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I’m taking my sister to the park.

Which park?

The one next to the subdivision sign. But my sister might recognize you.

So you’re saying I need to wear a disguise?

Do you have a fake nose and glasses lying around?

I just might. Bring your backpack.

I leave for the park with Faith, telling my mother that I’ll be doing some schoolwork while we’re there.

“Make sure you’re still watching her,” my mother warns, because she thinks Faith’s chances of getting abducted in the real world are very high.

My heart is racing the entire way to the park. This is a terrible idea. If anyone sees us together...I won’t take a single unmonitored breath until I leave for Bolivia. I’ll be homeschooled for the rest of the year. I’ll definitely lose my phone.

It’s unusually cold today, and there are only a handful of people at the park when we arrive. I’m not sure that’s a good thing—it’s going to stand out all the more to Faith and anyone looking on that I’m sitting with a boy.

I set my backpack on the bench, and then Faith calls me over to push her on the swings. She’s way too old to still need a push—I go only to keep her contented enough to remain here for a while.

I push her until I see a tall guy in a hoody and sunglasses walking toward my backpack. Even all covered up, I’d recognize that mouth of his anywhere. “You’re old enough to do this yourself,” I tell Faith. “I have homework.”

When I reach him, he nods toward the swings. “Is that your sister? She looks nothing like you.”

I shrug. “She takes after my mom’s side of the family. How was your Christmas?”

I can only see him out of my peripheral vision, but his sudden stiffness is notable. “We went to Jacksonville and hung out with Leila for a few days. They thought she wasn’t ready to come home.”

As much as I complained about my Christmas, his was worse. It’s easy to picture how hard that must have been—the three of them sitting around some cheap table, Ford and his mother struggling to remain cheerful.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Anyway,” he says, “my mom was getting rid of something, and I thought you might want it. He lifts a large book out of his backpack and sets it atop mine.

Seaside Design is the title. My fingertips graze over the gorgeous photo on the cover—the ocean as seen through the open glass doors of an immaculate living room.

“You said that’s what you want to do, right? Design shit?”

A hint of a smile graces my lips. “Yes. Design shit. I’m pretty sure that’s what the degree is called. A BA in Design Shit.”

He laughs and swings the backpack over his shoulder. “Gotta go. Catch you later.”

Casual, as always.

“Ford, I love it,” I tell him. I wish he’d stay. Even if I end up getting caught, I wish he’d stay. “Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas, Grace,” he says before he lopes away.

I open the book. The pages are crisp, still slightly stuck together, as if it’s never been opened. And it’s perfect. Every page makes this small piece of me vibrate, as if it’s familiar, as if I’m seeing my own dreams on paper.

My parents got me a sewing kit, God’s Word for the Teenage Years, and a dress I’d never willingly wear. I press the book to my chest. I love that he thought of me.

But what I love most is that, for the first time in my life, someone isn’t trying to make me better.

He’s just trying to make me...me.

That night, I message him.