PROLOGUE
THEN
Melanie
Itry the gray two-story colonial’s front door first. Of course, it’s locked. I knew it would be. I thought if Cara wasn’t home, someone might be, and I could just hang out in her room and wait. No such luck.
“Ugh,” I groan, wiping sweat from my brow. It’s exceptionally warm for late spring.
I should’ve known nobody would be here—Cara’s got practice, her parents are always working. But today my own house feels so empty, I’m actually debating whether to befriend the spider hanging out in the dusty corner of the Cotes’ porch. Or worse, join the soccer team even though I can’t stand sports, just so I’d have more people to hang with than my one best friend who somehow knows everyone. It’s that same old ache in my chest, like I’m on the outside looking in.
I’m content each day when I pick Cara up for school. I’m fine at school, the two of us moving through our classes together, eating lunch in the courtyard with her boyfriend, Liam. It’s after school when Cara and Liam have sports or activities, and I don’t, that the loneliness settles in. That’s when the isolation burns through me, making me feel as if I’m the last person on earth.
I plop down on Cara’s front steps to wait for her to get back from spring soccer practice. She won’t be back for another hour, but I have nowhere else to be. My parents are home, but they’re constantly at each other’s throats. I don’t feel like listening to it. Cara’s parents won’t be home for hours, and her house feels like a vacation compared to my own. I’m an only child, a junior in high school, and I swear my parents are waiting until the day I graduate to announce their divorce. There’s not an ounce of love left between them. I mean, not thatI’veever beenin love to know, but I can just tell. They can barely stand to be in the same room together.
This is usually my favorite time of year in my hometown of Cape May, New Jersey. The weather is perfect: not too hot, not too chilly. When it feels too warm in the sun, there’s a salty ocean breeze to cool you down.
The hiss of a school bus stopping in front of me startles me out of my pity party, and then Cara’s younger brother Josh sprints down the steps. I look up at him and smile.
“Hey,” he says with a grin. “Cara’s at soccer.” He stops in front of the stairs where I’m sitting and leans on the railing, gazing down at me. For a sophomore, Josh has some height to him. He’s taller than me by at least four inches. Sparse facial hair peppers his cheeks, and two dimples bookend his mouth. When he smiles at me, his blue eyes glisten.Why have I never noticed this before?
I rush to a stand. “Oh, I know.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “I just figured I’d wait for her. I didn’t want to go home… I’ll go.” I swallow the knot in my throat and start gathering up my things.
“Mel, you don’t have to go,” Josh says, catching my elbow.
I sigh, meeting his gaze. “Ishouldgo. It’s weird—me waiting for her like this.” I nod like it’s just now occurring to me that sitting on my friend’s front porch until she gets home is odd behavior. I pick up my book bag and sling it over my shoulder, wincing with embarrassment. “Don’t tell Cara I was waiting for her, okay?”
Josh smirks and gestures to my emotional support guitar leaning against the side of the porch—it comes everywhere with me. “Do you want to jam? I don’t have any homework so…”
At this, I crack a smile at my friend’s formerly goofy little brother. I’ve known Josh since I was a toddler—basically since I was born. Our moms met at Library Story Time and the rest is history. He and Cara have always treated me like one of their own.
This isn’t weird.
I take in his relaxed fit jeans, slate blue Quicksilver T-shirt, and mussed up vans. He looks like he’s always looked, but now I notice he’s wearing a white puka shell necklace. A woven leather bracelet sits on his wrist, drawing my eyes up his toned forearm. An iPod sits clipped to his jeans pocket, headphones around his neck. He’s changing for sure. He’s growing from a boy to aguy.
“Mel?” Josh interrupts my assessment of him, shaking his shaggy hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head. “I said, ‘Do you want to jam?’ You spaced.”
Josh took up guitar in seventh grade and even though I play too, we’ve never played together. I always keep my music just for me. I don’t share it with anyone. I have a notebook I carry around with me with lyrics I jot down and when I’m feeling inspired, sometimes I turn them into songs. I have no idea if they’re any good, but I do know singing and writing music makes mefeelgood and with all the other crappy things happening in my life, that counts foreverything.
“Sorry.” Heat creeps to my cheeks but I shake it off. “Sure, let’s see what you’ve got.” Pushing my wavy strawberry blonde hair behind my ear, I pick up my guitar case.
“Well, come on then.” He jogs up the steps and unlocks the front door while I wait behind him. This feels a little strange, hanging out with Josh without Cara, but I think it’s only because today, I am noticing Josh in a more-than-my-best-friend’s-little-brother way. And Cara likes music, but she’s an athlete. She doesn’t get it and teases me sometimes for carrying my guitar and my notebooks around. Itwouldbe nice to collaborate with another musician. Plus, I’mdesperatefor some meaningful connection.
Josh leads me through the house I’ve been inside a thousand times. The family’s two Bernese mountain dogs, Bear and Teddy, immediately greet us with boisterous barking. “Okay, okay, hi, pups.” Josh stops to ruffle the dogs’ ears. They sniff us both and lick our hands and then immediately go back to lying by the back door.
I’ve been here often but without Cara, it feels unfamiliar. Like I shouldn’t hang out with Josh without her. Like it’s some kind of awkward first date. Even though this isso not a date. We’re friends. We share a study hall. He’s my best friend’s brother. That’s all this is.
“Do…you want to go get your guitar?” I ask, jutting my thumb toward the stairs.
Josh’s cheeks turn pink. “Oh, yeah, duh. I guess you wouldn't come up to my room. That would be weird.”
I giggle. “Just a little.” I pace around the kitchen, looking anywhere but directly at Josh.I will not make this more than what it is. This isJosh.
“I’ll be right back.” He jogs up the steps and is back in less than a minute with a deep blue Ibanez acoustic-electric guitar in his hands and a shit-eating grin across his face. “Check this baby out.”
“Wow,” I breathe, reaching out to pluck a string. “She’s beautiful.”
I move into the living room and set my case on the carpeted floor, opening it to reveal my surf green Fender Newporter, my most prized possession.
