PART ONE. BEGINNING
DIARY ENTRY. KAIA. 13 YEARS OLD
Asher is the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.
Not that everyone at my school is ugly, but they aren’t like him. None of them have eyes like his—long lashes, that thoughtful look—or hair that’s always shiny and perfectly messy. I feel like I should be angry at him for coming here from Spain with his mom, but I don’t think he had a choice.
Just like I didn’t choose to have a strange woman kissing my dad and sleeping in my mom’s bed only three months after she died. I want to be friends with Asher, but he’s fifteen. To him, I’m just a kid he’s forced to live with, and he doesn’t have time for kids.
Dad gave him one of the guest bedrooms, and even though they arrived a few days ago, Asher’s things are still packed. Only a few of his dad’s racing trophies sit on the shelf in his room. I’m not an expert in motorcycle racing, but I know my dad never won one of those. And I know that’s exactly why Asher displayed them. I also know he didn’t unpack because he’s planning to leave soon.
If Sharon and Dad think Asher will stay here and that we can forget about my mom and Asher’s dad dying so we can all be a happy family, they’re going to be very surprised. And my heart is in for a huge disappointment, because Asher is the first person to really see me in months. He looks at me like someone who understands sad and scary things, but unlike my friends at school, he doesn’t look away. Because he knows too.
Now, the clock is ticking. He started his secret plan yesterday when Dad took him to the track. It was after eight p.m. when the front door opened. Asher burst into the house, followed by my father, and stompedup the stairs without sparing me or his mother a glance. He reminded me of a storm—wild, scary, with claps of thunder and bolts of lightning.
Dad stopped at the bottom of the stairs with his arms crossed. Then he looked in the direction Asher had gone and shook his head, scoffing.
“Law maker.”
CHAPTER ONE
Asher
Five years later
Dad’s black slacks hung in the closet of his old room at Grandma’s, and his photo still sat on the dresser. In it, he was twenty—my age now.
Grandma always said I was his copy. As a kid, I’d been desperate to grow up so I could wear his clothes. Now that wish had come true. The pants fit, but his shoes were still too big to fill.
A knock dragged me back. My best friend Javi poked his head inside. “You ready? Maricarmen’s getting impatient.”
It was Grandma’s sixty-second birthday. Tomorrow she’d celebrate with friends at a restaurant, but tonight was just family.
“Almost,” I said. “Where is she?”
“Kitchen. She sent me to buy bread.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’ll shower and go.”
“Vale. Okay.”
As soon as he left, I yanked the slacks off the hanger and shoved them on. Then the white button-down. It stretched too tight across my chest, so I undid the top buttons before they could pop.
Rolling up my sleeves, I headed for the kitchen.
Grandma straightened in her chair, waving a hand through the smoke as if that would clear it.
I groaned. “Again?”
She pausedTitanic—her guilty pleasure, right up there with tobacco. I’d rather sit through Jack drowning a hundred times than deal with her smoking.
Her warm brown eyes studied me, coral lips twitching before splitting into a grin. “¡Qué guapo!”Handsome.
I rolled my eyes on my way to the fridge. “You promised you’d quit.”
“I promised I’d think about it.” Her gaze dropped to my legs. “Te queda corto.”
Hand on the fridge handle, I turned. “Huh?”
“El pantalón.”The pants.
