I cringe as I replay my morning in my head. Laughter filled my ears followed by the sound of one of my peers saying, "I knew she'd chicken out" as I raced out the chorus room doors.

My footsteps echoed through the empty hallway as I nearly ran into the wall before stumbling into the rest room. Pushing through the stall door, I fell to the floor and emptied the contents of my stomach out into the toilet.

Embarrassed doesn't begin to cover it. I'd taken a chance to audition for the solo I'd always dreamed of and couldn't even get through the first line because the whole chorus had their eyes on me.

Throwing up automatically meant I was going home for the day. Dad left work, got me and brought me home. When he was sure I was okay, he left to head back for the rest of his shift. Being alone right now was better anyway.

An hour later, I'm antsy. It's only one in the afternoon and I'm tired of sitting around. I go for a walk to enjoy the spring weather and run through all the things I did wrong in my head. I shouldn't have tried. Could have kept my eyes closed. I'd ask to audition in private but how would it help. If I got the solo from that, I'd be throwing up the night of the show.

God, I'm so angry with myself. On the second lap of my walk, feeling no relief I start back for the house. Opening the gate, I'm lost in my own head. Birds are twittering or whatever it is they do in early spring, but I can't bring myself to appreciate the newly formed buds on some trees and the grass being a little greener. Teenage angst at its finest.

A beautiful song I've never heard before surrounds me. It's coming from Max Mitchell's porch, but it's clearly not Max strumming the chords of the Taylor Acoustic Jonah had the other day.

Unable to face him, to tell him I failed today, I hurry for the porch but struggle to get the keys from my mini backpack. My fingers dip and grab for some kind of traction. I've picked up a pencil, a tampon, even some loose crayons, none of them are my keys. The tears are back with vengeance, and I feel silly for even crying.

I'm focused on my backpack, but in my head, I know exactly where each step is. Counting the paces, I ready myself but it's when I hear him call my name that I stumble and forget. Again, like a fumbling moron I end up tripping up the stairs this time instead of down. My knee hits and I drop the key defeated.

"This damsel in distress act is getting..." His voice fades when I shoot him a glance.

Whatever he sees on my face, tells me he regrets opening his mouth. He's beside me on the steps in a heartbeat, brushing hair from my face like I'm his to touch. He does it with a confidence that makes me feel exposed.

His hand lingers. "What happened?"

His shimmering dark eyes dance over my face. He's inspecting every inch like he's looking for damage on the surface, but it's not there, it lies much deeper.

"I did what you said. Closed my eyes, imagined you — scratch that," I half-laugh. "Imagined myself in my room and I still puked in the bathroom during chorus."

My shoulders slump with defeat. This is who I am — the girl so close to being something special but getting pulled back by the tide of doubt. For a second, I look away until he clears his throat. When our eyes meet, he's asking permission for something. He's so close the scent of citrus infiltrates my senses. It must be his body wash or shampoo. It's so strong but somehow comforting.

"Let's make a deal."

I quirk a brow at him. A dimple forms on his cheek as he grins. There's the cocky guy who sang a duet me when I never asked him to. Why does it feel as if I'm making a deal with the devil? Said devil is the most scrumptious boy I have ever laid my eyes on.

"What kind of deal?"

He chuckles. "You act as if you're going to sell your soul to the devil."

"Am I though? And is your superpower being a mind reader?"

I love the full bright smile on his face. It's one I've never caught on any of the TV appearances I've watched of his. He's mostly like that with everyone, but this one is more like one he reserves for only certain people. How I managed to be in that circle is beyond me.

"Yeah. You are. No, but seriously, Mack, I — tit for tat. I will help you overcome your solo stage fright and you make moving in with my sperm donor worthwhile. I won't be here forever, once I turn eighteen, I'm out, but I need something bright in my life. I'm set to record an album in mid-July and then the devil will let you live your life in peace. So, girl next door, what do you say?"

I adjust myself on the step and he pulls away, but there's still not much space between us. Tiffany is right. I'm living in a fanfiction. Believing this is my story is hard to stomach. My heart can't seem to control the intense thumping. We help each other and then go our separate ways. It's kind of a sad thought never seeing him again but you only live once and I'm not about to pass up on an offer from my idol.

"Okay. I'm in, but you can't fall in love with me — rockstar."

The grin on his face makes him hard to resist. I'm sure my panties are a bit wet from the sight alone. I won't tell him that out loud though, I'll keep that tidbit to myself.

"Your tone indicates you don't believe it's possible that I nor anyone else could fathom the thought of falling for you."

I shake my head, laughing despite myself. He must think I've lost my ever-loving mind. My chuckles turn to giggling and by then tears infiltrate my eyes and I have to hold onto my stomach.

"It's not impossible, Mack. You're a beautiful woman." The tone in his voice is deeper, almost manly-like. I mean t-technically he is a man... I am a woman... but I'm just barely eighteen and this is insane.

When he pulls back, I expect him to say, GOTCHA! Jokes on you, but instead, he doesn't. His smile doesn't fade, it's sweet and not mocking. I don't know why it catches me by surprise, but it does. After he helps me up, again, we agree to meet over the weekend. The moment I'm upstairs I call Tiffany and tell her word for word what happened. I should question it, because I don't believe it's real, although I desperately want it to be. If someone like Jonah Mitchell can see me as something more, something worth his time, maybe I need to let go and stop being so harsh on myself. It can't hurt.