Prologue
Colorado
Skylar
We’ve reached the trailer now. I stop behind a tree so that we can’t be seen by my mom, who I can guarantee is waiting up for me.
“It was nice to meet you, Colton.” I hold out my hand like a dumbass, like this amazing boy didn’t just nearly take my virginity less than ten minutes ago.
As always, he handles my awkwardness with an easy charm. “I think we’re a little too close for just a handshake, Skylar Rosewood.”
When he kisses me, I kiss him back like it’s the last kiss we’ll ever have.
“You’ve got a sexy tongue,” Colton says. “You’re driving me crazy with it, Sky.”
I lean into him, and he drives his leg in between mine. My body starts to shake, and I feel like I’ll absolutely die if we separate.
“Oh, God.” I moan as Colton sucks on my neck and puts his hand on my ass.
When his other hand squeezes my breast through my thin tank top, I really think I’m going to explode.
But when he says, “Let go,” I freeze.
I’m supposed to keep everyone at arm’s length. That’s what will keep me safe.
“I really do have to go inside,” I say. “My mom could come out and see us.”
“Can I have your phone number and address?” He hands me his phone. “Type them in for me, please?”
I hesitate.
“I’ll call you,” he promises. “As soon as we get home to Montana. I won’t bug you, though, so I’ll wait to reach out. Sound good?”
I don’t think I’ve ever been so sad, because I know none of that can happen. This is the last time I’ll ever see Colton Wild.
Girls like me don’t get happy endings. We only get goodbyes.
Chapter One
Eighteen Months Earlier — Small Town, Indiana
Skylar
I hate Sundays.
“Kill him! Suffocate him!” My father screams at the football game on the television screen.
Sitting next to my father on the couch while he vents at whatever sports is in season isn’t my idea of a good time. It’s probably not most fourteen-year-olds’ dream. But sometimes, I’m able to get him to drink less this way.
Plus, my panic attacks tend to be smaller if I’m a witness to his mood. When I’m in my room and can hear the shouting—but can’t see what’s happening—I have more difficulty.
“Can you believe that fucking guy?” Dad points his beer bottle at the screen and turns to me. “Fucking idiot, isn’t he?”
I sit on my hands and nod. “Can I get you some water?” I ask him.
“I’m fine.” He holds up his beer bottle again. “I got all I need right here.”
I spend the next few minutes finger-combing my hair. The red color has always frustrated me, and I long for blond hair like my mom’s. But I popped out with hair like my dad. “A shock of red hair right at birth” mom always says fondly. I keep it as long as possible because it darkens the color.
