“She said he started a new painting class.”
“And you believe her? Seriously?” Vincent pauses, then squints at my hand. “Wait—why don’t you have nail polish on?”
I ignore him. “He needs more specific brushes and paints.”
His face twists in confusion. “Asher hates you—and only because of her. How can you believe she’ll actually spend it on him? She doesn’t care about you.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But what if, just this once, it is for him? I can’t risk leaving Asher without the materials he needs. You know how much he loves painting!”
“And what if it isn’t?” Vincent presses.
I let out a long breath. I’m exhausted. “If I don’t send it, she won’t let me talk to him on my birthday. You know that.”
Vincent exhales hard, staring at me in silence and I stare back. I’ve never felt so helpless. “It’ll be okay someday, won’t it?” I whisper.
His gaze softens. He nods. “Someday you’ll be happy—I promise you that. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure of it.” He opens his arms.
I wish I were one of those strong girls who pretends she doesn’t need the one person she should stay away from. But I need this hug.
I fall into his arms, hiding my face in the crook of his neck. His shirt smells like vanilla soap, and I clutch the fabric in my fists. The fear that this is only a dream gnaws at me. He holds me tight, like he shares the same fear. “So you’re my Nova again?” he whispers against my hair.
I smile faintly but don’t answer. One day, maybe.
He chuckles softly, stroking my hair. “Got it.”
Then he starts humming the chorus ofThis Is Meby Skye Sweetnam, and I let his voice carry me. I love when he sings.
“Can you take Steven to the pulmonologist tomorrow? He won’t say no to you,” I whisper, already half-asleep. He murmurs something, but I can’t catch the words. Within seconds, I’m asleep in his arms.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Nova Marshall
PAST (2012)
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"I think the feelings in my music were suggested
to me before I even had the ability to play."
John Frusciante
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Steven gives me an irritated, bored look, like I’ve been bothering him since the moment I saw him. Maybe I have—but only for a good cause.
“I don’t give a damn about meeting your best friend!”
The blond slams his locker shut, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and opens a manga as he walks away at a brisk pace.
I hurry to keep up. “You don’t even know him!”
“And I don’t want to,” he mutters, heading toward the cafeteria.
Over the past week, I’ve learned that Steven moved here from Alameda last month. He only started classes a few days ago, andwe happen to share a lunch shift. That’s why I’ve never run into him before. “Why not?” I press.
Eyes still glued to his book, he says flatly, “Because I don’t want to meet your best friend, Nova.”
