“Move, Idaho.”
“That’s not even an insult. Idaho is beautiful, and our potatoes have more social value than you.”
One of his friends muttered, “Dude, let’s go.”
Brett ignored him.
His eyes stayed on me.
“You don’t get to hide forever,” he said. “People remember what your mother was. People remember what you did.”
For once, the words didn’t gut me the way they used to.
Maybe because I had worn Mandy’s diamonds every day for a year.
Maybe because I had her turquoise on my hand.
Maybe because Regan had taught me the difference between inheritance and guilt.
Maybe because Lily was standing in front of me, ready to fight a man twice her size with a tote bag full of pharmacology notes.
“I didn’t hide,” I said. “I survived.”
His expression faltered.
Only for a second.
Then tires rolled hard against the curb behind us.
A motorcycle engine cut through Santa Monica like a memory with teeth.
Then another.
I knew before I turned.
I hated that I knew.
I loved that I knew.
Two bikes pulled up at the corner, black against the neon and streetlights. The first rider swung off with easy violence in every line of his body. Beard back. Hair wind-tossed. Dark jeans. Black shirt. No cut, because California had taught him something about subtlety, but there was no disguising what he was.
Dylan.
A year older.
Harder.
Realer than every dream I had tried not to have.
Nate got off the second bike behind him, helmet in hand, looking like he had already decided which jokes would be funniest after no one died.
Dylan’s eyes found me first.
Not Brett.
Not the others.
Me.
