Nick,
Her name’s Jane. She’s the total package. Think beauty queen credentials with a fashion sense to match. We’re having dinner this weekend, and I want to give her the first letter then. Like I said, she needs a soft touch, so I won’t push for much on our date. I’m hoping the letter can do the heavy lifting for me.
John
Nick read the message twice. Jane. And John. What bland, boring names—like aliases on a poorly written crime show. But whatever. He hoped they lived a long and happy life together, even if John sounded a little shallow.
He hit Reply.Okay, he typed,here’s what you write. DearJane...
He wrote the whole letter in one go. The words were for Aubrey, of course. They were his ripped-up guts, splattered onto the screen in the rawest and most visceral way possible.
Because he knew this was the closest he’d ever get. He’d never touch her again, never regain her trust, never sink into her the way he ached to down to the roots of his being. Even if by some miracle she someday forgave him, she’d made it abundantly clear she had no plans to stay in Henderson.
Which meant their situation hadn’t changed. Even if it had, what would he say?Hey, I know you’re a superhero genius who can have any guy she wants, but would you consider one whose pastimes include getting punched in the face and trying to fall out of love with you?
Yeah. Sure.
When he finished the letter, he hit Send and flicked the truck key. The engine sputtered to life, but thankfully, Aubrey didn’t stir.
He drove home slowly, not in any hurry to face Tansy. What was it she’d told him?Don’t get carried away?
Un-fucking-believable that she could say that with a straight face. She might as well have commanded him not to swim, then shoved him into the deepest end of the pool.
But he’d do his damnedest, for both their sakes. After all, he’d indulged himself. Gone and made sure Aubrey was safe.
Now he would leave her in peace.
When he got home, Tansy had already gone to bed. In his room, Nick tried to read an old standby,The Alchemist—he would never tire of the dreaminess of Coelho’s prose—but tonight, the words drifted past, insubstantial. He finally gave up and turned off the light, then lay in the dark, a tight ache pulsing low in his stomach. He couldn’t stop reliving how Aubrey had felt in his arms, so warm and soft and brokenhearted over the injustice some nameless asshole had dealt her. She’d smelledincredible, too, like sun-warmed cashmere, and he’d wanted to tear someone apart for her. Punch whoever he had to punch in order to funnel her life back onto its rightful course.
Sleep eluded him. He tossed and turned, the ache inside him tightening like a turned screw. When he could stand it no longer, he got up, took a shower, did all that came with it, and dropped back into bed again.
Hours later, when he finally slept, Nick dreamed Aubrey didn’t hate him.
That somewhere, a world existed in which she never had.
9.
Seventeen years ago
Now that Aubrey had the new kid in her house, she didn’t know what to do with him.
She ran through her options, then settled on leading him to the living room, where she tucked herself onto the old blue-velvet chesterfield her mom had once bought at an estate sale.
Nick set his backpack on the claw-footed coffee table and claimed the sofa’s opposite end, doing a slow perusal of the room. “So. A cheerleader who likes math and safety. And lives in a mansion.”
Aubrey took in the dated furniture, the curling wallpaper, the hulking, ash-stained fireplace. “Mansion? This place is a hundred years old and looks every minute of it.”
He snorted. “It’s a palace, compared to my place.”
She hesitated. His acerbic tone made her suspect he’d drawn a line between them on purpose. He seemed determined to maintain a layer of prickly distance between himself and the world—already, he’d made a public enemy of Gallant, ensuring people would shun him at school.
But beneath the bristly exterior, Aubrey had glimpsed something very different during the course of that fistfight. Something heated and vivid she couldn’t get out of her mind.
“If you’re trying to convince me you shouldn’t be here,” she said, “it won’t work.”
He cleared his throat and looked down, telling her she’d hit the mark.
“Anyway.” She gestured to his sweatshirt, where his blood had dried black. “Why don’t you take that off? If we scrub it with soda water, it shouldn’t stain.”
