We pile into the Audi the twins share. It's warmer than I'd anticipated for this time of year, and I can already feel the sun burning my shoulders as it beams through the open window.

The trees fly by, broken up by the oversize homes with their landscaped lawns. Granada Hills is like any other gated community, and north of the freeway where Tim and Lilly reside are midcentury homes filled with hospitable neighbors. Lawn mowers growl over the bass of Dylan's music; the clockwork sounds of suburban life. In one of the front yards, a man is mowing his lawn in a flannel shirt and khaki green shorts. He waves as we pass, using his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

Back home, there was always this sense of freedom that came with knowing you could be anywhere you wanted in thirty minutes, but here, life has slowed to a crawl. There's no rush to get anywhere, no sense of urgency or purpose. An old couple stops in the middle of the street, a move that would earn you a side-eye in New York, but here no one cares. Strangely, I like it.

I focus on the notebook in my lap, checking my list of things to do: join track, don't think, breathe. The last one is underlined three times, just in case I forget.

This is the first time in years that there isn't anything huge on my list. I have the perfect 4.0 GPA, I've been accepted to three out of four of my colleges, and while I've still got finals and graduation to think about, the hard part is over. The problem is, it's the hard part that stops me from unraveling.

After finishing up my checklist, I neatly rip the page from my notebook before putting it in my pocket. Jamie thinks I'm crazy for making lists, especially on paper and not on my phone, but there is something therapeutic about writing things down.

He messages now, his fifth one in ten minutes, but it's a relief to know he's thinking about me. I take a picture of my view from the window, then send it over WhatsApp with a heart emoji.

Can't wait to visit you in California, he messages back.

Dylan turns down the stereo to be heard above the noise. "You've gone quiet on us," he says. "You're not nervous, are you?"

He's looking right at me, waiting for me to confess. "Are there actually people who don't get nervous about their first day?" I ask. "Because to me, that makes you a psychopath."

He grins, and I'm surprised at how easily it settles my nerves. "You'll be fine," he says, "trust me." Like it is just that easy.

"What are you, omniscient?"

A snigger erupts from the backseat. "He thinks he is," Olly says. "You'll never meet a bigger know-it-all than Dylan, I promise you."

Dylan glares into the rearview mirror. "I think I know everything?" He shakes his head and says to me, "Trust me, it won't be long before you start to ask yourself how that skinny little body of his can carry around such a big head."

I laugh, and when Olly hurls an insult at Dylan, Dylan reaches back and thumps him. I watch as the pair of them go back and forth, not used to any of this.

"Look," Olly says, poking his head between the seats, "you look like someone who gets off on the whole school thing, unlike Dylan here, so I'm sure you'll do great. Just don't do anything to embarrass us."

I'm ashamed to say he's not wrong. Growing up, I was always the kid with my hand up in class, or who asked for extra work to do at home, and as a teenager, I'm even worse.

At first it was just my little way of making Dad proud. He loved to praise: his favorite thing to do was tell you that no one could paint like you or run like you or sing like you. He loved making you feel special. But when you were special, it meant someone else was not—usually my mother. Looking back, most of my memories are of her standing on the sidelines, watching us with what I'd always assumed was adoration, but instead was a hopefulness that one day, he'd look at her that way too.

Later, when I realized this, school became a goal to focus on, a way for me to distract myself. If I wasn't with the track team or hanging out with Jamie, I was studying to maintain my perfect GPA, or volunteering at care homes, or running homework clubs. Anything I could control, I would, and anything I couldn't, I ignored.

"If you really want to know the truth," Dylan says, making a left turn, "I was always kind of a bad egg. Can you believe that my third-grade teacher once told me she was wasting her time with me? She said I was never going to be able to write properly."

"I can," Olly says.

"That's awful," I say.

"Yeah, it is," he agrees. "I guess it all worked out in the end. Her comment was the reason I turned to music."

"Is that what you want to be?" I ask. "A musician?"

"Not quite that cliché. I don't really know where I want to go with it, but I got into Northwestern for music, so I guess I'll go from there. What about you—where are you going?"

I'm saved from having to answer when Dylan pulls into the senior parking lot. I step out of the car, about to get my schedule out to check it again when a noisy black motorcycle zips past me. It pulls into the space beside us, forcing me to jump back or risk getting my feet crushed.

"Hey!" I say.

The rider takes off his helmet and glances over. His eyes narrow, and I try to keep the surprise from my face. It's the same guy I'd met at the fight last night—the boy with the red gloves. Up close, I realize he has the manliest face I've ever seen on a high schooler, with a sharp-edged jaw and tousled black hair that seems to fall into perfect waves. The faintest shadow sits beneath his eye, a lingering bruise from his fight the other night.

"Yeah?"

For a second, I forget what I'm saying. Then I remember the peril I'd just been in. "I was walking here."

"That's what the sidewalk is for." Then he climbs off his bike, stuffs the helmet into the back compartment, and simply strides off.

Dylan opens his door and climbs out, stonily watching the boy's retreating figure. "Hayden Walker," he says. "Not very pleasant, right?"

"No," I say, staring after him. "Not at all."

We step onto the curb just as June's convertible pulls into the space beside us. She kills the engine, takes a quick look at herself in her sun visor, and throws the door open.

"Hey, losers," she says, pulling me into a hug. "Is anyone else still traumatized from last night?"

There's this second where Olly looks at June, and his expression changes completely. His eyes lighten a little, and there's a boyish bashfulness about his smile that makes me wonder if he likes her. "I am," he says, swinging his bag across his shoulder. He looks like a giant next to June, who barely comes up to my shoulder. "I'm traumatized that I lost two hundred freakin' bucks."

"Serves you right for gambling." She hooks an arm through mine as we start toward a long, yellow building with green pillars. Kavi joins us midwalk, accompanied by her boyfriend, Zion, and the six of us fall into step as we cross a courtyard filled with students. There's a quiet, hopeful buzz in the air. Other seniors walk past us with a spring in their step, gushing about prom and graduation. Everybody seems a little lighter, somehow, like we've all just caught a glimpse of the light at the end of the tunnel. If I can learn to relax, I can be that way too.

"You'll be fine," Kavi says, like she can sense my discomfort. I wonder if it's because she has four siblings—all younger, all girls—that she's so tuned in to others' feelings. "Everyone's already pretty much checked out. There's a serious case of senioritis going around."

"She's right," June says, "but there are a few things you need to know."

And in the two minutes it takes for them to drop me at the reception, she gives me a crash course on all things
Granada Hills Charter: what food to order from the cafeteria, what rumors are currently making their rounds, what teachers are lenient with missing homework. By the time I'm walking up to the main desk, I feel like I somehow know everything and nothing.

The receptionist spends the next fifteen minutes going over my schedule before leading me down the corridor. We make a right, stopping in front of a door with its blind pulled down. She opens the door and steps inside, explaining to
Mr. Shipman that I am the new student he's been expecting.

Heads swivel to look at me as Mr. Shipman, a tall, balding man with glasses, points to the table with an empty chair at the back, right behind Hayden Walker. Slowly, I make my way down the aisle, slip into the seat behind him, and try to make myself as small as possible.

When I'm no longer under a spotlight, I take a moment to look around the room. It's long and narrow, with eggshell white walls softened only by a canvas of inspirational quotes. Be braver than you were yesterday, one reads. Always follow your heart, reads another, like it is just that easy.

In front of me, Hayden is leaning so far back in his chair, he's practically on my lap. He's looking ahead, tapping out a rhythm on his jeans with his pencils. I should be focusing on Mr. Shipman, but instead I'm repeating our encounter last night, over and over.

Apologies are free, Dad would say. What have you got to lose? It's true too; sometimes it felt like he never stopped apologizing.

By the end of class, I have gathered enough courage to apologize. It's clear I offended him last night, and I'd rather not make enemies on my first day of school.

As soon as the bell rings I'm out of my seat, making my way to his desk. I hesitate for a moment. Long enough to realize this is probably a mistake. Long enough for him to lift his head. Our eyes connect, and for a second he just looks at me before he grabs his bag, swings it over his shoulder, and walks right past me.

At lunch, instead of playing the age-old game of where do I sit, the decision is made for me. June waves me over, so I take a seat at an already-crowded table overlooking the courtyard.

"You're just in time to hear June start one of her mumbo-jumbo therapy rants about love languages," Olly says. For someone so skinny, he's managed to inhale his pizza and fries and is now helping himself to June's. "Her mom's a relationship therapist, so she thinks she's some kind of expert by default."

"It's not mumbo jumbo," June says, yanking her fries away. "It's, like, scientifically proven."

"Whatever. Just once I'd like to eat lunch without being psychoanalyzed."

"No one is psychoanalyzing you. I'd be done in two seconds."

He reaches for her fries again, dodging her attempts to slap him away. "And if I were doing you, I'd be done in three."

"You'll never be doing me."

Zion, who up until now had been fixing his dark hair in the reflection of a spoon, bursts out laughing.

Confused, I say, "What are love languages?"

June turns to me mid–smoothie sip. "The idea is that we all have a primary love language, a specific way we like to be appreciated or loved. I'm a words of affirmation kind of girl, which means I like people to tell me they appreciate me rather than show me. Olly, no surprise, likes gifts." Her eyes land on mine, and she tilts her head. "Obviously, I haven't worked you out yet, but I will."

The idea of being psychoanalyzed by June makes me nauseous. "Can't wait."

They start talking about senior week as I try to keep up. Hayden is over by the window, sitting on a table with his friends. He's more animated than I've seen him so far. The grin on his face is sweet and boyish, the opposite of how he'd looked at me earlier.

June follows my gaze. "Ugh."

My head snaps up. "You don't like them?"

"I don't like him."

"Sure you do," Dylan says. "Didn't you make out with him after Homecoming?"

For a moment, June doesn't say anything. She just finishes her smoothie, sets down the carton, and calmly says, "Olly, do you mind?"

"Not at all." He leans across June, his T-shirt rising slightly to reveal a sliver of taut skin, and punches Dylan on the arm. To me, he says, "Ignore him. He gets mopey whenever Hayden is mentioned."

Dylan looks at Hayden, his body rigid, then turns to his plate. I can't help but ask, "Why?"

"Dylan made out with Hayden's ex, Caitlyn," Olly says. "She ditched them both, moved schools, and now they mope around shooting each other death glares every now and then." He looks at Dylan and innocently asks, "Did I leave anything out?"

"Yeah, you're a dick," Dylan says. "I realize I come across as the bad guy in this story, but it's complicated. He's not a nice guy."

I don't answer. Judging people on gossip has never been my thing, but something about Hayden sets alarm bells ringing. Maybe it's the piercing stare, or the fact that my mom has spent several years warning me about boys like him, but every time he looks at me, it makes me wish he wouldn't.

Conversation soon moves to prom. As relieved as I feel to be back in a routine, prom is the one thing I'm not looking forward to. The dress Mom and I had spent months searching for now hangs in my closet, a reminder of a night with Jamie I'll never get to have.

"Oh, you don't need to worry about finding a date," Kavi says. "June already asked Dylan to take you."

"You mean forced," Zion says, glancing at me. "No offense."

I turn to Dylan, who is trying to look anywhere but directly at me. "Are you okay with that?"

His eyes flit to mine, warm and intense. "Yeah. I mean, if you are. I figured it would be stressful moving here halfway through your senior year and then having to worry about prom."

For a brief moment, I worry what Jamie will think about me going to prom with another boy. But then I remind myself he won't think anything—I'm not my mom, and he's not my dad. "Thanks," I say. "That's really sweet of you."

The rest of the day passes in a blur of new faces. June insists we go shopping after school, followed by dinner. I hesitate briefly—I'd been planning on checking out the school's athletics facilities—but her and Kavi practically drag me to the parking lot.

We climb into her convertible and, with the top down, ride down a palm tree–lined street with the music turned up. Head back, I'm suddenly hit with this rush of adrenaline as my hair whips back and forth in the wind.

It's not long before we're pulling into the busy parking lot of West Hollywood Gateway mall. We spend the next hour rushing through stores, trying on clothes like in a bad teen movie before heading to Sephora.

"Oh my God," June pants behind me, closely followed by Kavi, "why do you walk so fast?"

"Why do you walk so slow?" I say, but I let her grab my hand and take the lead, pulling me down the foundation aisle.

"Here, try this," Kavi says, handing me a tube. "You're a similar shade to me, and it's the best I've ever worn. Doesn't make you look all ashy like some brands do."

June, who is looking between us like she's being left out, says, "I'll get it for you. It can be your Welcome-to-California gift."

My guard goes up, and I tell her I can't. Gifts come with a warning label, a fine print on the side of the box: accept this and you'll owe me.

"Okay," she says, handing it back, "gifts are definitely not your love language. I'll keep trying."

We settle on an Italian restaurant for dinner. I order spaghetti while they get ravioli, and we spend the next hour getting to know each other better.

It seems June is a movie buff. Anything I mention, she's either seen it or heard about it, and if it doesn't have at least a seven-star rating on IMDb, it's not worth her time.

"What's wrong with low-rated movies?" I ask. "They can be good."

Kavi looks up from her phone long enough to say, "Don't get her started," but I can tell from June's passionate expression that it's too late.

"Who wants to waste two hours on a movie that's got a bunch of bad reviews?" June asks. She leans across the table, eyes bright with expression. "I figure time is precious, and you should make the most of it." She stabs at her ravioli and pushes her side of garlic bread toward me. "Have some, it's nice."

I rush to take one of the slices. "You must miss out on a lot of good movies that way, though. Some have terrible reviews but turn out to be really enjoyable. Some of them might not be critically acclaimed, but does it matter?"

"I guess, but if the majority of people who watch a movie think it's bad, it's a good indicator that the movie is going to be bad."

"No, I know." This garlic bread is delicious. I eye the other slice for a second, and June laughs and says I can have that one too. "I'm just saying that even a bad movie can be fun to watch. I mean, I've watched movies with two stars before, not expecting much, and ended up loving them."

"What you should both be watching," Kavi says, "are murder documentaries. There are loads on Netflix. Zion and I have these murder marathons, and we try to guess who the killer is before it's revealed."

"Sounds morbid," June says.

The buzzing of my phone cuts through whatever Kavi's about to say. I glance at the FaceTime call from Jamie and hesitate.

Kavi peers over my shoulder and asks, "That the boyfriend?"

"Yep."

"Can we meet him?" June asks.

I hesitate, then click Accept and wait for Jamie's face to fill the screen. As soon as it does, my heart flips. "Hey," he says. "You home yet? How was your first day?"

"Not yet. I'm just having dinner with my—" I pause, because it feels strange to call them friends after only a week.

"—new besties," June says. "Quick, point it to me." She smooths down her curls, readjusts her sweater, and grins.

Laughing, I turn the camera to them both. "This is June and Kavi. They go to my school."

"Hey," Kavi says.

"Hey," June follows, then scrunches her nose. "Is that the weather in New York right now? It looks like you're in the Upside Down."

There's confusion in Jamie's voice as he says, "The Upside Down?"

"Yeah. You know, from Stranger Things?"

"Oh, yeah," he says, laughing, but Jamie has never watched Stranger Things, and it's not like him to lie, "I gotta get going, Madz," he says, so I turn the camera back to me.

"I'll call you later," I say.

"Can't wait."

As soon as the call ends, June leans across the table in excitement. "He is so cute. Have you guys had sex yet?"

I practically choke on my garlic bread. It's not that I'm a prude, it's just that I'm not used to talking about these things with people. The only other person I talk to is Jamie and it's not like we actually talk about it all that often. I've thought about sex a lot this past year, the reasons behind why Jamie and I haven't taken that step, despite having been dating nearly a year. We're not religious or anything, we aren't waiting until marriage, and while he's pushed for it a few times, I've never felt ready to give away that part of myself yet.

"No, have you?"

"I haven't," Kavi says. "Zion and I want to wait."

"I have," June says, and she leans across the table like she's about to tell me a secret. "I was with this guy, Lucas, for a year before his family moved to Kentucky. You should have seen me, Maddie. We were forever confessing our undying love for each other. Then a week after he moved, we didn't speak again. I was so distraught by it all that I ended up making out with Hayden Walker at a party. Can you believe that?"

For a moment, I'm silent. I take a moment to process her monologue. I'm not used to someone like June, someone who can just trust a complete stranger with such personal information. But maybe that's how we all start out. Maybe we just go around blindly trusting until one day, we learn why we shouldn't.

When I realize she's still looking at me for an answer, I say, "Is that why you don't like him?"

She scrunches her nose again. "I don't like him because he treated my friend like crap. I mean, I know she cheated on him, but before that he was a dick to her. All Caitlyn ever talked about is how much they'd fight."

"Bearing in mind that Caitlyn had a habit of exaggerating," Kavi says.

June rolls her eyes. "Whatever. He's a jerk."

"I don't get it," I say. "From what I've seen, Dylan doesn't seem like the kind of guy to steal someone's girlfriend."

She bites her lip. "You didn't hear any of this from me, okay?"

Kavi puts a hand out, as if to say halt. "Not your story to tell, June."

June ignores her and turns to me. "Dylan and Caitlyn were best friends, except Dylan was madly in love with her. Then Hayden and Caitlyn got together, which for Hayden was practically unheard of—he never went out with just one girl. But around the same time, Hayden lost his dad and started acting like a jerk. I guess the more Hayden spiraled, the closer Dylan and Caitlyn grew. Hayden turned into an even bigger jerk afterward and hasn't been with anyone since. Dylan and Caitlyn got together briefly, but when her family moved last year, she completely cut contact with everyone."

Even though I feel terrible for Caitlyn, a part of me can't help but feel bad for Hayden too. He lost his dad and his girlfriend at the same time. That had to have been hard.

"Moving on," Kavi says, "are you going to college? Which ones did you get into?"

My whole body tenses. While college is something to look forward to for most, it has always been a sore subject for me. It's not that my parents weren't supportive of my choices, they were. They trailed around college after college with me, took me to my interviews, helped me to prepare. But as excited as they'd been for me, I could never mirror that same excitement back. The colleges I'd wanted to go to were miles away, which would mean leaving Mom for months at a time—I just couldn't do it.

In the end, most of the colleges I'd applied to were close to home. There were a few further afield, colleges on my Never going to happen but a girl can dream list. I knew even if I were accepted to one, I would never take it, but it was enough to know that they wanted me, that all of my hard work had paid off.

At least, that's how I'd felt at first. Then my acceptance letters came through, and I realized I'd been accepted to my dream college, UCLA. All of a sudden, it wasn't enough just to know that they wanted me; I needed more. Only now that I'm here, talking about it, do I realize that UCLA is no longer a dream, it's a possibility. California is our new start, and with UCLA being a stone's throw away, there is only one thing stopping me.

"I'm thinking about accepting my offer at UCLA," I say, "but my boyfriend wants us both to go to NYU."

The pair pull a face at this, so I say, "What?"

"Nothing," Kavi says, but she has a something face. "It's just, are you sure you want to go to the same college as your high school boyfriend? What if you break up? College should be about where you want to go."

Mom had said pretty much the same thing when I'd told her. Don't you dare use me as an excuse not to follow your dreams, she'd said, and don't let Jamie keep you here either. Wherever you go, whatever you do, do it for you, no one else. Still, living for yourself and not others is easier said than done.

We finish up our meal, which June insists on paying for, and by the time she drops me home, it feels like I've known them for years. I head into the house and peer into the living room, where Lilly and Tim are watching TV. Tim has got his arms around her, holding her close, and she's resting her head on his chest. It reminds me of my parents on one of their good days.

"Hey," Lilly says when she notices me hovering. "How was your first day?"

"Good." I shrug. "Everyone's really nice."

She looks a little relieved. "I'm glad. Something came for you earlier, by the way. I've had to stop Tim opening it for you about five times."

I glance at the coffee table. On it is a crisp, white box with a pink ribbon around it, my name scrawled in gold calligraphy across the side.

"The suspense has been killing me," Tim says. "Open it, open it."

Briefly, alarm bells ring. My fingers tremble as I pull off the ribbon and watch it unravel. Inside is a beautiful thin-cut bracelet with several silver charms.

"Wow," Lilly says. "I wish Tim was that romantic. You'd think he'd be better at this stuff being a romance writer, but no, I get electric toothbrushes for my birthday, or snow tires. We don't even get snow, Tim. When would I need snow tires?"

"Hey, I got you the toothbrush once. Plus, you're always talking about driving up to Canada. It snows there."

The pair go off on a tangent as I study my bracelet. My thumb gently traces the pieces of our history, a few of the charms winking at me as they catch the light. A sterling silver book to commemorate the first time we'd spoken in the library. A tiny Stitch, for the first Disney movie I ever made him watch. I pause on the most important charm, resting in the center of the bracelet. A pair of ice skates, identical to the ones we'd worn on our first date to Rockefeller Center.

"Do you know how to ice-skate?" he'd asked. It had only been a few weeks since we'd been talking—mostly through messages—but now he was leaning against my locker, wearing that cute, boyish smile.

"Not without falling on my ass."

Jamie grinned. He leaned in closer as other students hurried to get to class. "What if I took you ice-skating and promised to let you hold on to me?"

My heart pounded. I'd vowed to myself that I would never do boyfriends, but weeks of Jamie calling me beautiful, of making me laugh, made me want to make an exception.

"What if I fall?" I asked.

"Then we're going down together," he said seriously. "You fall, I fall."

I laughed in spite of myself, because it had only been last week that I'd made him watch my favorite movie, Titanic.

I still didn't understand how any of this happened. His attention baffled me, not just because he was popular, but because he was so handsome and social. He was the kind of guy who'd strike up a conversation with anyone, flitting between social groups like a butterfly.

I was the opposite. I had people I sat with at lunch and walked to classes with, but there was no one I'd hang out with after school. Between extracurriculars and pretending to be happy, there wasn't much energy left for anything else.

"Okay," I said. "I'll go."

When Jamie showed up that weekend, my mother seemed nervous. This was the first boy I'd ever been out with, and I could tell she was wondering whether Jamie was another Dad; whether I was destined to meet the same fate. It's what I kept wondering, too, but Jamie was the perfect gentleman. He politely introduced himself to my parents and spent the next ten minutes discussing the golden ratio with my father and photography with my mother. When it was time to leave, both my parents were smitten.

"Have fun," Dad said.

"Don't stay out late!" called Mom.

We headed to Rockefeller Center, making small talk on the subway. Jamie held my hand, and it felt warm and solid in mine. He chatted about his parents—his mom ran a makeup business and his dad was a lawyer—and his favorite films. I learned he loved Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which was my favorite series of all time, that he spent every weekend at Tyler's, because his parents were always out, and he hated being alone. The more he opened up to me, the more comfortable I felt, and by the time we got to Rockefeller Center, it felt like I'd known him my whole life.

"I feel like I don't really know you," he said as we climbed up the stairs to the street level. "Tell me something no one else knows. Something real." He noticed my hesitant expression and said, "I'll go first." He looked down for a moment at his hands, conflicted. "My ex cheated on me."

My eyes softened. "I'm sorry."

He nodded. "I was in love, and I thought she was too. Obviously not." He looked up then, something vulnerable in his expression. "That's not the something real, though. The something real is that you're the first girl I've wanted to open up to since then."

My heart swelled, like I'd somehow achieved something no other girl had. I thought for a minute about what I could tell him in return. I wanted to be as open and as vulnerable as he was, but there was a mental blockage that stopped me. Sharing your secrets never ended well.

"I like to make lists," I said. "With time frames that everything needs to be completed by. The girls in track saw one on my phone once and said I was crazy."

His face fell a little, but he tried his best to hide his disappointment. "They sound evil. Can I see one?"

Hesitant, I got out my phone, opened up my schedule app, and passed it to him. He scanned the list, not saying anything, and I began to wonder whether he thought I really was crazy. But then he scrolled to the bottom, typed something in, and handed back my phone. He'd written down a schedule that said Second date with Jamie.

I was still grinning when we got to Rockefeller Center, and the moment we got onto the ice was like something from a movie. Christmas music blasted from the speakers as I leaned into his side. He took my hand and turned to face me, sensing I was nervous.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

The question caught me off guard. I'd only really known him a few weeks, so how could I trust him? And yet in that moment, as he stared at me with those trusting blue eyes, I did.

"Yes."

We moved slowly but steadily as I clung to him. I kept expecting him to grow annoyed at my snail pace, the way Dad would have at Mom, but instead he was patient as little kids zoomed past us, spinning around on their skates.

"You're a natural," he said, and even though I knew it was a lie, it filled me with happiness.

He pulled me toward him, and I felt the heat flood my cheeks, as if I were blushing. He reached down, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear like he was going to kiss me. And it surprised me how much I wished that he would kiss me, so much so that I'd already imagined how soft his lips would feel on mine.

"You want to know something real?" I whispered.

Against my ear, in a low, soft voice, he whispered, "Yes."

I took a deep breath, my heart pitter-pattering in my chest. "I've never done this before."

"Skated?" He grinned. "That's kind of obvious."

"No, been on a date. Liked . . . someone."

His grin fell away, his serious eyes back. "I know it's not because you've never been asked out. Tyler said you turned him down a few months ago."

Nodding, I said, "It's just that—" I took a deep breath, because this was the first time I'd ever be saying this out loud. And it seemed crazy to do it—I'd only been hanging with Jamie a few weeks, but somehow he made me feel vulnerable. Safe. "My parents have a toxic marriage. I guess I've been scared I'd end up that way too."

He suddenly pulled me closer, his hand like a reassuring presence on my back. "Thank you for telling me," he said, and he lowered his mouth until it was right by my ear. "And just for the record, I'd never hurt you." He tucked my hair behind my ear then, looked in my eyes, and kissed me.

The bracelet is out of the box and over my wrist in a second. The gold color catches the light and glows as I gently finger the J charm. It's beautiful. I send Jamie a picture of it on my wrist, tell him I love it, and promise to call him after dinner.

Not as beautiful as you, he texts back.

"Where's my mom?" I ask.

"She's having a power nap," Lilly says, and I can tell from the way she quickly looks at Tim that there's something on her mind. "I'm a little worried about her—about both of you. I can't imagine how hard this split must have been, but therapy is a big thing here. If you want—"

"No." The word comes out quick, and Lilly stops dead. I know my mother, I know how she prefers to shut the world out, and forcing her to do something she doesn't want to do just pushes her further away. Already it feels like she's slipping through my fingers, fading away before my eyes. "We're fine," I say. "Or we will be, once we've settled in. She just needs a little time."

Lilly opens her mouth like she wants to say more, but Tim puts a hand on her shoulder, gives her a look, and my aunt backs down.

"You want to watch something with us?" he asks. "Maybe a third vote will help us actually decide on something."

I tell them maybe later and head upstairs. I pass my mother's room on the left and find her curled up on her side. I'm suddenly hit with the smell of Dad's aftershave, like she's spritzed it on the pillows. My first instinct is to lie down behind her and wrap an arm around her waist. "Hey," I say softly. "How are you doing?"

At first I think she's asleep, but then she curls a hand around my arm, squeezing me tight. "I should be asking you that. How was your first day at school?"

"It was fine. Come on, Mom, it's just me now. How are you really doing?"

Her chest contracts beneath my hand. She takes in a breath, then quietly says, "I spent the morning working on my résumé, thinking I was fine, then out of nowhere I"—she pauses as though trying to find the right words—"I just started missing him." All of a sudden, this invisible thread snaps, and her body folds in on itself. "I know that I shouldn't," she says through sobs, "but I can't help it. It feels like I can't breathe."

Eyes squeezed shut, I pull her in closer, biting back tears. Ever since our first date, Jamie has been my anchor, the one person I know I can be vulnerable around, but for my mother, it's me; it's why I have to be strong. "It's okay to miss him," I say, but sometimes I'm not so sure. "I miss him too."

Mom turns in my arms until she's facing me properly. I'm always surprised by how different she looks without makeup. Growing up, it felt like she never went a day without wearing her bronzer or blush or eyeshadow. Not because she thought she needed it, but because she enjoyed it; it made her feel good.

Dad could never understand this. To him, makeup was a weapon Mom used to lure other men. It didn't matter how much she argued or tried to explain; she was never going to win with him. Eventually, she stopped wearing makeup at all.

"What if he's hurt?" she whispers. "What if he needs us?"

A familiar lump works its way up my throat. I close my eyes, repeating his words in my head: I love you both so much. If I ever lost you, I'd kill myself.

I pull her in closer, pressing my cheek to her face. "Whenever you start to miss him, just hold on to the bad stuff," I say, but even to my own ears, it sounds impossible. Over time, the bad memories fade, until all you are left with are the good parts.

Mom nods, and when her eyes take on a far-off look, I know she's thinking about everything it took to get here. It hadn't been easy to set aside money when Dad controlled the finances, so we'd taken to withdrawing small amounts at a time, stuffing it all into a Ziploc bag before stashing it into a plant pot. It wasn't exactly the greatest of hiding spots, but Dad had a habit of searching the house—cupboards, light shades, floorboards—and it was the one place he'd yet to look.

What he was looking for, I never quite knew. My theory is signs of my mother's infidelities: maybe he expected to find a male's phone number stashed in the light shade, or a secret phone beneath the floorboards, but even that's just guesswork. The truth is, nobody knew what went on in my father's head—least of all him.

The tiniest flame ignites in my stomach. I count to ten, working hard to extinguish it. "You can do this," I say, but I'm not sure of that either.

She nods and buries her face in my neck. I stroke her hair, over and over, knowing it's all I can do. I feel it, too, this loss, even though I've pushed it down. But there are moments when I let it in, when I let myself think, and it feels like I'm suffocating.

—

Later that night, once I've showered and written out a schedule for tomorrow, I fall onto my bed, sideways, and stare at the photos on my nightstand. Breathing heavily, I pick them both up, holding one in each hand. For so long, I've wondered why these pictures stood out to me, but I think I finally get it now. One is the person I wish I could be, the other is who I fear I'll become.

Exhausted, I turn off the light in an attempt to get some sleep when my Instagram pings. I open it up, expecting it to be Jamie, but it's a message request from an account with no picture. My skin prickles, like a faint warning bell. Breath held, I click the message.

I'm sorry, I love you.

Dad.

For about a minute, I think I'm having a heart attack. I focus on breathing: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. I think it will calm me, this rhythm, but then my breathing comes faster, until all I can feel is the weight of my lungs, expanding and contracting. There's been this dark, empty space in my chest since we left, and for a second, his apology filled it.

I can't take it when he apologizes. When he frowns and tells us how much he loves us. It's like I forget he hurt us, and Mom does, too, and we forgive him again. Because we love him. I hate him, and I love him.

Another message comes through before I can react.

I can't live without you.

Two seconds later.

I'll never hurt you again. I'm sorry.

One second.

Answer me or you'll regret it.

I jerk as if I've been slapped. The ease in which he switches between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is terrifying. With trembling fingers, I block his account. Despite his threats, there is a part of me that wants to write back. That misses him so much, it physically hurts. But then there is this other part that is angry and hates him. Not just him, but myself. He hurt us, time after time; how can I want to forgive that?

That's when it hits me—I might be physically free, but I'm as emotionally tied to him as ever. His words still hurt, his messages have the power to unravel me in an instant, and until that stops, I will never be free.

I hate you, I want to scream. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I grab a pillow and punch it as hard as I can. In my head, I'm reliving that night, but instead of taking his abuse like I did, I'm fighting back. That's when I pull back, remembering the flyer, and grab it from my drawer.

Straightening up, I smooth it out, staring at the front.

Welcome to GymCon, the flyer reads. Where fighters are made.

Raise money.

Take control.

Push yourself.

GymCon White Collar Boxing is a unique opportunity for people with no boxing background to experience the world of boxing in a safe and enjoyable environment. With eight weeks of one-to-one training, you'll be ready to face an evenly matched opponent at a glamorous event in Vegas. Raise money for charity and push yourself to lengths you have never gone before. Are you ready to be brave?

I read those words over and over, turning them around in my head. Are you ready to be brave? My heart pounds as I stare at the boxer on the front. He looks fierce, controlled, and for the briefest of moments, the anger I feel is replaced by something else: hope.