshedid,Ireallymissher.
I breathe in and out until my heart rate settles then lift my head up and meet

Easton’sandLuca’sworriedgazes.

“I’mfine,”Iassurethem.“Ijustneededamoment.”
Lookingworried,Lucaopenshismouth.“Areyousure—”
Zharaburstsintothefoyer,wavingherhandsintheair,beltingaChristmascarolat

thetopofherlungswithabitterlookingAlexissteppinginbehindher.“Hey,Annaand
Luca,”shesingsbutherskinpaleswhensheseesEaston.“Oh,hi,Ium,yeah...Oh,my
god.”Sheslapsherhandacrossherfaceandsprintsupthestairway.

“Whatwasthatabout?”Eastonlooksatmewithhisbrowsdippedasheunplugsthe

CDplayer.

Alexisleansagainstthedoorframewithherarmsfolded.“Shehasacrushonyou

andistotallyembarrassedthatyousawheractinglikeherself.”

“Alexis,”Iwarn,massagingmysorelegmuscles.“StayoutofZhara’sbusiness.”
“Ididn’tdoanythingbuttellthetruth,whichismorethanIcansayforyou.”She

standsupstraight.“Youknow,everyonewalksaroundtryingtostayoutofeachother’s
business, but all that’s done is let this family fall apart. It’s tragic.” She turns away
muttering,“Nooneevencaresaboutanyoneanymore.”

IstarttochaseafterherasLokiandNikoliwalkinside.
“Ican’tbelieveyoudidn’tsayanything,”Lokisays,slammingthefrontdoor.Hehas

a few presents in his hand and a scarf wrapped around his neck. “You could have at
leastwarnedme,Anna.”

“What’reyoutalkingabout?”Iask,genuinelyperplexedthistime.
Hedropsthepresentsonthebottomstairbeforestridingintothelivingroom.He

blinks in shock at the decorated tree and stockings I hung up, but swiftly shakes his
head.“You’rereallygoingtopretendthatyoudon’tknow.”

“I...”Itrytothinkofwhatonearthhecouldbereferringto,butstilldrawablank.

“I’msorry,”isallIcanthinkoftosay.

He’sfurious,hishandsballedintotightfists.“Theothernight,whenyouwentout,

wereyouattheantiqueshop?”

MygazesnapstoLuca.“Didyoutellsomeone?”
He shakes his head, his eyes begging me to believe him. “I swear to god I didn’t,

Anna.I’dneveroutyoulikethat.”

“Thereweresecuritycamerasthere,Anna,”Lokisnaps.“Andtheycapturedapretty

fucking clear picture of you, and you know that everyone knows everyone around
here.”HewrangleshisscarfoffthenturnstoEastonandLuca.“Canyouguysgiveusa
second?”

“Sure,”Eastonsays,lookingmorethaneagertogetthehelloutofhere.“Youwant

metogogetstartedonthatthing?”

Thing?
Lokihesitatesthennods.“Yeah,I’llbethereinaminutetohelp.”
Lucaoffersmeasympatheticlook.“Iactuallyneedtogethome.”
Yes,run.Runwhileyoustillcan.
“I’ll see you later.” He hesitates, glancing at Loki before stepping toward me and

leaningin.“Callmelater,okay?Iwanttomakesureyou’reokay.”

“I’llbeokay,”Itrytoassurehim.
“Still,callmesoIknowforsureifmynewbestfriendhasbeengroundedagain,”he

says,leaningback.“Youseemtohaveaknackforthat.”

“Ifyou’regoingtobemyfriend,youbettergetusedtoit.”
“I already am.” A smile graces his lips. “Talk to you in a bit.” He walks out of the

roomandoutthefrontdoor.

Once everyone’s cleared out, Loki fixes his attention on me, looking madder than

hell.“You’resogoddamnluckytheownerisn’tgoingtocallthepolice.”

Igrindmyteeth.“Wastheowneraguy?
“Yeah...”Hisforeheadcreases,butthenheshakeshishead,hisangershootingup

anotch.“Thatdoesn’tevenmatter.Whatmattersisthatyou’reoutofcontrolandthis
hastostop.”Hepacesthefloor.“Assoonasthatbraceletcomesoff,you’regoingtogo
overandapologizetoDennis.Hewouldn’ttakeanymoneyforthewindow,butIwant
youtomakeituptohim...Offertohelphimaroundhisstoreorsomething.”

“Dennis?”Bloodroarsinmyeardrums.
“Dennisistheowner.”Annoyancesimmersinhistoneashegrindstoastopinfront

ofme.“Andyoubettermemorizethatnamebecauseyou’regoingtobedoingahellof
alotofapologizingtohim.”

Ipiercemyfingernailsintothepalmsofmyhandsuntilmyfleshsplitsopen.Iwon’t

explode.Iwon’texplode.“No,I’mnot,”IsayascalmlyasIcan.

Hisfacereddens.“Don’tgivemeanybullshit.You’regoingtodothis,Anna.I’mnot

just going to let it go. You need punishments—need to understand that there’s
repercussionsforthestuffyoudo.”

“Iwon’tapologizetothatman!”My.Heart.Explodes.Into.A.Thousand.Pieces.“I’ll

fuckinggotojailbeforeIdo!”

Heblinksatmeinshock.“Whatthehell’sgottenintoyou?”
“You wanted me to feel something. Well, I do! I hate that man!” I fight the tears

backandtakeoffforthestairsbeforehecangetanotherwordout.

My instinct is to run out the door, run away, but I can’t because of the ankle

bracelet. So I limp up the stairs, moving way too fast, but pigheadedly refuse to slow
down.WhenImakeittomyroom,Ilockthedoorandcrankupmymusic.“Sugar”by
SystemofaDowncomeson,andIpacetheroomwithmyhandsonmyhips.

Iwanttopunchaholeinthewall.
Wanttobreakeverysinglethinginmyroom.
Wantapill.
Wantadrink.
Want.To.Be.Numb.Again.
ButIdotheonlythingIcan.Iopenmymouthandscreamatthetopofmylungs

untilIrunoutofoxygen.

Pantingforair,Ifeeltheslightestbitbetter.Igrabmyfather’sjournalfromoffthe

shelfandliedownonmybed.MyfingerstrembleasIopenthebookandpeeloffthe
envelopetapedtotheinsideofthebackcover.

Ican’ttaketheunknownanymore.
It’skillingmeinside.
Istarttoopenit,butfearsoarsthroughmeandIwrenchmyhandaway.
No,Ican’tdothis.I’mtooafraidofwhatI’llfindinthere.
Idroptheenvelopeontothebedandscootawayfromit.

“Aslongasyoupushpastthefearandmakeituponstageeverytime,thenyou’llbe

justfine,”mymomsays.“Havingafeardoesn’tmakesomeoneweak.It’slettingthefear
controlyouthatdoes.”

If she knew what I was contemplating doing right now, would she have given me

thesameadvice?

Pickinguptheenvelope,Islidemyfingerundertheflapandtakeoutthepieceof

paper inside. My fingers shake as I unfold it. There are several creases on it, as if
someonehasrefoldedtheletteroverandover.Maybemydad.Ormymom.I’llnever
know.

Dennis,
I find it so funny that I’m actually writing you a letter, like I’m living in the 19

century.Icanalmosthearthefirecracklinginthecornerandthequillscratchingagainst
thepaperasIwrite.I’msogladyousuggesteddoingthis.Youwereright.Thisissomuch
morefunthansimplysendingatext.

I worry, though, what it means. Letters are so much more personal, and I feel like

we’ve crossed too many boundaries as it is. What happened the other day . . . I didn’t
mean for that to happen. I just got caught up in another life . . . another time . . . Got
caughtupinyouagain,justlikeIusedtoallthoseyearsago.I’vebeenstrugglingwith
acceptingwhatmylifehasbecome,andthatthelifeIcould’vehadwithyouisafading
dream.

Don’tgetmewrong.Ilovemykidsandbeingamother.Iwouldnever,evergivethat

up.Sometimesitfeelslikethere’ssomethingmissingandwhenI’mwithyou,thatmissing
partdoesn’tseemsobadandIfeel...well,happy.ButIworrywhatitmeansaboutme,
about my future, about the choices I’m afraid to make. And sometimes I fear like that
whenI’mwithyou,I’mjusttryingtoliveinthepast.I’veknownyouforsolongandwe
usedtohavesuchaconnection…Morethanyoumightrealize…

Ihonestlydon’tknowwhattodo.WhetherIshouldjustwalkawayfromyouagainor

completely open up and tell the entire truth to you of why I ran away from our
relationshipthefirsttime.

I’msorry.I’mprobablyfreakingyououtrightnowandthat’snotwhatI’mtryingto

do.Idon’twantthislettertobecompletelydepressing.Ican’twaittoseeyouagain.My
daughter’sbirthday’scomingupsoon,andI’llbeheadingoutoftown,butImightstopby
beforeIdobecausethere’ssomethingIthinkImightneedtotellyou.

Love,
Beth
Love Beth? Oh, my god, did she love Dennis? Did she love Dennis more than she

lovedmydad?AndwhatcouldshehavepossiblyneededtotellDennis?Didsheever
getto,unlikewithwhateversheneededtotellme?

Iballthepaperup,throwitonthefloor,thencurlupinaball.Hottearsspillfrom

myeyesasIhugmydad’sjournal.Readingthatlettermusthavealmostkilledhim.He
lovedmymomsomuch.

Buthowcouldhehavepossiblylovedherafterreadingthat?
Moretearscascadedownmycheeks.Fightthepain.Fightitback.
Searinghotrageandsadnesssimultaneouslywhipthroughme,potentandstrong.I

pinch my leg to erase the emotional pain, but it doesn’t work this time. I hug the

journalsotightmyarmsbegintoshake.

Iwonderhowmydadgottheletter.Wonderifmymomknewhehadit.Wonder

howmanytimeshereadit.WonderhowlongmymomwaswiththisDennis.Wonder
whymydadstayedwithher.Iwondersomanythings,andI’llnevergetanswers.

Slidingmyhandundermypillow,Ifeelarounduntilmyfingersbrushagainstthe

envelopeLokigaveme.ButIdon’ttakeitout.I’mnotreadytoreadanythingelsemy
momwrote.

I’mnotreadytoforgiveher.
Butmaybe,justmaybe,Imightbereadytofindawaytoforgivemyself.

Chapter14

I wakeupthenextmorningfeelinghungoveranddisoriented,justlikeIusedto.Only,
insteadoffeelinglikeshitfromconsumingtoomuchalcoholordrugs,Ifeellikeshit
from all the crying I did. My lips are dry, my eyes are swollen, and my head is
throbbing.Foramoment,Ican’tevenrememberwhyIstayedupallnightbawlinglike
a baby, but then I feel the journal in my arms and everything rushes back. Dancing
withLuca.Lokiyellingatmeoverthewindow.MeshoutingatLokiaboutDennis.The
letter.

Thatstupidletter.
Rollingoutofbed,Ibendovertopickitup.I’mnotsurewhattodowithit.Burnit?

Keepit?Showittosomeone?

Uncertainwhattodo,Ifolditupandhideitinmydresserdrawerundermysocks.

ThenIpullmyhairintoamessybun,sliponapairofyogapantsandatanktop,and
checkmyphone.

Onetextmessage.
Luca:Justseeingifurok?Udidn’tcallmelastnight.
Suchasimplequestion,butitmakesmefeeloverloadedwithemotion.
AmIokay?
Ihavenoidea.
Idecidetobetruthful.
Me:I’mstilltryingtofigurethatout,butI’llletuknow.
Luca:Well,I’mhereifuneedtotalk.
Me:Thanks.I’mnotreadyforthat,though.
Luca:Maybeoneday,though.
Me:Yeah,maybeoneday.
Leavingthephoneonmydresser,Igodownstairs.Mymusclesgroaninprotestwith

everystep,andmyhearthurtswithremnantsofhowitfelttodanceagain.Ilongfor
thedayswhereIcouldjustrunaway.

Inthelivingroom,Zharahasenteredcleaningmode,vacuumingtherugasifher

lifedependsonit.

“Whatareyoudoing!”Ishoutoverthehummingofthevacuum.
“What!”sheshouts,continuingtorollthevacuumbackandforth.
Iinchclosertothedoorway.“Whatareyoudoing!”
Shecupsherhandtoherear.“Ican’thearyou!”
Iwindaroundthesofaandpullthevacuumcordoutoftheoutlet.“Isaid,whatare

youdoing?It’sChristmasmorning.Youdon’tneedtoclean.”

“I know, but the Bentons are coming over for breakfast this morning, and I,” she

givesashrug,“Ithoughtit’dbeniceifthehouselookedclean.Momwould’vewantedit
thatway,youknow.”

IthinkaboutblurtingoutwhatIdiscoveredaboutourmom,butinsteadIforcea

smile,andsheturnsonthevacuumagain.

With the weight of the world on my shoulders, I enter the kitchen, and my chin

nearlysmacksthefloor.HaveIsomehowendedupinwronghouse?

In the center of the island is a ginormous cake stacked high and shaped like a

Christmastree,justlikethecakemymomusedtobakeeveryChristmasEve.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Loki yawns and stretches as he walks in. He’s wearing a long-

sleeveshirtandanicepairofjeans,andhishairistousledlikeheusedtowearit.

Ilookbackatthecake.“Whomadeit?”
Hegetsabagofcoffeebeansfromthecupboard.“Easton.”
“Really? Easton can make cakes?” I say, grinning wickedly. “Wow, I’m so going to

usethatagainsthimoneofthesedays.”

“Be nice to Easton.” He starts up the coffee machine then fastens his gaze on me.

“YouandIneedtotalk.”

“Aboutwhat?”Iask,eventhoughIalreadyknow.ButI’mnotreadytotalkaboutit

yet.Maybeever.

“Anna,don’tplaydumbwithme.Weneedtotalkaboutwhathappenedlastnight,”

hesays,collectingtwomugsfromthedishwasher.Heslidesonetome.“Iknowyou’re
goingthroughsomestuff,butI’malittleconfusedastowhyyougotsopissedoffwhen
youweretheonewhobrokethewindow.”

Ipickupthecup.“I’mjustmoody.Youknowthat.”
“This was more than just moody. You’ve been so unemotional lately I seriously

thought you’d turned into a zombie or something . . . But after last night . . . I’m
worriedyoumightbeholdinginmorethanIthought.”

I swipe my finger across the cake, stealing a drop of icing. “You thought I was a

zombie?Seriously?”

“I’mspeakingmetaphorically.”
“Aw,Igetit.Thephilosophersideofyouisrisingfromthedead.”
“Don’t try to make this about me,” he says, reaching for the coffee pot. “I want to

talkaboutyouforaminute.”Hepourshimselfacupofcoffeethenfillsmycuptothe
brim.“Youwanttotellmewhatgotyousoupset?”

Iplantmybuttononeofthebarstools.“I’drathernot.”
He adds two spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee. “Well, you need to give me

something.”

Igatherthesteamingmugofcoffeeandsipthehotliquid,tryingtodecidewhatto

tell him. I’m faced with a choice. Out my mom and let everyone know what kind of
personshewas?Orkeepthesecrettomyselfandletthemrememberherastheloving
woman she was? Which would mean living with the burden of the secret forever,
takingittomygrave.

“Willyousettleforpartsofthetruth?”Iask.
Hestirsmilkintohiscoffee.“Thatdepends.Let’shearit,andI’lldecidefromthere.”
“I hate this Dennis guy,” I admit, staring at the steam rising from the cup. “But I

can’ttellyouwhy.Justknowthatit’sforagoodreason.”

He remains silent for a while, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. “You’re keeping

somethingfromme...Icantell.”

“Ithinkthat’sallwedoanymore.Iknowyouarewiththosepapersyou’realways

carryingaroundandthosephonecallsNikoli’soverheard.”

He raises the mug to his mouth but then lowers it without taking a drink. “I’m

responsibleforthisfamilyandallthatstuffgoingon...That’smyproblem.Youguys
don’t need to worry about it. You already have too much to worry about. Like
graduatingbeforeendingupinjail.”

MycheekspuffoutbeforeIexhaleloudly.“So,howaboutthis?Ikeepmysecretto

myself,andyoucankeepyours.”

Hefrownswithhesitancy.“Idon’tthinkthatsoundslikeagoodidea.It’stoo,Idon’t

know,adult-like.Andyou’reonlyseventeen.”

“I’llbeeighteenin,like,sixmonths.”Pickingupmycupofcoffee,Istandtomyfeet.

“Andweallkindofgrewuptheday...thedayMomandDaddied.”

“Hatetobreakittoyou,butyouractionshaven’tbeenverymaturelately.”
Istareatthefloorasguiltgnawsinsideme.“Yeah,Iknow,butI’mgoingtotryand

changethat.”

“You’re acting strange . . . This thing that you’re not telling me . . . You’re not in

moretrouble,areyou?”

“No,butI’mstillnotgoingtogooverandapologizetoDennis.Youcanpunishmeor

whatever,butIwon’tdoit.”

“Ifthat’swhatyoudecidetodo,thenfine.”Heturnsonthefaucetandbeginsrinsing

off the dirty dishes from last night’s dinner. For the first time since the accident, he
made everyone sit around the table together, and it was more than just awkward—it
was painful. But we’re all still standing, so I guess that’s a plus. “Go get cleaned up.
We’rehavingbreakfastthismorningwiththeBentons.”

Iclaspthemuginmyhands.“Whoinvitedthemover?”
Hereachesforadishtowel.“Idid.”
“Buthowdiditevencomeup?”Howdidtheybecomefriendssofast?“Imean,they

don’thavekidsyourageoranything.”

“Tammy’sbeenhelpingmewithsomereallyimportantstuff,”hesays,scrubbinga

dirtyplatewithasponge.

I study his overly jarring movements, as if he’s trying to scrub a hole though the

plate.“Whatkindsofstuff?”

Heshrugs,dismissingourconversation,andbecausehedidn’tpryintomybusiness,

Iletthesubjectgo.

IturntoleavewhenLokisays,“I’llletyouknowwhatyourpunishmentislater.”
“Finebyme.”Thepunishmentdoesn’tmatter,anyway.
Itwon’tchangemydecision.Iwon’tapologizetothemanmymomwashavingan

affair with. Just the idea of seeing him causes my blood pressure to skyrocket . . . I
knowIcan’tfacehim.

I go up to my room, feeling dizzy with confusion, and get changed into a pair of

blackjeansandavioletshirtthatmatchesmyhair.Orusedto,anyway.Ihaven’tdyed
itinmonthsandthepurplehasmostlygrownout,sohalfmyhairistheplainbrown
coloritusedtobe.Iwanttodyeitbutneedtofigureouthowtogetmyhandsonabox
ofdye.

I braid my hair to hide the streaks then apply some lipstick and eyeliner before

slippingonmyboots.AsI’mgettingreadytowalkout,Igetatext.

Cece: Merry Xmas, Anna. I know u won’t reply but I just wanted to say that I

hopeuhaveagreatday.Iknowhowmuchuusedtolovetheholidays.

Usedto.
WithCece,everythingalwaysremindsmeofthepast.Itmightalwaysbethatway

withherbecauseshe’spartofmypast.It’swhyIchosetogowithMillerthatday.But
thatdidn’tworkoutformeverywell,either.Temporarily,sure.ButtheescapeIfound
in the pills I took by the handful, the bottles of alcohol I drank, and the time I spent
withMillerisnolongeranoption.AndI’mstucktryingtofigureoutwhoIaminthis
worldwithoutMiller.Withoutdancing.Withoutmymomanddad.Itmakesmefeelso
...alone.

Me:MerryXmas,Cece.
That’sallIcansayfornow.
BythetimeImakeittothelivingroom,Lucaandhisparentshavearrivedandare

chattingwithLoki,Zhara,andNikoli.Afireiscrackling,theairsmellslikepineneedles
with a hint of bacon, and there are more presents under the tree than there was last
night.

“Hey,Iwasjustabouttocomegetyou,”Lokisayswhenhespotsmelollygaggingin

thedoorway.Hisfeetarekickeduponthecoffeetable,hehasaplateofbaconandeggs
onhislap,andheseemsmorerelaxedthanhedidahalfanhourago.

Ishrinkbackwheneveryone’seyeslandonme.
“Hey,Annabella.”Tammygreetsmewithawarmsmileandawave.
Today she’s wearing a red dress, silver earrings, and a jean jacket. It’s completely

opposite of the jazzed up holiday outfit she was sporting yesterday, and I wish she
would’vewornthecrazybellsweater,becauseintheseclothes,shelookslikemymom.

Tammy turns to a man sitting beside her. “Jack, this is Annabella, the girl Luca’s

beentalkingourearsoffabout.”

From the window seat, Luca bursts into a fit of coughs, nearly hacking up a lung.

“Mom,don’texaggerate.”

Iplacemyhandovermymouthtohidemylaughter.
“I’mnotexaggerating,”sheprotests.“Jack,tellhimI’mnotexaggerating.”
Jack,wholookslikeanolderversionofLuca,givesmeanapologeticlook.“It’snice

tomeetyou,Annabella.We’veheardanormalamountofstuffaboutyou.”

Lucapresseshispalmtohisforeheadandmumblessomethingunderhisbreath.
“Likewise,”Isay,andevenmanagetosoundlikeImeanit.
“Breakfast is in the kitchen. We did sort of a buffet style thing,” Loki tells me,

glancingatthepaperplatesonthecoffeetable.“Wewerewaitingforyoutoeatbefore
wedigintothecake.”

“Wecaneatitnow,”Isuggest,hyperawarethatLucaisstaringatme.Hehasonthe

knittedcapheseemstoliketowear,andaplaidshirtandjeans.ButwhatIreallynotice
the most is that that he isn’t wearing his glasses. “Cake for breakfast actually sounds
awesome.”

Lokishakeshisheadandpointstowardthekitchen.“Eatsomeeggsandbaconfirst.”
“Kids these days, right? Always wanting to eat sugar,” Tammy chuckles, looking

downatthefloor.“Likethislittleone.”

AtfirstIcan’tfigureoutwhoshe’stalkingabout,butthenalittlegirlwearingapink

dress, who looks around six or so, pops up from the floor. “When do we get to open
presents?”sheasksimpatiently.

“Soon,Bria.”Tammypatsherhead.“Butweneedtowaituntileveryone’sready.”
So that’s Bria, Luca’s niece. After what Luca told me, I wonder how Tammy will

introduceher.

Bria sulks as she climbs onto the sofa beside Tammy then her eyes land on me.

“Who’sshe?Herhairlookslikebubblegum.Thegrapekindsthattastesreallybad.”

Luca chokes on another laugh, and I shoot him a death glare but have to wrestle

backasmile.

“That’s Annabella.” Tammy twists around to look at me. “Annabella, this is Bria.”

She doesn’t specify who Bria is, so I’m left wondering if she decided to go the crazy
routeandcallBriaherdaughterornot.

“It’snicetomeetyou,Bria.”Iofferheroneofmyraresmiles.
Brialooksunimpressed,though.“Why’dyoudothattoyourhair?Itlooksweird.”
“Bria,”Tammywarns,guidingthelittlegirlontoherlap.“Rememberhowwetalked

aboutsayingtoomuch?”

IcatchLucarollinghiseyesbeforeherisestohisfeet.“I’mgoingtogetsomething

toeat,”hetellshismom,thencrossestheroomtowardme.Whenhebrushesby,he
links our arms together and tows me along with him. Once we’re in the kitchen, he
frees my arm and lets his head fall back. “God, she’s driving me crazy today,” he
mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. He breathes in and out and wiggles his
shoulders,shakingoffhisaggravation,thenraiseshishead.“So,how’syourChristmas
morninggoing?”

“Superobvioussubjectchange.”Iheadfortheplatterofeggsandbaconsittingon

thecounternearthestove.

“Yeah,Iknow,butIdon’twanttotalkaboutmycrazymom,”hesays,trailingatmy

heels.

I get a paper plate and hand him one, then pick up the silver serving spoon and

scoopupsomeeggs.“Wehavetotalkaboutherforaminute,though.”

Hejutsouthislip,pouting.“Why?Imean,there’ssomuchelsewecouldtalkabout,

likenastypurplegumandwhyyourhairlookslikeit.”

Istickoutmytongue,andhegrins.“Ha,ha,you’resofunny.”
“Iknow.”Hisfingersbrushthroughmyhair,andIleaninunintentionally.“Itdoes

lookreallynicetoday,though,pulledbacklikethat.Itlooksliketheoldyou.”

Myheartcrashesagainstmychestsoforcefullyitnearlyknocksthewindoutofme.

“What do you mean the old me? You didn’t know me before. . .” I flick my wrist,
wavingatmyself.“Ilookedlikethis.”

Hehitcheshisthumboverhisshoulder.“There’sphotosofyouhangingonthewall.

I’m guessing they’re old since you have brown hair.” His lips tug to a dorky smile.
“BrownlikeaHershey’sbar.”

“What’swithyouandallthecandyreferences?”
“Ilikemysugar.”HeoglestheChristmastreecake,lickinghislips.“Ican’twaitto

diveintothat.”

“Meeither,”Isayabsentmindedly.“Mymomusedtobakeacakeeveryholiday.”
Hepresseshislipstogether,asthoughhe’scontemplatinghisnextwords.“Anna,I

meant what I said. If you ever want to talk, I’m here. I’m a super good listener. I
promise.”

WhatIwouldn’tgivetotellhim—anyone—whatI’vebeenholdingontoformonths.

ButhowcouldIwhenevenIdon’tknowtheentiretruth?

Iturnawayandpilepiecesofbaconontomyplate.“So,whoisBria?Didyourmom

decidetotelleveryoneshe’sherdaughter?”

“That’s still undecided.” He steps up beside me, and his chest brushes across my

backashemovesaroundme.

I’m not sure if he did it on purpose or not, but the butterflies make their grand

appearance.“Okay,sodoIpretendIhavenocluewhosheis?”

“Yeah,probably.”Heshovelsamoundofeggsontohisplate.“Asofnow,Iguessmy

mom’s just introducing her as Bria. But when someone finally asks, she’ll have to
decide.” Instead of picking up bacon from the platter, he steals a piece of mine and
stuffsitintohismouth.

“Thief.”Ismackhisarm.
“I learned from the best.” He winks as he pulls out a chair and takes a seat at the

table.

Isitacrossfromhimandsetmyplatedown.“DidyourdadgiveRowanthemoney

she asked for?” When Luca tenses, I quickly add, “You know what, never mind. It’s
noneofmybusiness.”

Hestuffsastripofgreasybaconintohismouth.“No,it’sfine...I’mjusttryingto

decidehowIfeelaboutwhathappened.”Hedazesoffintoemptyspace,chewingonhis
food.“Ididn’tevengettoseeRowan.Shemademydadmeetheratasecretlocation
with the promise that he would come alone with the money. Even though no one
wantedtogiveherthemoney,becauseweallknowwhereit’sgoingtogo,hediditfor
Bria,soIguessit’sworthit.”

Istabmyeggswithafork.“Itsoundslikesomethingstraightoutofamovie.”
“KnowingRowan,sheprobablygottheideafromamovie.”Hedistractedlypushes

theeggsaroundonhisplate.“Weusedtobeclose,butnowIfeellikeIhavenoidea
whosheisanymore...MaybeIneverdid.”

“IthinkIknowwhatyoumean,”Iwhisper,squeezingthelifeoutoftheforkinmy

hand.

Helooksatmeexpectantly,andIhavethesuddentheurgetotellsomeone—spill

thebeanstohimlikehedidtome.

“Mymom.”Istareatthecracksinthetable.“Ijustfoundoutsomestuffabouther

thatmakesmequestionifIeverknewheratall.ItfeltlikeIdid,butIdon’tknow...
nowitfeelslikeIwasprettycluelessallalong.”

Ifeelguilty.
Confused.
Solost.
Buttheweightonmyshouldersfeelsthetiniestbitlighter.
Henodsunderstandingly,hisgazedroppingtothetattooonhisforearm.“Acouple

ofyearsago,Rowangotheracttogetherforalittlewhileandgotsober.That’swhenmy
momanddadtookustogetthetattoos.Shewantedtogetsomethingthat’dsymbolize
herstrength.Sheseemedsohappytobegettingbetter,butthensuddenlyshewasn’t.

Therewasthisonenightwheresheflippedoutandsaidnooneknewheratall—never
did—andthatshewasmovingouttolivewiththisguywhohadarepforsellingdrugs.
..ThatwasprettymuchthelasttimeIsawher.”

IdeliberatetellinghimaboutthelasttimeIsawmymom,howshehadmeliefor

her,andhowIwishIhadn’t.“Doyoueverwishyoucouldhaveadoover...doitall
different...saymore?”

“Iguess.ButIknowIcan’t,sothere’snousethinkingaboutit.Idon’tthinkthere’s

anything I could’ve said that would’ve changed my sister’s mind. And even if I did, I
can’tgobackintime,so...”Heshrugs,thentakesabiteofhiseggs.

Inibbleonapieceofbaconwithhiswordsreplayinginmymind.EvenifIcouldgo

back in time, which I can’t, it might not have changed anything. My dad might’ve
alreadyknownabouttheaffair,anyway,andwestillmight’veendeduponthatroad,
heading to the university at precisely the same moment the driver of the semi-truck
lostcontrolofhisvehicle.

“It’snicetohaveBriaaroundagain.It’sdistractingmymom,too,whichisalways

good.” Luca rubs his hands together, grinning wickedly. “It gets her attention off me
andgivesmemoretimetodostuffIwanttodo,likerockclimbinglessons.”

“Goodluckwiththat.”Collectingmyplate,Iscootthechairbackfromthetable,the

legsgrindingagainstthefloor.“Eastontotallyexaggeratedonhowawesometherock
wallishereinHoneyton.ItookNikolithereonce,anditwasseriouslymaybetenfeet
high.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Luca picks up his plate and heads to the sink with me. “I just

wanttogetoutofthehouseanddosomethingfun.”

“Whenareyougoingtodoit?”Iask,tossingmypaperplateintothetrashcan.
“Probablywhenschoolstartsupagain.”Hedropshisforkintothesinkandtheplate

into the garbage, then casts a glance at the doorway as Bria shouts something about
wantingtoopenpresents.“ThatwayIcanjustdrivetherestraightafterschoolwithout
havingtoansweranendlessamountofquestions.”Hepullsoffhisknitcapandtucksit
inhisbackpocket.Hisbrownhairisaskew,andagain,Ihavethatcompulsiontorun
my fingers through the strands and fix them back into place. “What?” he asks,
amusedlycurious.

IbecomeembarrassinglyawarethatI’mgawkingathim,soIstartmovingthedirty

pansonthestoveintothesinktodistractmyfingersfromactingonmycrazythoughts.
“Nothing.Iwasjustthinkinghowwe’renotgoingtobefriendsanymoreonceschool
starts.”

“So,you’refinallyadmittingwe’refriends?”heteases.“Man,whendidthathappen?

AndhowthehelldidImissit?”

“Idon’tknow.Probablybecauseyouweresofocusedontryingtoweaselyourway

intomylife,”Iretort,settingthegriddleintothesink.

“Yeah,youdidmakemeworkreallyhard.”Hepauses,consideringsomething.“But

whydon’tyouthinkwe’llbefriendswhenschoolstarts?Because,withhowhardIhad
toworkforthisawesomefriendship,”heflashesmealightheartedsmile,“Idon’tthink
I’mgoingtoletitgoveryeasily.”

“It won’t be your choice.” I turn around and tense when I realize how close he’s

standingtome.Hestaresdownatme,hisgazeflickingtomylips,andallIcanthinkis,

holy shit, is he going to kiss me? And then I think, holy shit, I want him to kiss me.
Panicking,Istumbleback.“Idon’thavefriendsatschool,notanymore,anyway.”

He seems disappointed but tries to hide it, carrying on the conversation without

missing a beat. “What about the guy who picked you up that day? You’re not friends
withhimatschool?”

“He’snotinhighschool.”IrubthespotonmyarmwhereMillergrabbedme.The

bruiseshavefaded,buteverytimeIrememberthefeelofhisfingersonmyskin,Iget
nauseated. “And we’re not really friends anymore . . . We haven’t been since you
pickedmeupfromtheparty.”

“What?Didyoufinallyrealizehe’sanasshole?”
“Moreorless,”Isayinatightvoice.
“You never really explained to me what happened that night.” He struggles for

words, scratching at his tattoo. “You said he almost did something, but never
explained.”

Myheartratequickens.“Becauseitdoesn’tneedmoreexplaining.Whathappened

withMiller...it’sinthepast.”

“Iknow,butsometimesifyoudon’tdealwithstuff,evenifithappenedinthepast,

thenitcanseriouslymessyouup.”

“Yousoundlikeyou’respeakingfromexperience.”
“MaybeIam.”Hestepscloser,andIwantnothingmorethantoeliminatethesmall

spacebetweenus.

I grip onto the counter. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be lecturing me about not

dealing.”

“Itellyouwhat.Ifyoutellmewhat’sgoingonwithyou,I’lltellyouwhathappened

tome,”hesays,likeit’sthateasy.

“I don’t know if I can handle anymore secrets . . . yours or my own.” My gaze is

gluedtothefloor.I’mtooafraidtolookathim,tooafraidthatmyexpressionwillgive
awayhowterrifiedIamwhenIthinkofthatnight.“IwilltellyouthatIfoundoutjust
howbigofanassholeMilleris.”

“Didhe...”Heshiftshisweight,seeminguneasy.“Didhehurtyou?”
Ourgazescollide,andmyvoicecomesoutallwobbly.“Evenifhedid,I’llheal.”
Hiseyesdartupanddownmybody,asifcheckingforwounds.“Aguyactedlikean

assholetomysisteronce,andshesaidshe’dheal,butsheneverreallydid.”

“Luca.” The ice around my heart momentarily melts. “What you’re thinking

happened,didn’t.Itoldyouinthecarthatsomethingalmosthappened,butthat’swhyI
leftandwaswalkingdowntheroad.”

Ittakeshimamomenttospeak,andwhenhedoes,hisvoiceisgentle.“Youpromise

you’renotfriendswithhimanymore?”

“EvenifIwantedtobe,itwouldn’tmatter.He’sprobablygoingtojail.”
“Butyoushouldn’twanttobe.”
“I know I shouldn’t, but sometimes life is easier when I’m with him, at least for a

while,andwhenlifegetshard,Iwanttobewithhim...Ifthatmakesanysense.”Itug
atmypantlegandpointatthebraceletaroundmyankle.“Butitdoesn’treallymatter.
WhetherIwanttoseehimagainornot,Ican’tbecauseofthislovelything.Myvery
ownScarletLetter.”

“Hatetobreakittoyou,butyou’venevercomeoffasarebeltome,eventhough

you’vetried,”hesaysrightasBriahollerssomethingaboutpresentsagain.

Ilowermypantlegovertheanklebracelet.“SometimesIam.”
“Not with me, though.” He laces his fingers through mine, startling me, not just

fromhistouch,butfromthetruthofhiswords.“Now,comeon.Let’sgoopenpresents
beforeBriathrowsafit.”

“Itsoundslikeshe’salreadythrowingone.”Iwanttojerkmyhandawayfromhis,

yetIdon’t.Do.Don’t.Can’t.Can.Have.Want.Need.WhatdoIwant?Him.Sostinking
badly.“Andmyhairdoesn’tlooklikegrapebubblegum.Ican’tbelieveshesaidthat.”

“Meeither.It’slikegrapeSkittles,notgum.Speakingofwhich,”hestuffshishand

into his shirt pocket and pulls out a baggie filled with yellow, red, orange, and green
skittles.“Theseareforyou,foreatingyourdeliciousbrownietheotherday.”

For unknown reasons, my skin turns lukewarm. “Where’s all the purple ones?” I

ask,takingthebagfromhim.

Grinning,heretrievesanotherbagfromhispocket.Thatonefilledwithallpurple.

“Thoseareforme.”Heopensthebagandpopsahandfulintohismouth.“Idon’tcare
whatyousay.Purpletastesthebest.”

Myskingoesfromlukewarmtoflaminghot.Feelingwayoutofmyelement—way

toomuchliketheoldGets-Easily-EmbarrassedAnna—Islipmyhandfromhisandlimp
intothelivingroom.

Ihearhimchucklefrombehindmebutdon’tlookback,mostlybecauseI’mafraid

I’llwanthimtoholdmyhandagain.

We spend the rest of the morning sitting in a circle around the Christmas tree,

opening presents and eating the cake Easton made. It’d be just like old times, except
mymomanddadaren’there,JessamineisinLondon,andAlexisrefusestojoinus.A
huge chunk of the life I once had—the family I once knew—is gone, and celebrating
feelswrong.

Howareyousupposedtobehappyafteryoulosesomeone?
LikeZharawho’shandingoutpresentswithahugesmileonherface.Whetherit’s

fakehappyornot,shehasn’tsunkintoabottomlesspitofself-destructionlikeIhave.
AndLokiseemsprettycontenteatinghiscakeandcrackingjokeswithLuca’sdad.Even
Nikolidoesn’tseemassulkywhenheopensthepresentZharagothim.

Watchingthemwithoutaveilovermyeyesmakesmesicktomystomach,andguilt

gnawsatmefromtheinsideasIthinkofalltheshitI’veputthemthrough.Ishould
makeituptothemsomehow,trytodosomethingnice.

For the day, I decide that I’m going to try and act like a normal person who isn’t

burdened by loss and secrets. I don’t need to be the old Anna to do so, just a nicer
versionofwhoeverthehellIamnow.

“Andthisone’sfrommeandJack,”Tammysaysasshepicksupasmallboxfrom

besideherfeetandhandsittoLoki.

“Youdidn’thavetogetmeanything.”Lokilookshappilysurprisedasheplucksthe

glitteringredbowoffandsticksitonZhara’shead.Thenheripsoffthesilverandgold
wrappingpaperandliftsthelidoffthebox.Hisexpressionwarmsashereachesinand
removesanavybluetie.“Thanks,youguys.”Heclutchesthetieinhishand,onestep
awayfromtearingup.

Tammy leans over and gently pats his knee. “I remember the other day how you

saidyoudidn’thaveanythatweren’tyourdad’s.Wethoughthavingyourownwould
comeinhandyfor...”SheglancesatNikoli,Zhara,andme.“Stuff.”

Lokinodshisheadupanddown.“Thanks.”Heclearshisthroatthenquicklystands

up.“IjustrememberedIforgottoturnthestoveoff.”Heducksoutoftheroomwith
hisheaddown,squeezingthelifeoutofthetie.

Zharastartstogetuptogoafterhim,butIgripontoherkneeandshakemyhead.

“Givehimaminute,okay?”

Reluctantly,shenodsandtakesaseatbackdownonthefloor.
TheroomgrowsquietuntilBriajumpsup.“Iwanttogooutsideandplaywithmy

bubbles!”sheexclaims,fistpumpingherbubblewandintotheair.Shedoesastrange
little dance that looks like a mix between disco, tap dancing, and a chicken running
around.

Weallexchangealookandthenbustuplaughing.It’snoteventhatfunny,yetitis.

Just like laughing feels wrong, yet it doesn’t. Nothing really makes sense at the
moment,otherthanIdon’tfeelsoheavy,somaybeI’llstoptryingtofigureitallout.

“OurBria,”Tammysighswithacontentsmile.“She’salwayslovedtodance.That’s

whyweputherindancelessons.”

“MymomanddaddidthesamethingwithAnna.”Zharapeeksoveratmetoassess

myreaction.

“Yeah,IheardAnnawasquitethedancer.OneofStella’smostpromisingstudents..

.”Tammypressesherlipstogether,glancingatmeworriedly.

Stellaismyformerdanceinstructor,andIcanalmosthearhersaying,Thegirlthat

usedtohavesomuchpotential,ifonlyherlegwouldn’thavegottenmessedup...

“She’lllikeit,”Isay,glancingatBriabouncingupanddown.“Andit’llbeagreatway

forhertogetherenergyout.”

Tammysmiles,glancingathergranddaughter.“Bria’salwaysbeenareallywound

upgirl.Hermotherwaslikethat,too,whenshewasyounger.”

MygazedartstoLucawho’ssittingonthestepinfrontofthefireplacewithhislegs

bentandaplatebalancedonhisknees.

Herollshistongueinhismouth,containingasmile,butI’msurehe’srelievedhis

momdecidednottogowiththewholeI-suddenly-have-a-daughterstory.

“Bubbles!Bubbles!”Briachants,tuggingonTammy’sarm.“Comeon,Grandma.”
IfTammydidn’tjustoutitherself,Briawould’vejustdoneitforher.
“Allright,I’mgettingup.”TammygetsBriabundledupinacoatbeforethetwoof

themandJackheadoutside,sayingthey’llbebackinabittohelpcleanupthescrapsof
wrappingpaperlayingaroundthelivingroom.

“I’mgoingtogowatchthegame,”Nikoliannounces,pushingtohisfeet.“Youwant

tocome?”heasksLuca.

IobserveLuca’sreaction,wonderingifhe’safootballkindofguy.Infact,Iwondera

lotofthingsabouthim,whathelikesotherthancandyandteasingme.

He doesn’t seem all that eager, but still says, “Yeah, give me a bit. I need to give

Annaherpresentfirst.”

Nikoli gives me a perplexed look. “You can come, too, if you want,” he tells me,

tossingandcatchingthefootballLokijustgavehim.

Eversincehecameintomyroom,askingmetodoourfamilyafavor,wehaven’t

spoken.Andsincewehardlytalkedbeforethat,hisoffercatchesmeoffguard.

“Maybe I will.” I shrug, scraping up the frosting on my plate. “In fact, I probably

will.”

SomeofNikoli’sanxiousnessalleviates,andheheadsforthestairwaywithabounce

inhisstep.

Zharagoesrightintocleaningmode,jumpingupandpickinguppiecesofwrapping

paper.

“Just leave it for a while.” I snatch hold of her hand when she reaches for a bow

nearmyfoot.

Sheshakesherheadanxiously.“Ineedtoclean.Thisplaceisamess.”
“MomnevercleanedonChristmas,”Iremindher.Whenshelookstorn,Ipressthe

issue,“Justletitgofortoday,andI’llhelpyoucleanituptomorrow.”

She tucks a curl behind her ear, and her cat eyes bore into mine. “Why are you

beingsonice?”

Ishrug,flickingafewstraypineneedlesoffmylegs.“Callitanactofinsanitydueto

toomuchcakeandcandytoday.”

ShesneaksaglanceinLuca’sdirection,andIcanseeherwheelsturning.Iwantto

demand that she stop overanalyzing my change in behavior, but I’m not about to do
thatinfrontofLuca.

“Fine.I’llleaveituntiltomorrow,butonlyifyou’llwatchamoviewithmetonight.

Ahappyone.”Shecringes,butsticksoutherhandtoshakeonit.“Noneofthatblood
andgutsstuffyou’vebeenwatchinglately.”

Irunmythumbalongtheleather-studdedwatchonmywristthatshejustgaveme.

Clearly, she took into account the things I like. “Fine.” I shake her hand and seal the
dealdespitehowmuchIdon’twanttowatchahappymovie

“Thank you, Anna.” Her smile goes poof. “I have no idea what to do with myself

now.”

“YoucanstayhereandwatchAnnaopenherpresent,”Lucasuggests,scootingdown

ontothefloorbesidemewithagiftinhishand.“Maybe,ifyou’relucky,she’llshareone
of them with you.” He sets the box on my lap then rests back on his hands, looking
totallyentertainedbymybefuddlement.

I tentatively shake the box wrapped in purple wrapping paper, and it rattles.

“Hmmm...Letmeguess.Ahugeassboxofcandy.”

“You’llhavetoopenitupandsee.”Hiseyessparklemischievously.
Ipickatacreaseinthepaper,butfinallygrowinpatientandjusttearintoit.“It’s...

Sparklers.”

LiketheFourthofJulysparklersmydadusedtogivemeformybirthday.Iglance

upathim,graspingtheboxinmyhand,andhesmiles,butIcantellhe’snervousby
thewayhekeepswipinghispalmsonhispantlegs.

“Ijustwantedtogetyousomethingfun,”heexplains,sittingupstraight.“Ithought

maybewecouldgooutandlightthemupinthedriveway.”

Iwanttotosstheboxintothefireplaceandrunawayasitexplodes.Forgetabout

ChristmasandpresentsandFourthofJulys,butthenwhatthehellwouldIdo?Situpin
myroomandfeeleveryemotion,allalone.

“Okay?”Itsoundslikeaquestion.
“Wedon’thaveto,”hesaysquickly.“Wecanjusthangoutandwatchthegameif

youwant.”

“Didn’tpegyouforafootballfan,”Imockwithagrin.
Heliftshisshoulders,givinganehshrug.“I’mnot.”Heflickstheboxinmyhand.

“I’m more of a let’s-do-something-adventurous kind of guy, but I’m always up for
anything.”

Istareatthebox.WhatdoIwanttodo?
WhatdoIwant?
Ihavenodamnclue.
“Wecanlightacouple,”Isaywithashrug,pretendingtobemorecomposedthanI

reallyam.

“Areyousure?”
“Positive.”Istumbletomyfeet,justtoprovethatI’mcompletelyandtotallysure.
“Awesome.Let’sdothis,then.”Lucapicksuptheboxofsparklersandfollowsmeto

thefoyer.

I slip on my boots while Luca zips up his hoodie then we head outside to the

driveway.

“Where’syourmom,dad,andBria?”Iask,glancingathisemptyyardnextdoor.
“Whoknows?Maybetheytookofftotheparkforawhile,likeBriawantedto,”he

answers,kickingthetipofhissneakeragainsttheconcrete.

“She’salivelyone,”Iremark,buttoningupmyleatherjacket.
He sighs, lifting his gaze to mine, seeming uneasy. “She’s been running around,

jumpingoneverythingsinceshegotheretheothernight.Ithinkshemightbestarved
forattentionorsomething.”

“It’sgoodthatyourmomdecidedtosayshewashergranddaughter,though,right?”
Henods,looseningup.“ThatwasprobablythebestpresentIcouldgetfromher.”
“Speaking of presents. What’s up with your mom giving Loki a tie? And when did

theygetsoclose?Idon’tgetit.Theyactlikethey’vebeenhangingoutorsomething.”

“Maybetheyhave.”Hefiddleswithhiszipper,draggingitupanddown.
“Youknowsomething,don’tyou?”Whenherefusestomeetmygaze,Iinchtothe

sideandstepinhislineofvision,forcinghimtolookatme.

Hesighs.“Ican’ttellyou.”
Iputmyhandsonmyhips.“Whynot?”
“BecauseIpromisedIwouldn’t.”
Ishouldjustbackoff,letitgo,butwithallthesecrecy,I’mgettingworried.JustlikeI

sensedsomethingwasn’trightwithmymomonmybirthday,Icantellsomething’sup,
butunlikemybirthday,I’mnotgoingtolooktheotherway.

Steppingclosertohim,IplacemyhandsonLuca’sshoulders.“Pleasetellme.Ineed

toknow;otherwise,it’sgonnadrivemecrazy.”

“Idon’tknowifIshould.”Hestaresatmylips,andhisfingersshakeashispalms

moldaroundmywaist.

“Please.” I jut out my lip, using a move Cece used to do all the time when she

wanted to get her way. I honestly don’t expect it to work—I’ve never been all suave
andperfectlikeCece—butLucaseemsfixatedwithmymouth,andslowly,hecaves.

“She’sbeenhelpinghimmakesurehehaseverythinginorderforFamilyServices,”

hesaysquietly.“Iguessthey’vebeenkeepinganeyeonyouguys,andwithallthe...”
hewinces,“stuffgoingon,they’requestioningifhecanhandletheresponsibility.Since
mymom’s gone through somesimilar stuff with Rowan,she’s been helping him out.
Although,yourbrother’sahellofalotmoreresponsiblethanmysistereverwas.”

My scars blaze as guilt eats me from the inside out. “This is all my fault.” I move

back,myhandsfallingtomysides.“God,everything’ssoscrewedup.”Islumpagainst
thesideofthegarage,staringatthetiretrackspermanentlystainedonthepavement
from the time I braked too hard when my father first taught me to drive. “I wish I
couldgoback...andmakedifferentchoices.”

“Butyoucan’t.”Lucaoffersmeasadsmile.“Youcanchangewhatyoudofromnow

on,though.”

Ishutmyeyesasthecoldbreezestingsmycheeks.“Yousaythatlikeit’seasy.”
“It’snot,andsomepeopleareneverabletodoit,evenwhentheytry...likemy

sister.” He pauses, and when I open my eyes, he’s standing closer than I anticipated.
“Some people do, though. And you don’t have to do it alone . . . you have a ton of
people who can help you. Loki, Zhara, even my mom would be more than happy to
helpyou.”Withapuckerathisbrow,hepresseshislipstogetherandcupsmycheek,
smoothinghisthumbacrossmyskinbeforepullingaway.“Andyeah,Ikindofwantto
help,too.”

I swallow hard, pressing my hands to the garage as my legs turn into noodles. “It

seemscrazy,wantingtohelpsomeonewhenyoudon’tevenknowthem...Yourlife
wouldbeeasierifyoudidn’t.”

“My life’s never been easy, but do you know what’s really easy?” he asks, and I

shakemyhead.Withahintofasmileonhisface,hereachesout,andIthinkhe’sgoing
tograbme,butinsteadhetapstheboxofsparklersI’mholding.“Lightingsparklers.”

Ifrownwarilyatthebox.“That’sactuallyharderthanitseems.”
Suddenly, a gust of wind scatters the dead leaves across grass, and the cloudy sky

grumbles,warningusofanimpendingstorm.Claspingthelighterinonehand,Iopen
theboxandwiggletwosparklersout.

CanIdothis?
IgiveonetoLucathenfumbletolightthelighter.
AmIreallygoingtodothis?
Blameitonmynerves,butIcan’tgetthedamnthingtowork.
MaybeIshouldn’tdothis?
Finally, Luca pries my fingers off it, flicks the top, and creates a steady flame. He

lightshisfirstthen,holdingitoutasifitwereamagicwand,silverysparksshootout.

“Putyoursuptomine,”heinstructs,stuffingthelighterintohisbackpocket.
Witha deep breath, Ikiss the tip ofhis sparkler with mine. Oh, my god, I’m really

doingthis.Theyhissastheflamesaglow.

Imovethesparklerinacircleinfrontofme.“Wow.”Iforgothowmagicalasimple

fireworkcouldbe,andforamoment,Iseetheworldthroughmyoldeyes,lituplike
firefliesthatIswearIcouldcatchifIjuststickoutmyhand.

For the next few minutes, Luca and I play around in the driveway, going through

sparkleraftersparkler,gigglinglikeacoupleofkidsasweclumsilyskiparound.When

itcomesdowntothelastone,helightsitupandhandsittome.

Asthesparklerreachesthehalfwaypoint,Lucamovesupbehindmeandcircleshis

arms around my waist, covering my hand with his so we’re both holding onto it. His
breathticklesmyearashelaughsandtraceslettersintheair.Myhandmoveswithhis,
but I can barely focus on what he’s writing. I’m too distracted by his chest pressed
againstmyback,hiswarmfingerscoveringmine,howveryaliveIfeelinthatmoment,
andhowterrifiedIam.

“Luca,Ithink...”Itrailoffashestretchesourarmsouttothesideandfixeshis

fingerundermychin.Turningmyheadtowardhim,hiseyessearchmine,thenslowly,
heleansin.

When our lips brush, the sparkler crackles, but I hardly hear it as the beat of my

racingheartfillsmyears.Hetasteslikefrosting,andhislipsfeelsogoodagainstmine
thatit’smind-blowingbecauseIcanfeelit.Feeleverything.Thesoftnessofhismouth.
Thelittlebreathshekeepstaking.Thewarmthofhisfingersagainstmycheek.Thiskiss
issodifferentfromkissingMiller.Lessnumbing,moredevouring,consuming,moreof
aconnection,morefeel-and-breathe-the-moment.

I turn around, press my chest against his, and fall into the kiss. Still holding the

burningsparklerouttothesideofus,heslideshistongueintomymouth,backingus
up. I grasp onto him, letting him slowly guide me backwards until my back brushes
againstthesideofthehouse.

Pressing his chest and hips against mine, he deepens the kiss, his tongue softly

tanglingwithmine.It’severythingI’vealwayswantedinakiss.EverythingIthoughtI
couldn’t have and still don’t know if I deserve. I don’t know what I’m doing. Don’t
know what I’m going to do when it ends. But right now, I don’t care. That control I
always felt with Miller doesn’t exist with Luca. There’s no control at all, over my
emotions,overmymouth,overanything.

Ikisshimback,bitinghisbottomlip,andhegroansinresponse.Hisfreehandcups

the side of my neck, and he murmurs my name as his lips trace a path down my
jawlinetomyneck.Whenhesucksonmyskin,Itipmyheadbackandstareupatthe
cloudsrightasaraindropsplattersacrossmyforehead.

I shut my eyes. I’m not going to let the rain ruin this. Putting a sliver of space

betweenus,Icuphisfaceandmovehislipsbacktomine.Wekissasthecloudsrain
down on us. Kiss until I can’t breathe. Kiss until the sparkler hisses, shooting its final
spark,whichendsuplandingrightonthebackofmyhand.

Ijerk,gaspingforairasmyfleshburns.
“What’swrong?”Lucaasks,breathingraggedly,anarmoneithersideofme.
“It’snothing.Ijust...”Ablisterisalreadyformingonmyhand.Thestormkicksup.

Rain drizzles over me—reality crashes over me. How perfect this kiss really was and
howthisiswhatIwantedmyfirstkisstobe.HowIwishmymomwerehere,soIcould
tellheraboutit.HowmuchIreally,reallyenjoyedthekiss.HowmuchI’mreallyhere,
in this moment, feeling everything. All of it. The good. The bad. Everything. “I-I’m
sorry,”Isputter,thenhurryforthehouse,runningawayfromwhatI’mfeelinglikeI
alwaysdo.

Butlikewithmyleg,I’vedonetoomuchtoofast,andnoweverypartofmeaches.
BythetimeIstumbleintomybedroom,I’msobbingsohardIcan’tgetanyoxygen

intomylungs.Icollapsetothefloorandcrawltowardmybed.ButIhavenoenergy
leftinsideme,andIendupcurledupinaball,cryingonthefloor.

“Anna,”Zharasaysasshecracksopenthedoor.
Irolltowardmybedtohidethetearsinmyeyes.
“Iseverythingokay?”sheaskstentatively.
Ishakemyheadwhiletearsstreamdownmycheeks.
“Oh,Anna.”Sheliesdownonthefloorandwrapsherarmsaroundme.
Myshieldrupturesandeverythingtrappedinsidemebleedsout.
“ImissMom,”Iwhisperthroughmysobs.ImissthemomIgrewupknowing.The

onewhotookcareofme.Thekind,caringpersonIoncewantedtobelike.Imissthe
momIwasn’teversoangrywith.Themomthatwouldhaveheldme,huggedme,told
meshelovedme.ThemomIloved.

“Metoo,”shesays,huggingmetightly.
Isobuncontrollablyagain,andmybodytrembles.
“It’sokay,”Zharasays.“Justletitallout.”
Idoexactlywhatshesays,andletitalloutbecauseintheend,it’seithershutdown

androtawaymore.

Orjustletgo.
Justletgo,Anna.

Chapter15

I spend the next few days staying away from the guy next door. Not because I’m
blowingoffLuca.Ijusthaven’tfiguredoutwhattosaytohim.Overthenextfewdays,
hetextsmeafewtimesandtriestocallonce,butonNewYear’sDayIdon’thearapeep
fromhim.

For most of the morning, I lounge around on the couch with Zhara, streaming

movies, comedies per her request. Today, Easton gave me a break from physical
therapy,andI’mgladjusttospendtimesittingonmyassbecausemyleghurts,maybe
even more than it did pre-therapy. Then again, I’m completely, one-hundred percent
sober,whichmeanseverything—mymind,mybody,mysenses—iscrystalclear.Too
clear sometimes, especially when it comes to all of the horrible stuff I’ve done, like
getting arrested, getting drunk, refusing to show any sympathy to my brothers and
sisterswho’vebeengoingthroughthesamestuffIhave.

“So...What’supwithyouandLuca,”Zharasaysunexpectedlyasthecreditsroll

acrossthescreen.

“Nothing. Why are you askin’?” During my meltdown on my bedroom floor, I

accidentally let it slip out that I was crying over kissing Luca. I learned that Overly
EmotionalAnnabellasucksatkeepingherlipszipped.

“Noreason.”Shesitsupandtucksherfeetunderherbutt.“Ijusthaven’treallyseen

himsinceChristmas.”

“Butit’snotlikewehungoutthatmuchbeforeChristmas,”Isay,bendingmyknee

underneathme.

“Oh,Anna.”ShegivesmealookasifI’mtheyoungersisterwho’sdenseaboutguys.

“Really?”

“Don’t‘oh,Anna,really’me,”Islipouttheelasticinmyhairandcombmyfingers

throughthestrands.“Ithink,atleastfornow,maybeLucaandIshouldjustbefriends.”

Sheflicksapopcornkerneloffherlap.“Haveyoutoldhimthat?”
Ishakemyhead.“ButIwill.”
“Promise?”sheasks,shovingthesleevesofherpinkthermalshirtup.“Becausehe

seemslikeareallyniceguywholikesyoualotandcaresaboutyou.Iknowyou’renot
usedtothat.”

“Iknow.”Ilightlyrubmyhandovermythighwheretheelevatedscarsarehidden

belowmyplainpajamabottoms.“And,Zhara,I’mnotdatingMilleranymore.Inever
reallywas.”

“Good.”Shebeamshappily,scoopingupahandfulofpopcornfromthebowlthat’s

inbetweenus.“I’mgladyoutwoareover.Ineverlikedhimthatmuch.”

“Noonedid.”ButtherearetimeswhenImissthefreedomMillergaveme.
It’snotreallyMillerhimselfthatImiss,justthenumbness,drinking,anddrugshe

provided for me. Those feelings of longing to self-medicate come in sporadic spouts
whenlifegetsreallyunbearable,likeafteranightmareoranagonizingtherapysession,

whereIworkmyassoff,orwhenIthinkofmymomanddadandhowthey’renothere
withus.

Butthere’salsoanotherpartofmethat’salmost...relievedtobeoutoftheworld

ofdrugsthatleadsyoutonowherebutdown,down,down,untilyoufinallycrash.

“And just so you know, I really like Luca.” Zhara points the remote at the TV and

clicksoffthescreen.“Heseemslikehe’dbeareallygoodboyfriend,whenyoudecide
youwantone.”

“Zhara,yousawmetheothernight,”Isay.“I’mnotsureI’mreadyforaboyfriend.”
“Andthat’sokay,too.”Shebouncesinthecushionassheturnstofaceme.“Okay,I

haveanidea,andyoucantotallysayno,butIwanttoaskjustincaseyoufeel,Idon’t
know,likedoingsomethingdifferent.”Shepauses,andImotionforhertospititout.
“I’mgoingtoFaceTimeJessaminethismorning,andIwantyoutodoitwithme.”She
holdsupherhand,silencingmebeforeIcanevengetawordout.“Iknowwhatyou’re
going to say, but you’re wrong. Deep down, you want to talk to her. And just think,
whateveryoutellherstaysallthewayoverinLondonwithher.Noonewillknowbut
Jessamine.”

“ButwhatifIdon’treallyhaveanythingtosay?”Inibbleonafewpiecesofbuttery

popcorn,rememberingwhatcausedmetopullawayfromJessamine.

Rightaftermyparents’funeral,shewasgettingintoataxitogototheairportsoshe

couldfly‘home.’IhatedthatshecalledLondonherhome,hatedthatshewasleaving
us,butmostofall,IwasjealousbecauseshecouldleaveheroldlifewhileIwasstuck
init,evenwhenInolongerfeltlikeIbelonged.Yes,Iwasselfish.Yes,Imessedup.But
IwasconfusedaboutlifeandwhatIwassupposedtodofromthere.

“Then you can just wave and sit with me while I talk.” Zhara seizes my hand and

liftsmetomyfeetassheleapsup.“Comeon.Ipromiseyouwon’tregretit.”

IbegrudginglyletherleadmeuptoherbedroomwhereIsitdowninfrontofher

laptop opened up on her bed and attempt to figure out what I’m going to say to
Jessamine.It’sbeenmonthssincewe’vespoken,andIhavenoexcuseotherthanIwas
confusedaboutmyself,myfamily,life.

Withafewclicksofthemouseandcoupleoftapsonthekeyboard,Zharasetsupthe

video chat. The computer makes a dinging nose, and then I’m staring at my older
sister.

Shelooksthesameasshedidatthefuneral,exceptherhairisshorternowandher

mascara isn’t running. “Anna?” She squints at the screen, leaning in closer to get a
betterlook.“Isthatyou?”

“Yep.”Imusterupasmile.“Hey.”
“Oh,mygod!”Herearsplittingsquealissoloudthatthespeakershortsout.“I’mso

happyyou’retalkingtome.It’sbeenwaytoolong.”

“Yeah, I guess it has.” We stare at each other for a minute until I grow

uncomfortableoverwhoshe’sseeing.StoicAnnabella,orthereal,raw,Doesn’t-Have-a-
ClueAnna.“Youcutyourhair.”

“Yep.Acoupleofdaysago,actually.”Adeviousgrinspreadsacrossherface.“But,

dude,what’swiththepurplehair?”

“Hey,don’tmockthehair.Ilikeit.”Icollectthelaptop,balanceitonmylap,andsit

backagainstthemoundsofpillowsonZhara’sbed.

“Iactuallydo,too.”Shetapsherfingeragainstherchin.“Youdoneedtotouchup

thoseroots,though.”

“I’mwaitinguntilIdecidewhatcolorIwanttodyeit.”Iliftastrandofmyhairin

frontofmyface.“Iwasthinkingmaybeadifferentcolor,butIcan’tdecidewhichone.”

Zhara reclines back beside me with a bottle of nude nail polish in her hand. She

stretchesoutherlegsandswipesthebrushacrosshertoenail.“Ithinkyoushoulddo
brownandleaveafewstreaksofpurple.”

Oldandnew?Isitreallythateasy?Idon’tknowwhattothink,ifIlovetheidea,hate

it,wantit.

“We’ll see.” I let my hair fall back to my shoulders. “I can’t dye it until after

Christmasbreak’sover,though,sinceIcan’tleavethehouse.”

“Yeah,Iheardaboutthat.”Jessaminefoldsherarmsonherdesk.“Youwanttotalk

aboutwhat’sbeengoingonwithyou?”

“Life.”Ishrug,becauseIcan’tthinkofanythingelsetosay.
“Youseemlikeyou’restrugglingwithit.”
“Iam...was...confused.”
“IsitanythingIcanhelpwith?”
Ishakemyhead.“Idon’tthinkso.IjustneedtofigureoutwhoIam,Iguess.”
Shegivesmeanunderstandingsmile.“That’sprobablyoneofthehardestthingsto

do, especially at your age. I remember right after I graduated, I had no clue what I
wantedtodo,otherthanIdidn’twanttostayinHoneyton.”

“I used to have it all figured out.” I stare down at my toes, pointing and flexing

them.Theyusetocurlsoprettily,butnowtheleftfootcanhardlymove.“Butnotso
muchanymore.AndIthink...Ithinkmaybethat’swhythingshavebeensohard.”

“That’sokay...Stuffhappensandsometimeswehavetochangeourplans,right?”

Shestaresatsomethingtothesideofthescreen,andIwonderwhatshe’slookingat.

“Arewetalkingaboutmeoryounow?”
Sighing,shedirectsherattentionbacktome.“I’mnotsure.”Sheperksup,squaring

her shoulders. “But if you ever feel like doing something really crazy, you can come
hangoutwithmeinLondon.Itgetslonelysometimes.”

“I’ll think about it.” I glance at Zhara as she swipes the brush across my toenail,

paintingthenailashimmeringpink.“Really,Zhara?Pink?”

Sheappliesastrokeofnailpolishtoanothertoe.“What?Itlooksniceonyou.And

youusedtowearpinkallthetime.”

Deciding to pick my battles, I concentrate on Jessamine. “Can we talk about

somethingthatdoesn’thaveanythingtodowithme,please?Tellmesomethingcoolor
happygoingonwithyou.BecauseIhaven’theardmuchhappyorcoolstuffinawhile.”

“Hmmm...Well,I’mseeingaguy.He’sfromtheStates,actually.”
“Tellmeabouthim.Ishecrazyandmysterious,likethatoneguyyoudated,orishe

morelikeMilo,allhappyandpositiveallthetime?”

“He’snothinglikeMilo,”shesays,gettingafarawaylookinhereyesbeforeblinking

backatme.“Andbesides,MiloandIwere—are—justfriends.”

“That’swhatyouguysalwayssaid,buttherewereacoupleoftimesthatI’mpretty

sureIwalkedintoyourbedroomandcaughtyouguysfoolingaround.”

Shejabsafingeratthescreen,bitingbackagrin.“Iknowwhattimeyou’retalking

about, and I swear to god, we weren’t fooling around. Milo was just showing me his
scars.”

Aconnivinggrinspreadsacrossmyface.“Werehisscarsonhis—”
Zhara’s hand covers my mouth, her cheeks flushed. “Anna, watch your mouth.”

When she removes her hand, Jessamine and I laugh at her. “You guys are ridiculous
andsogross.”

“Oh,mysweet,naïveZhara.”Jessaminesighs.“Oneday,there’sgoingtobeaguy

you’lllikeenoughtowanttoseehis,”shemakesairquotes,“scars.”

Zharahuffs,workingtogetallriledup,butitdoesn’tgoverywellforher,andshe

endsupsimmeringdownandreturningtotoenailpainting.

“Whataboutyou,Anna?”Jessaminesays.“Youdatinganyone?”
Curious,Zharawatchesmyreaction.
“Howmuchhaveyouheard?”IaskJessamine,resistingtheurgetotouchmylipsas

Irememberthekiss.

Hetastedsogood,likecakeandSkittles,andIsweartogod,Icanstilltasteitnow.
“Zhara told me about some guy with blue hair getting you into a lot of trouble,”

Jessamine’stonecarriescaution,“butshewasn’tsureifyouwerereallydatinghim.”

“ThatwouldbeMiller.Andhedidn’tgetmeintotrouble.EverythingIdid,”Ipause

asZhara’selbowbumpsthebraceletaroundmyankle,“Ichosetodo.”

“That’saverymaturethingforyoutosay,”Jessaminetellsme.“Now,ifyoucould

stopchoosingtogetintotrouble,thingswouldbegreat.”

“I’mworkingonit.”Mytonewobbles,rawwiththetruth.
“Good.” Intrigue twinkles in her eyes. “Now, tell me about this Luca Zhara says

you’vebeenhangingoutwith.”

IgloweratZhara,butsmilesoshe’llknowI’mpartiallyjoking.
IspendthenexttwentyminutesgivingJessamineafewdetailsaboutLuca,howwe

met, his fascination with candy, and our kiss. Then the three of us talk about Zhara’s
plansforcollege,eventhoughshedoesn’tgraduateforoverayearandahalf,butshe
alreadyhaseverythingplannedout.

Bythetimewesaygoodbye,it’slateafternoon.Wedecidetocleanthehousewhile

NikoliisatfootballpracticeandwhereverAlexiswandersofftoduringtheday.Lokiis
atthestoreuntileight,sowestarttomakedinner,preparingtoringinthenewyear
withchipsandsalsaandchickenquesadillas.

“Remember how Dad always made these every New Year’s?” Zhara asks, skipping

aroundthekitchenislandandtowardthefridge.

I push the chicken around in the skillet with the spatula. “I remember how he

burnedthemeveryyear.”

Zharagigglesasshegrabsabagofshreddedcheese.“Ineverreallygotwhyhewas

theonewhocookedsomuchwhenheclearlysuckedatit.”

Thepepperysmokefunnelingfromthesizzlingpanmakesmyeyeswater.“Because

Momdidn’tlikecooking.”

“She didn’t? I never knew that. I thought she loved cooking. That’s why she was

always baking cakes and brownies and pies.” Her mood plunges. “How could I not
knowthataboutmyownmom?”

“Don’tbeatyourselfup.”Itwistdowntheheatoftheburnerandsprinklealittlesalt

andpepperonthechicken.“Sometimesit’sbetternottoknoweverythingaboutyour
parents.”

“You think so?” she wonders, setting the bag of cheese on the counter beside the

stove.

Ikeepmybacktoher.“Iknowso.TheonlyreasonIknewshehateditisbecauseI

overheardhertalkingtoDadonceaboutit.Shesaidthekitchenwasstartingtofeeltoo
stuffyandsheneededabreak.”Abreakfromallofit,shehadtoldhim.ButIdon’ttell
Zharathat.

Aboutaweeklater,mydadtookontheresponsibilityofcooking,eventhoughhe

suckedatitandworkedatthestoreallday.Ididn’tthinkmuchofituntilnow,buthe
almostseemeddesperatetopleaseher.

“DoyouthinkMomandDadwerehappy?”Zharasputters,soundingterrified.
Ireelaround,clutchingontothecounterforsupport.“Whywouldyouaskthat?”
Sheshrugs,examiningherfingernails.“Sometimes,Ijustwonderifthey—ifanyone

—istrulyhappy.”

Where’s this coming from? I haven’t told anyone about the letter. The more time

thatpasses,thelessitfeelslikeIshould.ButIstillhaven’tbroughtmyselftoburnthe
pieceofpaperyet,wantingtoholdontoitforsomeinsanereason.I’vereaditsomany
times,obsessingovereachword,andwonderifmydaddidthesamething.

“ArewereallytalkingaboutMomandDad?”Iask,gettingaknifeandforkfromthe

drawertocutupthecookedchicken.“Oryou?”

“I’m not sure.” She angles her head forward, staring at her feet. “It’s just hard

sometimes,youknow,toalwaysputonahappyface.”

“Youdon’talwayshavetoputonahappyface,Zhara.Nooneexpectsanyonetobe

happyallthetime,andnooneshouldbehappyallthetime.”

I used to think my mom was happy all the time, but I was so wrong, and looking

back, I realize I was extremely blind. Through the way she always seemed to be
searchingforahiddentalentandallsortsofhobbies.Howshetriedsalsadancingbut
hatedit.Howshe’ddisappearforhoursinherroomsometimes.Howshe’dgetthese
sporadicimpulsestogetoutofthehouse.

“Let’s just go do something,” she’d say. “Anything at all, as long as it’s not sitting

aroundinthehouse.Ican’ttakebeingboredanylonger.”

“Someonehastobehappyinthisfamily,”Zharamutters,interruptingmythoughts.

Shetucksabrowncurlbehindherear.“Nooneelseseemstowanttosmileanymore.”

“You’reallowedtobesadsometimes—weallare.Andtrustme,cryingcanbe...”I

search for the right word that sums up how I felt the other night after I let it all out.
“Kindoftherapeutic,Iguess.”

“Momwouldn’twantmetobesad,”shemumbles,herhandfallingtoherside.Then

likelightning,shegoesfromcloudytosunny,forcingabrightsmileasshelooksupat
me.“Dinnersmellsdelish.”

Iwanttoprymoreoutofher,butbeforeIcanevenstart,someoneknocksonthe

frontdoor.

“Ibetit’sLuca,”shesingsongsasshetearsopenthebagoftortillashells.
“Maybe.”MynervesareajumbledmessasIcrossthekitchentothefoyer.
What do I say to him? How do I explain that I wasn’t really crying over the kiss

withoutgoingintodetailaboutmywhackedoutbrain.

WhenIopenmydoor,IrealizeIhavebiggerproblemsthancuteneighborguysI’ve

beenignoring.

Thewindishowling,theairchillyfromastormbrewing,andinthemiddleofthe

madness, is Miller. He’s standing on my front porch with his hands stuffed into the
pocketsofhistornjeans.Hisbluehairisflattenedononeside,darkcirclesresideunder
his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and red lines cover his cheeks, as if he’s been
scratchingathisskin.

“What’reyoudoinghere?”Iaskthroughthescreendoor.
Herubshishandoverhiseyes,thenscratcheshisarm.“Ijustwantedtoseeyou.”

Hisgazedartsovermyshoulderthenlandsbackonme.“CanIcomeinside?”Without
waitingformetoanswer,hereachesforthescreendoor.

Shakingmyhead,Igrabthehandleandholdtight.“Youneedtoleave.Now.”
He grunts in frustration, dragging his hand down his face and stomping his foot.

“Comeon,Annabella.Ireallyneedyourhelp.”

“I’mnotgivingyouanymoney,ifthat’swhatthisisabout.”
Hescowlsatmebutquicklytriestodazzlemewithagrin.“Look,ifyouloanmea

hundredbucks,I’llgiveyouhalfofwhatIbuy.Icanevengetyousomeofthosepills
youlike.”Hewaggleshiseyebrowsatme.“Yougottabegoingsuperfuckingcrazyat
thispoint,beinglockedupwithoutanything.”

“I’mfine,”Iliethroughmyteeth,andIknowhecanheartheunsteadinessinmy

voice.“Now,goaway.”Istepbacktoclosethedoorwhenhegrabsthehandleofthe
screendoorandyanksitopen.

“Ijustneedahundredbucks.”Heshovesmeintoawallashepusheshiswayinside,

trackinginmudandleavesalloverthefloor.Hiseyesdrinkinthemarblefireplacein
thelivingroom,thestairway,andthechandelierhangingfromtheceiling.“Fuckthe
hundredbucks.Iwantfivehundred.”

“I’mnotgivingyouanymoney.”Isquaremyshouldersandstabmyfingerinthe

directionofthedoor.“Nowgetthehelloutofmyhouse.”

“You’resuchagreedybitch,”hesnaps,hisgazeflittingfrommetothefrontdoor,

thenheshufflesrightandboltsforthestairs.

Iskitteraroundhimandblockhispath,spreadingmyarmsouttothesideofme.

Mylegsaretrembling.Myheartiserratic.I’mscaredtodeath.AndallIcandoisfeelit
—feelitall.“Getthehellout!”

“Anna,what’sgoingon?”Zharaappearsinthedoorwayofthekitchen,clutchinga

tortillashellinherhand.

Miller’sattentionzonesinonher,andthatsickfeelinginmystomachthatIfeltthe

nightheheldmedownspreadsthroughoutmybody.

“Who’sthis?”AsilentthreatblazesinMiller’seyesashislipscurltoasmirk.“That

yoursister?”

Iholdhisgaze.“She’sjustafriend.”
“You’re such a liar.” He looks me dead in the eyes, and I can’t see anything but

hungerinthem.Ahungertofeedwhatever’srottinginsidehim,theaddictionforthe
nexthit,theneedtonumbwhateveritishedoesn’twanttofeel.

IsthatwhatIlookedlikeamonthago?

“Alwayshavebeen.”Heshovesmebackandbarrelsupthestairs.
“Callthepolice,”IyellatZharaasIscrambleupthestairsafterhim.
Wheredidhego?Wheredidhego?
Idashdownthehallway,peekingintoeverybedroomandmydad’soffice.WhenI

findhiminmyparents’bedroom,Ijustaboutloseit.

“Getout!”Iyell,storminginside.
My outburst only seems to encourage him. He frantically dumps out the dresser

drawers,pouringwatches,wallets,oldclothes,andphotosalloverthefloor.

“There has to be some money in here somewhere.” He pokes his head inside the

closet.“Poorpeopledon’tliveinhouseslikethis.”

“Deadpeopledon’thavemoney,”Isayinadesperateattempttogethisattention.
Hestaresatmelikehe’sseeingmeforthefirsttime,clutchinganenvelopeinhis

hand.“Yourparentsaredead?”

“Yes.”Isinkdownontotheedgeofthebed,whichisstillmadeexactlyhowitwas

sevenmonthsago.“So,please,justgetout.”

He rubs his jawline with his free hand. “Maybe I should just be asking you where

themoneyis.Imean,ifthey’redeadandyoustilllivehere,thentheymust’veleftyou
some.” He gets amped up as he paces the floor. “Dude, this is so much better than I
thought.Itotallyluckedoutwithyou.”

IhateMillerinthatmoment,morethanIthinkI’veeverhatedanyone.Evenworse,

Ihatemyselfforeverlettinghimtouchme,forthinkingthatitwasbettertobehigh
andinhisarmsthanlivinginrealitywithmybrothersandsisters.

“I’mnotgivingyouanymoney,”Isay,risingtomyfeet.
Hestopspacing,andhisbrowcocks.“Youwannabet?”
MychestheavesasIstruggletobreathenormally.“Yeah,Ido.”
Mygazedartstothedoor.One...two...three...
Ignoringthepaininmyleg,Irunforthedoorway.Mymusclesknotinprotest,butI

makeitoutoftheroomandsprintdownthehall.ItfeelslikeI’mlearninghowtowalk
again,onefootinfrontoftheother,myleginsomuchpainIseespots.Justlikehow
lifehasfeltforthelastsevenmonths.LikeI’dforgottenhowtolive,andwasdrifting
aroundblind,andnowsuddenly,I’mhere,seeingeverything,andallIcandoistakeit
onestepatatime.

As I almost reach the stairs, bony arms enclose around my waist, and I’m jerked

back.

“Letmego!”Ishout,slammingmyheadback.
Hisgriptightensashetripstowardmyparents’sroom.“Notuntilyougivemesome

money!Ineedit!Don’tyougetit!”

Wecrashintowalls,steponeachother’stoes,andfinallystumbletothefloor.Iflip

overontomystomachandclambertomyfeet.

Miller jumps up and chases after me, still clutching the envelope in his hand.

“You’remakingthismorecomplicatedthanitneedstobe,Annabella!”

“It’sAnna,”Igrowl,whirlingaroundandbackinguptowardmyparents’roomwith

mygazelockedonhim.“AndI’mnotabouttogiveyouanyoftheirmoney.”

I’mnotabouttoletanypartofmyparentsfixthismistakeforme.Nomatterhow

much I loved my mother and wanted to be like her, I refuse to be like her, refuse to

make any more mistakes without thinking about the consequences they have on
others.Iwon’tgiveMilleranyofmyfamily’smoney,won’tgivehimareasontocome
backaskingformore.

Iammyownperson.
Enraged,Millerlungesandtopplesoverme.Bloodrushestomyheadaswetumble

tothefloor.Iblinkthroughthedizziness,preparingtofightwhenhe’spulledoffme.

“Are you okay, Anna?” an officer asks from above me while another drags a

fighting,furiousMillerdownthehallway.

Nodding, I sit up and press my hand to my tender forehead. “I think so . . . Wait,

how do you know my name?” I squint at the officer who has hazel eyes, cropped
brown hair, and looks around the same age as Jessamine. Is he one of the cops who
arrestedme?Itclicks.“Milo?”Jessamine’sMilo.“Whendidyoubecomeacop?”

Milo chuckles as he offers me his hand and helps me to my feet. “Since about a

monthago.Heardalotofthingsaboutyou,too,butIdidn’tthinkI’dgetcalledoutto
yourhousethisquickly.”

“I didn’t . . . It wasn’t me.” I massage my leg, knowing by morning it’s more than

likelygoingtobeswollen.Butthefightwasworththepain.

“Iknow.I’mjustmessingwithyou.Zharaexplainedwhatwasgoingon.”Henods

toward the stairway. “How about we go downstairs and sit down, so I can take a
statementfromyou.”

I do what he says and limp down the hall for the stairs, picking up the envelope

Miller dropped. On the front, scribbled in my mom’s handwriting is the word:
Important. Miller must have grabbed it while he was digging through the dresser or
something.Butwhy?Ifeelaround,wonderingwhat’sinside.Itfillslikeathickstackof
dollarbills.

Nowonderhegrabbedit.
ZharahugsmethemomentIstepfootintothefoyerandcriesagainstmyshoulder.
“It’sfine.Everything’sgoingtobeokay,”Itellher,justlikemymotherusedtodo

whenwewerehurtorscared.

Ifeelstrangelycalm,butIthinkitmightbeshocksettingin.Millerwasneverthe

nicestpersonintheworld,buthewasneverasangryanddesperatetogetdrugsashe
wastonight.ItmakesmefearwhatIwould’veturnedintoifI’dstayedwithhimthat
nightinthecabin,ifIhadn’tsaidnoandwalkedaway.

IfI’dchosentokeepgivingup.
Afterwesitdown,Miloasksafewquestions,andIgivehimthedetailsheasksfor.
Loki shows up toward the end of questioning and immediately flips out when he

seesMilosittingwithus,infullpoliceuniform.“Whathappened?”heasks,rushingup
toZharaandme.

“We’re all fine,” I assure him, and then give him a quick recap of what I just told

Milo.

“Goodgod,youscaretheshitoutofme.”Heloosensthetiearoundhisneck—the

oneTammygavehim.“WhenIsawthecopcaroutside...”Heshakeshishead.“Well,
Ithoughttheywereherebecauseofyou.”

“Annadidgoodtonight,”Zharasays,defendingme.
“It’sfine,”Isay.“Ideserveit.”

“No,youdon’t,”sheargues,dabbinghereyeswithatissue.“You’vebeendoingwell

thelastfewweeks.”

“ButI’vebeendoingshittyforthelastsevenmonths.”Itakeadeepbreathandlook

atLoki.“IthinkIhavesomemakinguptodo.”

“Ilikethesoundofthat.”Lokitosseshistieontothearmrest.“HowaboutIgofinish

upwithMilo,andthenwe’lltalkaboutitsomemore.”

I nod, and Milo and Loki head outside into the windstorm to fill out some paper

workandgeteverythingwrappedup.

Zhararubsherpuffyeyesandstandsup,smoothingherhairintoplace.“I’mgoing

togocheckonNik.”

“WhereisNik?”Iaskworriedly.“Shouldn’thebehomebynow?”
“HegothomewhenallthatstuffwasgoingonupstairssoIsenthimnextdoor.”
“Goodidea.”I’mgladNikwasn’taroundwhileMillerwaslosinghisshit.
Shehesitatestoleavetheroom.“I’llberightback,okay?”
“Zhara,I’mfine,”Iassureher,kneadingmytightthighmusclewithmyknuckles.

“GocheckonNik.”

“I’llbringyousomeiceforyourleg.”
“Soundsgood.”
She reluctantly leaves me and the break gives me time to prepare myself for

whateverpunishmentLokiisgoingtogivemeforscrewingupagain.

WhenLokireturnstothelivingroom,helookscompletelywornout,asifthelast

sevenmonthshavecrashedoverhimatallonce.

“Ithinkafterthis,Miller’snotgoingtobeaproblemforawhile.He’sprobablygoing

tobespendingalongtimeinjail,since,yes,wearepressingcharges.”Hewaitsforan
argumentthatnevercomes.Ploppingdownonthesofaacrossfromme,hespreadshis
arms across the back. His head tips back, and his eyelids close as he mutters, “I’m so
tired.IjustwishIcouldsleepfor,like,anentireday.

“I’msorry,”Isay,blinkingbackthetears.
Confusionswirlsinhiseyes.“Forwhat?”
Foreverything.“Foryoubeingtired.Forbeingapainintheass.ForbringingMiller

into our lives.” I align my fingers across four pink marks on my arm where Miller
roughlygrabbedme.“Foreverythingthathappenedtonight.”

“What happened tonight wasn’t your fault. Miller chose to come here on his own

and forced his way in.” He kicks off his shiny shoes and they hit the hardwood floor
withathud.“Theonlythingyoudidwrong,though,wasgettinginhisway.Seriously,
Anna, you should have let him just take whatever he was looking for and stayed
downstairswithZharauntilthecopsshowedup.”

“Hewantedmoney—MomandDad’smoney.Andhedidn’tdeserveit.”Iopenthe

envelopeMillerdropped,expectingtofindmoneystashedinside.

Butinstead,there’sfoldeduppapers.
“Youokay?”Lokiasks.
“Yeah,Ijusthavealittleheadache.”
“Whydon’twegofindyousomethingtoeatandthengetyousomepainkillers?”He

getstohisfeet,addingsternly,“Theover-the-counterkind.”

Inod,glancinginsidetheenvelopeagain.Ican’tseewhateverypaperis,butwritten

onthebackofonearethewords:Dennis,I’msosorry.

It’s my mom’s handwriting and for some reason, my stomach twists with

uneasiness,probablybecauseofthelastletterIfoundfromhertoDennis.

“Iseverythingokay?’Lokiasks,hisgazeshiftingfrommetotheenvelope.
Igettomyfeetandnod,eventhoughI’mnotsure.“Yeah,butmylegsalittlesore.

I’mgoingtogotakeabathandseeifthathelps.”

Hegivesmeaperplexedlook,butIhobbleawaybeforehecansayanything.
WhenIreachmyroom,Ilockthedoorthensitdownonthebedanddumpoutthe

contents of the envelope. I pluck up the letter on top of what looks like a bunch of
documentsandstarttoread:

Dennis,
Ifyou’rereadingthisletter,thenitmeansIfinallyworkedupthecouragetotellyou

the truth about what happened between us years ago. I know you thought I stopped
seeingyoubecauseofmyhusband,whichispartiallythetruth.ButIalsowasafraidto
tellyoutheentiretruth.ThatIhadgottenpregnantandI’mprettysureshe’syours.

MyheartnearlydiesinmychestasIcontinuereading.
Thelettercontinueson,butnevergoesintodetailofwhichofherdaughter’scould

beDennis’s.Irummagethroughtherestofthepapers,butnonerevealthetruth.

MyheartsinksinmychestasIrealizethetruth.ThatDennismightbethefatherto

eithermeoroneofmysisters.

AbouttheAuthor

JessicaSorensenisaNewYorkTimesandUSATodaybestsellingauthorwholivesinthe
snowy mountains of Wyoming. When she’s not writing, she spends her time reading
andhangingoutwithherfamily.

AlsobyJessicaSorensen

OtherbooksbyJessicaSorensen:

ShadowCoveSeries:

WhatLiesintheDarkness

ADeadlyLittleGame(comingsoon)

TheHeartbreakerSociety:

TheOppositeofOrdinary

TheDeal(comingsoon)

HoneytonSeries:

TheIllusionofAnnabella

Untitled(comingsoon)

Rules:

Rules

Untitled(comingsoon)

MysticWillowBayWitchesSeries:

TheSecretLifeofaWitch

TheSecretLifeofaWitch2

TheSecretLifeofawitch3(comingsoon)

UnearthlyBalance:

Captivate

Captivate2(comingsoon)

Standalones:

TheForgottenGirl

BrokenCitySeries:

Nameless

Forsaken

Oblivion

Forbidden(comingsoon)

GuardianAcademySeries:

Entranced

Entangled

Enchanted(comingsoon)

GuardianAcademy,Dash’sSeries:

TheForestofShadowandBones

TheForestofShadowandBones2(comingsoon)

SunnyvaleSeries:

TheYearIBecameIsabellaAnders

TheYearofFallinginLove

TheYearofSecondChances

TheYearofKai&Isa(comingsoon)

UnravelingYouSeries:

UnravelingYou

RavelingYou

AwakeningYou

InspiringYou

UndoingYou(comingsoon)

TheCoincidenceSeries:

TheCoincidenceofCallieandKayden

TheRedemptionofCallieandKayden

TheDestinyofVioletandLuke

TheProbabilityofVioletandLuke

TheCertaintyofVioletandLuke

TheResolutionofCallieandKayden

Seth&Greyson

TheSecretSeries:

ThePreludeofEllaandMicha

TheSecretofEllaandMicha

TheForeverofEllaandMicha

TheTemptationofLilaandEthan

TheEverAfterofEllaandMicha

LilaandEthan:ForeverandAlways

EllaandMicha:InfinitelyandAlways

TheShatteredPromisesSeries:

ShatteredPromises

FracturedSouls

Unbroken

BrokenVisions

ScatteredAshes

BreakingNovaSeries:

BreakingNova

SavingQuinton

Delilah:TheMakingofRed

NovaandQuinton:NoRegrets

Tristan:FindingHope

WreckMe

RuinMe

TheFallenStarSeries:

TheFallenStar

TheUnderworld

TheVision

ThePromise

TheFallenSoulsSeries(spin-offfromTheFallenStar):

TheLostSoul

TheEvanescence

TheDarknessFallsSeries:

DarknessFalls

DarknessBreaks

DarknessFades

TheDeathCollectorsSeries(NAandYA):

EmberXandEmber

CinderXandCinder

SparkXandSpark

UnbeautifulSeries:

Unbeautiful

Untamed

Document Outline

Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
About the Author
Also by Jessica Sorensen

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