The letters were written years ago, when my mother was still deep in the throes of grief, still grappling with the heartbreak of my father leaving. It would be easy to justify them as the wild ramblings of a broken woman. Something she wrote late at night after a bottle of wine, before crying herself to sleep. Her way of trying to make sense of why the love of her life walked out on her and her children.
Yes, that has to be it.
Because the alternative?
That my mother actually believes what she wrote in those letters? That she really thinks my father is some kind of ancient god, and that our family is in danger from monsters from another world?
That’s…insane.
I’m still sitting cross-legged in her closet, reeling, when I hear the front door open.
I jump up and scramble to rewrap the letters, shoving them back inside the folder and burying it deep in the bin like it might catch fire. There’s no way I can let my mother know I found them. She’d be mortified I read her love letters and furious I invaded her privacy.
And my sister?
Even if we were on speaking terms right now, she’s the last person I’d share the letters with. There’s no version of reality where she could handle any of this. Amber’s all rose-colored glasses and rom-comsand butterflies. She’s not built for real-world problems, let alone grief, depression, or, god forbid, serious mental illness.
No. This is my secret now to bear.
I creep back into my room and collapse onto my futon, heart thudding, mind still racing. Maybe I can’t tell my mother or Amber about this, but I don’t think I can hold it in all alone. It’s too big… too heavy. I need to tell someone. Someone who won’t think I’ve lost my damn mind.
Luckily, there’s one person I can always trust with anything.
Even this.
And I know exactly where to find him.
When I pull up to Hayes’s house, the party is already in full swing. A caravan of Ubers winds through the electronic gate, and cars line the circular driveway, spilling out onto the lawn. Hip-hop pulses from the backyard like a second heartbeat, the air thick with excitement and the promise of bad decisions.
I park in a secluded spot near the vineyards, so I won’t get blocked in. I want a clean escape route.
My plan is to find Hayes as quickly as possible, tell him about the letters I found in my mom’s things, get his advice, and then get the hell out of there. I know he’ll be busy—he always is at these parties—but if I can just steal a few minutes, I’ll feel better. I always do after talking to him.
I step out of the car and follow the long drive toward the front door. A familiar silhouette fills the entryway. Hayes’s football buddy Dylan lounges on the front porch, blocking the door.
He’s dressed in a button-down shirt, ripped jeans, and designer sneakers, the unofficial uniform of every cocky campus fuckboy. Draped across his lap is Amber’s friend Tiffany, giggling at whatever he just said. Tiffany’s model-tall and stunning, with legs that go on for miles. She and my sister are practicallyconjoined, which means if Tiffany’s here, Amber’s not far behind.
For a split second, I consider turning around and driving straight back home.
But I need Hayes.
Just seeing his face, hearing his voice—it’s the only thing that can quiet the anxious buzzing in my chest.
So instead of fleeing, I grit my teeth, smooth down the black velvet corset top I threw on over my baggy jeans and keep going. Thankfully, Tiffany chooses that exact moment to head inside, probably in search of a drink. Or my sister.
Perfect.
If I can get to Hayes without being spotted by Amber or her friends, this night might actually be survivable.
“Well… hey there, gorgeous,” Dylan slurs as I approach. He hooks a finger through my belt loop and yanks, pulling me too close. His breath is hot and sour against my cheek. “Where you headed?”
“Hands off, Masterson.” I twist out of his grasp. “I gotta go.”
I try to sidestep him, but he swings an arm out and plants it against the doorframe, trapping me in place. He takes a drag from his blunt, then exhales in my direction. The sharp, skunky smell of marijuana hits me full in the face.
“What’s the rush? Hang for a minute. Have some fun.” He extends the joint toward me like it’s a peace offering. “Here—take a hit. Uh… Alison, right?”
“It’s Alysander.”
