Right. Because I'm an idiot in love.
The plastic bag in my hand swings dangerously as I climb another step. It's packed with comfort supplies—two pints of Giuseppe's Italian ice(his cherry, my pistachio... which are probably melting into soup by now because I climb like a baby sloth), a can of whipped cream, a couple bags of chips, and two cans of Dr Pepper.
God knows why he likes that drink. It tastes like carbonated cough syrup, but whatever—if it comforts him, into the bag it goes.
The ladder wobbles again.
"Oh, come on!" I hiss, pausing to glare at it. "You hadonejob—don't murder me."
One more step.
My foot slips, my heart free-falls, and I let out a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. My other hand flies out, gripping the cold metal side bar of the ladder just in time.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" I whisper-shout, chest heaving. "If I die doing this, someone better tell my parents it was for love. Actually, no—don't. They'll just say I deserved it."
I should've never cut off that bridge between our rooms three years ago. If I'd known Future Me would be climbing this deathtrap ladder at 9 p.m., I would've left it alone.
Seriously... what was I thinking?
I adjust my grip and start climbing again, muttering under my breath.
"I could've just used the damn front door like a normal person. But nooo, Caroline justhadto be considerate—'Don't wake Charlene, don't wake Sam,'—guess who's about to wake up the entire neighborhood when this deathtrap collapses?"
Another step. Almost there.
The balcony's only a few feet away now, the glow from Zach's room faintly visible through the curtains. He's definitely still awake—I just know it.
He's probably sitting there alone, pretending to be fine like he always does. Acting strong for everyone else when he's also still hurting.
My chest tightens.
"That's why you're doing this," I whisper to myself. "Because he takes care of everyone but himself. And tonight, someone needs to take care of him."
The ladder creaks again in what sounds like mockery, and I groan. "Yeah, yeah, I'm almost done, you unholy tin noodle. Just hang on for two more minutes!"
Finally, I haul myself onto the balcony, landing on my knees with all the grace of a dying frog. I set the plastic bag down, brush my hair out of my face, and whisper a shaky laugh.
"Never again. I'm officially cutting this off my bucket list. Next time, I'm knocking like a civilized person."
I brush off my jeans, tug Zach's old hoodie tighter around me—the one Iborrowedfrom his closet ages ago and never gave back because it smells like him and feels like home.
I tiptoe to the glass door and knock softly.
Nothing.
He doesn't hear me.
I try the handle, not expecting anything—just wishing. It turns.
My breath catches.
He still leaves this door unlocked? Is it for me?
Something warm and achy blooms in my chest, hitting so fast it pricks tears behind my eyes. I swallow hard, forcing them back.
Not now, Caroline.This isn't the time to get mushy and emotional.
I take a slow breath and push the door open. It creaks—sharp in the stillness—and Zach's head jerks up at the sound.
