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I was always convinced that would fade. That one day she’d wake up and realize she’d stuck herself to a losing dog in this fight. So I kept fighting. If I could just keep her for one more year. One more day. One more night.

When we started Walden Prep together, I remember being so nervous I threw up in the bushes outside her house. A selfish part of me wanted to shove her back in her room and stay there with her—but I knew she wanted out of there, desperately. And yet, when she could’ve walked away, she didn’t. She’s always stuck by me.

Best friends. Lovers. It all sounds ridiculously too small compared to how I felt for her. How I still feel for her.

I wear my obsession for Lily LaBlanc on my skin. Hers is painted onto these walls.

Stepping around, I inspect a few more, before stumbling across an old record player and a small bin of records—the two on top are easily recognizable.

My lips haven’t even formed the question, before Lily, hovering close by, starts in. “Oh, yeah. Um . . . Those are your records. You can have them back.”

“What do you mean mine?”

“I mean . . . yours. I kept the ones in my room, but I went back to your house for the others. And your guitar.”

My stomach flips over and over again, rage and excitement and gratitude and fear warring for dominance so intensely I can’t seem to settle on one, let alone a response.

But the guitar is there, the electric one, a sleek black Fender I’d bought for myself when I turned sixteen. I’d sold the acoustic freshman year of college to pad my food budget, and it nearly killed me, forced to give up the one thing that was really just mine.

My fingers ghost over the neck, dancing along the fret.

“You can have it all back. I was just holding them in case . . .”

She lets her sentence hang in the air between us.

In case.

“Yeah.” I nod. “You can keep them here for us.”

Pleasure zips down my spine at the blinding smile when I drop that last word.

“Play your favorite.”

She says it like I have one. I have a lot of favorites, but most of them are on the albums she’s got here. I flip through them steadily, each one a memory of its own. Days after school at the old record shop on Fourth Ave.; surprise gifts from Lily that happened a little too often when her dad finally gave her a credit card; playing the Jeff Buckley Grace album until it broke and Lily bought me two more.

Sometimes when I look at her, I can hear “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” playing in my ears.

I play it now, finding the album at the top of the heap, flicking to the right stop on the disc before dropping the needle right on the beginning of the song.

Taking her hand in mine, I put her feet atop my feet and sway us slowly to the music, humming in my chest. She presses her left ear closer, closing her eyes as she listens and feels the vibrations of my body.

It isn’t too long before I tire of her being too far from me, so I hoist her up by her hips, letting her legs wrap around my waist so I can hold her much closer, the scent of her hair in my nose, the feel of her body in my grip once more.

I’m not letting her go.

Chapter 51

Toren

“It’s weird. If she wanted me here, she would’ve asked.”

Tough shit, considering I’ve already rung the doorbell—despite Lily trying to climb my arm like a spider monkey.

We’re in front of the Hockey House door, something I never thought I’d say, considering this is Rhys Koteskiy’s home, alongside Bennett and Freddy.

Lily barely slept; only after I’d taken her twice on the floor of her art room did she even start to wane.

She fidgets again, crossing her arms in a stance I’m ninety percent sure is a mimicry of mine, but I don’t say a word. It’s hard enough to keep my lips from tilting up in a pleased smile.