PROLOGUE
FREYA
Grabbing hold of the vine-covered trellis, I haul myself up the side of Ben’s two-story house, feeling every bit like the stealthy burglar I’m not. His bedroom window glows yellow in the dusk. I guarantee that if I weren’t here to do something about it, he would be up until past midnight.
And not for any reason that’s fun.
Reaching the second floor, I spot him sitting at his desk, head bent over his textbook, a lock of brown hair falling over his forehead. I risk letting go of the trellis with one hand and knock on the window. He jumps in his chair, eyes going wide as he spins around.
“Freya!” I hear him through the glass.
Pushing out of his chair, he comes and opens the window. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Saving you from a life of drudgery.” I grin. “It’s the Fourth of July, Ben, and you’re studying? Come on. The fireworks are starting soon.”
He frowns. “It’s not drudgery. This exam is important.” Arms folded. “By the way, can you explain to me why you didn’t just use the front door?”
“I saw your dad’s car. No thanks.”
His lips twist. “Okay. Fair enough.”
Not that his dad is mean or anything. He’s just… intimidating, with his fancy suits and a gaze that always seems to be analyzing my every move.
In fact, everything about Ben’s house is intimidating. Six-car garage. Housekeeper. Personal chef. We might attend the same high school, but compare his home life to mine, and you’d think we’re living in different worlds.
“Besides,” I continue, swinging my leg over the windowsill, “this is way more dramatic. Very Romeo and Juliet, don’t you think?”
“Except you’re not here for romance,” Ben says dryly, stepping back to give me room to climb through. “You’re here to drag me away from my responsibilities.”
“Exactly!” I brush dirt off my jeans and grin at him. “Someone has to keep you from becoming a complete hermit for the rest of your life. Thank God I’m here to step in.”
He shakes his head, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Freya, this calculus exam is worth thirty percent of my grade. If I don’t ace it?—”
“You’ll still be graduate valedictorian,” I interrupt, flopping down on his perfectly made bed. The pristine navy comforter is pulled so tight I have to wonder how he even untucks it at night. “Come on. When’s the last time you did something just for fun?”
Ben runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. “Fun doesn’t get you into Harvard.”
“And Harvard won’t matter if you burn out before you even get there.” I roll onto my side to face him properly. “Look, I get it. Your parents expect perfection. But it’s senior year, Ben. Our last Fourth of July before we all scatter to different colleges. Don’t you want at least one memory that isn’t about textbooks?”
I watch as he glances toward his closed bedroom door, probably listening for footsteps in the hallway. His parents have this way of making their presence known without actually appearing. Like they’re monitoring his every move from their home offices downstairs.
It’s creepy, actually.
Though not creepy enough to scare me away.
“You know what your problem is?” I continue, propping my head up on my elbow. “You’re seventeen years old and you act like you’re forty. When did you last do something spontaneous?”
“Spontaneous decisions lead to mistakes.”
“Sometimes they lead to the best experiences of your life.” I waggle my eyebrows, sure that he’ll break.
For a moment, I see him waver. I see the seventeen-year-old boy beneath all that pressure. The one who used to build blanket forts with me when we were kids, before his parents decided childhood was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Before they enrolled him in every AP class possible and made sure his summer vacations were filled with internships instead of fun.
“The exam is Monday,” he says weakly.
“Which gives you all weekend to review. One night won’t kill you.” I hop off the bed and grab his hand, tugging him toward the window. His skin is warm and familiar, and I try to ignore the little flutter in my stomach that happens whenever we touch. “Come on, scaredy-cat. Live a little.”
“I am not a scaredy-cat,” he protests, already reaching for his sneakers.
