“Maybe… a date,” I suggest.
She halts, but doesn’t look revolted. “I have a boyfriend, Axl.”
“Yes, I know. The alpha who wears polos andAbercrombie.”
“Don’t be rude,” she hisses.
I put my hands up in surrender. “Fine, I’ll respect your commitment to Justin Timberlake, but you’ll still have to do something for me.”
“Sure,” she says, seeming to give up her resolve. “What do you want?”
“You have to hang out with us at the race.”
She balks. “What?No.”
I let out a heavy sigh. “Stacey, it’s Oakson Lake. You’re going to stand out like a sore thumb, and hanging out with us will guarantee no one will mess with you. Please, this is for your benefit just as much as it is mine.”
She thinks on that, then her lips curve up in a smile that’s so glorious, it nearly blinds me. “So, you admit it is partially for your benefit?”
I should let myself blush like she wants me to, let her push me down a peg like she expects, but I won’t. I am proudly entranced by her and that doesn’t embarrass me one bit.
“Stacey, your presence has always been a treat. If I had my way, we’d be in each other’s company way more often.” When she opens her mouth to protest, I tsk. “Don’t pretend like I’ve ever been shy about how I feel around you.”
She swallows, her throat bobbing roughly at my confession. She pushes a flyaway hair behind her ear, rocked by my words, but then she squares her shoulders, steeling herself like she always does.
“Deal. You give me the address, I’ll be your date for the night.”
I pull my phone out and hand it over, biting my lip as something pools in my stomach. I’m not sure if it’s excitement or anxiety, or if it’s disappointment that she feels like she needs to always put on a mask. I like her without it, but she never takes it off for long. When her number is added, I smile at the simple “S” as her contact name. Discreet, private. Almost forbidden.
“See you tonight,” she says, and then she walks off, leaving me with my longing despair once more.
THREE
Playing: “Crush” by Ethel Cain
FEBRUARY, 1997 – 15 YEARS OLD
My hands clam up as I wait by the tall library window. A layer of ice covers the glass, little snowflakes sticking and melting in a whimsical cycle. I watch as a clump of crystals glide downward, losing their chill and falling from the glass in a dramatic heap. The snow didn’t stay long this year. Spring is coming in full force and I can’t wait until I can finally wear something cute again without freezing.
Coming early to wait for my unfortunate project partner was a bad idea. Now, I’m anxious, so I tap my fingernails along my textbook to present myself as bored when I’m anything but. I hope he doesn’t show up. Maybe I can tell Mrs. Vaughn my partner was incompetent and didn’t know how to be on time for a simple project.
I’m about to believe my own delusional thought when the door to the library swings open and heavy booted footsteps walk in. Chains clink where they hang from his belt loop, his hairrough and wild. Those stupid sticks are clutched in his palm. He stops, and his eyes scour over the vast library as he searches for something. Searches forme. When his gaze meets mine, his lips curve into a smile and my nerves intensify.
Why did my partner have to be Axl Ritchie?
I’ve been avoiding him since Quinn’s party this past fall, desperate not to relive what happened in that dark closet. Life in this town is hard enough without me being forced to acknowledge that he will always be my first kiss. Not that it was a bad one, not at all, which is a whole other mental torture.
If he had just beenbadat it, maybe being around him wouldn’t be so horrible. Maybe we could even be friends. But as it stands, that will never be possible.
“You’re late,” I say when he gets to the table.
He laughs under his breath and sits down. “By one measly minute. Ledger was showing me this new chord progression he came up with.”
My brows scrunch. “I don’t know what that means.”
“You know, like music? Ledger plays the guitar.”
“Ah,” I say, piecing it together. “And you beat those sticks on things.”
