Page 5

My parents continue unpacking dishes like I haven't asked the same question twenty times already.

"You know why, Damiano," my mother says patiently. "Your father and Uncle Mario have dreamed of opening their own furniture business since they were boys."

I sigh because I do know. My father left Italy to build a better life, and Wyoming was always supposed to be temporary while my uncle found the right location in Chicago, but knowing that doesn't make leaving any easier.

“We were supposed to sell Paradiso Ranch, but we kept it for you, remember? You go to school. Study. And when you're eighteen, we'll put it in your name. Then one day you can decide if you want to move back there or not.”

I nod. My mom’s right. They knew how much I hated leaving, so instead of selling the ranch, they kept it for me. At least this way, leaving doesn't have to mean I can never go home.

For eight years, Lander had been home, a place of open skies and endless fields, horses and mountains, the Hawthornes and a treehouse where I spent more nights than I could ever count.

And Jude.

I didn't have siblings, but Jude was the closest thing I had to a brother, and leaving him behind feels like someone ripped a piece of me loose and forgot to put it back.

Before I can start another argument, I push away from the kitchen counter and head outside.

The summer air is warmer here.

Heavier.

I shove my hands into my pockets and look up, trying to find comfort in the stars.

But even they seem different.

Smaller somehow.

A soft noise catches my attention.

I turn toward the neighbouring yard.

And that's when I see her.

A girl.

Dark hair falls over her shoulders, so black it almost disappears into the night.

She's wearing headphones and an oversized yellow T-shirt with jean shorts, a trash bag hanging from one hand as she sings softly to herself.

In perfect Italian.

I freeze, recognizing the song immediately, but she doesn't notice me. She just keeps walking with her face tilted toward the sky, completely lost in the music and apparently convinced she's alone.

Then she spins.

Actually spins, right there in the middle of her driveway, throwing one arm out as she sings like she's the main character in a movie only she can see.

A smile escapes me before I can stop it.

She's beautiful, but not just the kind of pretty I've seen a hundred times before. It's the kind of beauty that captures your attention and refuses to let you look away, and it has nothing to do with makeup or clothes or perfect features.

It's her essence.

She looks like joy walking around in a beautiful body, singing dramatically to absolutely nobody while she smiles at the stars, and I can't take my eyes off her.

For the first time since arriving in Chicago, I don't feel angry anymore. I don't even think about Wyoming or everything I left behind because suddenly I'm curious about this girl, and I want to know her name, hear her laugh and find out what makes her smile at the stars like she knows something the rest of us don't.

I've dated many girls this past year, but none of them have ever made me feel like this. Like one look isn't enough and I need another, then another, just to figure out what the hell it is about her that has me standing here staring.