From the #1 New York Times bestselling author duo of The Royals and When It’s Real comes a sensational new novel about a girl falling for the one boy she should never have met…

Beth’s life hasn’t been the same since her sister died. Her parents try to lock her down, believing they can keep her safe by monitoring her every move. When Beth sneaks out to a party one night and meets the new guy in town, Chase, she’s thrilled to make a secret friend. It seems like a small thing, just for her.

Only Beth doesn’t know how big her secret really is…

Fresh out of juvie and determined to start his life over, Chase has demons to face and much to atone for, including his part in the night Beth’s sister died. Beth, who has more reason than anyone to despise him, is willing to give him a second chance. A forbidden romance is the last thing either of them planned for senior year, but the more time they spend together, the deeper their feelings get.

Now Beth has a choice to make—follow the rules, or risk tearing everything apart…again.

ERIN WATT is the brainchild of two bestselling authors linked together through their love of great books and an addiction to writing. They share one creative imagination. Their greatest love (after their families and pets, of course)? Coming up with fun—and sometimes crazy—ideas. Their greatest fear? Breaking up.

Books by Erin Watt

One Small Thing

When It’s Real

The Royals series

Paper Princess

Broken Prince

Twisted Palace

Fallen Heir

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Timeout LLC 2018

Erin Watt asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9781474077163

This book is dedicated to the assistants

and publicists who help manage our lives:

Nicole, Nina, Natasha and Lily

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Extract

About the Publisher

1

“Hey there, pupster.” I laugh as Morgan, the Rennicks’ dog, races across the lawn and jumps up on my khaki pants.

“Morgan, come here,” yells an exasperated Mrs. Rennick. “Sorry, Lizzie,” she says, rushing over to pull the big black mutt off me without much success. She’s small and he’s so big that they’re about the same size.

“It’s no big deal, Mrs. R. I love Morgan.” I crouch down and scratch the big boy behind his ears. He yaps happily and slobbers all over my cheek. “Oh, and it’s Beth now,” I remind my neighbor. I’m seventeen and Lizzie is a name I wish would go far, far away. Unfortunately, no one seems to remember.

“That’s right. Beth, then. Don’t encourage him,” she scolds, tugging on his collar.

I give him a few more rubs behind his ears before releasing him.

“Your mom’s going to have a fit.” Mrs. R frets.

I look down at the dog hairs that are now dotting my white button-down shirt, which was already spattered with food stains from work. “I need to wash up anyway.”

“Still. Tell her I’m sorry.” She drags Morgan away by the collar. “I promise to watch him better.”

“Don’t,” I say. “I love all the time I get with Morgan. It’s worth the punishment. Besides, it’s not like there’s any reason for us to not have a pet now.” I stick out my chin. The reason for our pet-free house has been gone for three years, even if my parents don’t like acknowledging that fact.

Mrs. R falls silent for a moment. I don’t know if she’s holding back curt words toward me for being callous, or toward my mom for being too strict. And since I don’t know, I’m too cowardly to press.

“I’m sure she has her reasons,” Mrs. R says finally and gives me a small wave goodbye. She doesn’t want to get involved. Good choice. I wish I wasn’t involved, either.

Morgan and Mrs. R disappear inside their garage. I turn and squint at my house, wishing I was anywhere but home.

I check my phone. There aren’t any messages from my best friend, Scarlett. We talked this morning about going out tonight after my shift at the Ice Cream Shoppe. School starts on Tuesday. For Scarlett, the summer of fun is over. For me, it means I’m one day closer to true freedom.

I roll my head around my shoulders, trying to loosen the tension that always appears the minute I see my house. I exhale heavily and order my feet to move forward.

Inside, Taylor Swift’s “Bad Blood” trickles into the mudroom. Mom’s playlist is set in an eternal 2015 loop of Sam Smith, Pharrell and One Direction, back when One D was still a group with five members. I toe off my ugly black work shoes and drop my purse onto the bench.

“Is that you, Lizzie?”

Would it kill her to call me Beth? Just once?

I grit my teeth. “Yes, Mom.”

“Please tidy up your locker space. It’s getting messy.”

I glance down at my section of the mudroom bench. It isn’t that messy. I’ve got a couple of jackets on the hooks, a stack of Sarah J. Maas books that I’m rereading for the eightieth time, a box of mints, a bottle of body spray that Scarlett bought me at the last Victoria’s Secret sale and some random school supplies.

Stifling a sigh, I pile everything on the Maas books and walk into the kitchen.

“Did you pick up in there?” Mom asks, not bothering to look up from the carrots she’s chopping.

“Yeah.” The food looks unappetizing, but then all food does after I’m done with work.

“Are you sure?”

I pour myself a glass of water. “Yes, Mom. I cleaned up.”

I guess I’m not believable, because she sets down her knife and goes into the mudroom. Two seconds later, I hear “Lizzie, I thought you said you tidied up.”

Ugh. I slam down the glass of water and join her. “I did,” I exclaim, pointing to the neat pile of supplies and books.

“What about this?”

I follow the line of her finger to the messenger bag hanging on the hook in the section next to mine. “What about it?”

“Your bag is in Rachel’s section,” she says. “You know how she didn’t like that.”

“So?”

“So? Take it off of there.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Her face grows tight and her eyes bulge. “Why? You know why. Take it off now!”

“I—You know what, fine.” I reach past her in a huff and drop the bag in my section. “There. Are you happy?”

Mom’s lips press together. She’s holding back some scathing comment, but I can read the anger in her eyes clear enough.

“You should know better” is what she says before spinning on her heel. “And clean off that dog hair. We don’t allow pets in this house.”

The furious retorts build in my mouth, clog up my throat, fill up my head. I have to clench my teeth so hard that I can feel it in my entire jaw. If I don’t, the words will come out. The bad ones. The ones that make me look uncaring, selfish and jealous.

And maybe I am all those things. Maybe I am. But I’m the one still alive and shouldn’t that matter for something?

God, I can’t wait until I graduate. I can’t wait until I leave this house. I can’t wait until I’m free of this stupid, awful fucking prison.

I tear at my shirt. A button pops off and pings onto the tile floor. I curse silently. I’ll have to beg Mom to sew this on tonight because I have only one work shirt. But screw it. Who cares? Who cares if I have a clean shirt? The customers at the Ice Cream Shoppe will just have to avert their eyes if a few strands of dog hair and chocolate sauce are sooooo offensive.

I shove the dirty shirt into the mudroom sink and strip off my pants for good measure. I saunter into the kitchen in my undies.

Mom makes a disgusted sound at the back of her throat.

As I’m about to climb the stairs, a stack of white envelopes on the counter catches my eye. The writing is familiar.

“What are those?” I ask uneasily.

“Your college applications,” she replies, her voice devoid of emotion.

Horror spirals through me. My stomach turns to knots as I stare at the envelopes, at the handwriting, the sender addresses. What are they doing there? I rush over and start rifling through them. USC, University of Miami, San Diego State, Bethune-Cookman University.

The dam of emotions I was barely holding in check before bursts.

I slap a hand over the pile of envelopes. “Why do you have these?” I demand. “I put them in the mailbox.”

“And I took them out,” Mom says, her eyes still focused on the carrots in front of her.

“Why? Why would you do that?” I can feel myself tearing up, which always happens when I’m angry or upset.

“Why would you apply? You’re not going to any of them.” She reaches for an onion.

I place my hand on her wrist. “What do you mean I’m not going to any of these colleges?”

She plucks my hand off and meets my glare with a haughty, cold stare of her own. “We’re paying for you to go to school, which means you’ll go where we tell you—Darling College. And you don’t need to keep asking for applications. We’ve already filled yours out for Darling. You should be accepted in October or so.”

Darling is one of those internet colleges where you pay for your degree. It’s not a real school. No one takes a degree from Darling seriously. When they told me over the summer that they wanted me to go there, I thought it was a joke.

My mouth drops. “Darling? That’s not even a real college. That’s—”

She waves the knife in the air. “End of discussion, Elizabeth.”

“But—”

“End of discussion, Elizabeth,” she repeats. “We’re doing this for your own good.”

I gape at her. “Keeping me here for college is for my own good? Darling’s degrees aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on!”

“You don’t need a degree,” Mom says. “You’ll work at your father’s hardware store, and when he retires you’ll take that over.”

Chills run down my spine. Oh my God. They’re going to keep me here forever. They’re never, ever going to let me go.

My dream of freedom has been snuffed like a hand over a candle flame.

The words tumble out. I don’t mean for them to come out, but the seal breaks.

“She’s dead, Mom. She’s been dead for three years. My bag hanging from her hook isn’t stopping her from coming home. Me getting a dog won’t stop her from rising from her grave. She’s dead. She’s dead!” I scream.

Whack.

I don’t see her hand coming. It strikes me across the cheek. The band of her wedding ring catches on my lip. I’m so surprised that I shut up, which is what she wanted, of course.

Her eyes widen. We stare at each other, chests heaving.

I break first, tearing out of the kitchen. Rachel might be dead, but her spirit is more alive in this house than I am.

2

“I don’t want to go.” Scarlett’s firm tone doesn’t waver. We’ve been standing in front of the gas station for twenty minutes arguing about our plans, and my best friend isn’t budging.

Neither am I. My cheek still throbs from Mom’s earlier strike.

The girls who invited us to the party lean against the side of a black Jeep with its top down, their heavily made-up faces wrinkled with annoyance. The dark-haired guy in the driver’s seat looks impatient. I’m surprised they’re waiting around. I mean, it’s not like they know us. Their invitation was the result of a five-second conversation in the potato chip aisle after I told the blonde that I liked her shirt.

“Fine. Then don’t go,” I say to Scarlett.

Her brown eyes flood with relief. “Oh, okay, good. So we’re not going?”

“No, you’re not going.” I lift my chin. “I am.”

“Lizzie—”

“Beth,” I cut in sharply.

I don’t miss the irritated flicker in her eyes. “Beth,” she corrects, dragging out the one syllable as if it’s so inconvenient for her to utter.

Like my parents, my best friend is having a tough time adjusting to my new name. Scarlett doesn’t think the name Lizzie is juvenile at all—It’s more juvenile suddenly calling yourself something else after going your whole life as Lizzie! was her response when I announced at the start of the summer that I was now going by Beth. But of course, she’d say that. Scarlett is a badass name. Who would ever dream of changing it?

“You don’t even know these girls,” Scarlett points out.

Another shrug. “I’ll get to know them.”

“Beth,” she says miserably. “Come on.”

“Please, Scar,” I say, equally miserable. “I need this. After what happened today, I just need a fun, crazy night where I don’t have to think about anything.”

Her features soften. She knows all about the slap and the college application betrayal—it’s all I’ve been talking about since I got to her house tonight. I think that’s one of the reasons she suggested going out and driving around. She was tired of hearing about it.

“I really don’t want to go, though,” she admits. “But I don’t want you to go alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” I promise. “I’ll go for a couple hours, scope out the scene and then come back to your place, and we can stay up all night eating ice cream.”

She rolls her eyes. “The ice cream’s all yours. I’m on a crash diet ’til Monday. I need to look hot for my first day of senior year.”

A loud honk comes from the direction of the waiting Jeep. “Yo! Come on!” the driver shouts.

“I’ll see you later, Scar,” I say quickly. “Leave the back door unlocked for me, ’kay?” Then, before she can object, I hurry over to the Jeep. “I’m coming,” I tell the girls, because if I don’t do something outside my parents’ perfectly prescribed routine, I will implode. There won’t be anything left of me but scraps. That’s how I feel right now, actually, like I’m nothing but scraps pasted together by my parents.

“’Bout time,” one of them mutters, while the other blows a bright pink bubble with her gum.

“Beth!” Scarlett calls.

I glance over my shoulder. “Did you change your mind?”

She shakes her head. “Just be safe.”

“I will.” I climb into the back seat next to the blonde. Her friend hops into the passenger seat and whispers something to the driver. I lean over the side to address Scarlett again. “If my parents call, tell them I’m asleep. I’ll be back in a few hours. Promise.”

I blow her a kiss, and, after a beat of hesitation, she pretends to catch it in her hand and smacks it on her cheek. Then she heads for her car, and the boy behind the wheel of the Jeep revs the engine and we tear out of the gas station parking lot.

As the wind snakes under my hair and lifts it up, I count all the sins I’ve just committed.

Accepting a party invite from kids I don’t know.

Going to a party in the next town over, an area that’s not exactly white picket fences and apple trees like my pretty, safe hometown.

Getting into a car with strangers. That’s probably the biggest sin. My parents will ship me off to a convent if they find out about this.

But guess what?

I. Don’t. Fucking. Care.

They’ve already announced that I’m expected to spend my college years with them. We’re at war now.

I feel trapped in my own life, weighed down by their rules and their paranoia and their fears. I’m seventeen years old. I’m supposed to be excited about my senior year. I’m supposed to be surrounded by friends and dating cute guys and having the time of my life right now. People say it’s all downhill from here, and that’s just depressing because if these are supposed to be the best years of my life, exactly how much crappier is life going to get?

“What’s your name anyway?” the blonde girl asks.

“Beth. You?”

“Ashleigh, but you can call me Ash.” She points to the front seat. “That’s Kylie and Max. We all go to Lexington High. Gonna be juniors this year.”

“I’ll be a senior at Darling,” I tell her.

A slight sneer mars her red-lipsticked mouth. “Ah, okay. You’re a Darling girl.”

I bristle at the implication. “Not everyone in Darling is rich, you know.” I’m not lying; my family definitely isn’t as rich as some of the other families in town. Our middle-class suburb is safe and quiet, though.

The party we’re going to is in Lexington Heights—or Lex, as its residents call it—a working-class neighborhood where the houses are smaller, the people are poorer and the kids are rowdier. In Darling, coke and molly are passed around along with hash. In Lex, you’re more likely to be offered meth.

My parents would freak out if they knew I was here. Scarlett nearly had a panic attack when we had to stop for gas in Lexington tonight.

“So whatcha doing over in Lex on a Saturday night?” Kylie twists around from the front seat to voice the question to me. “You looking to score some party favors?”

I offer a shrug. “I just want to have a good time before school starts.”

Max whoops loudly. “Girl after my own heart! What’s your name again, good-time girl?”

“Beth,” I repeat.

“Beth.” Driving one-handed, he reaches his other hand toward me. “Gimme some sugar, Bethie. Time to get our party on.”

I awkwardly slap his hand and manage a smile. I suddenly feel really bad about ditching Scarlett, but I tamp down the guilt until it’s buried deep and forgotten. Besides, she was okay with me going in the end, even though I don’t think she totally gets why I had to go. Scar’s parents are cool. They’re laid-back and hilarious and they give her so much freedom she doesn’t even know what to do with it.

I get it. I really, totally get it. I do. Mom and Dad lost a daughter. I lost a sister. We all loved Rachel and we all miss her, no one more than me. But my sister’s accident was just that—an accident. And the person responsible was punished for it. Isn’t that all we can ask for? Rachel’s never coming back—that’s not how life works. But justice was served, as much as it could’ve been.

And I’m still alive. I’m alive and I want to live.

Is that such a bad thing to want?

“We’re here!” Ashleigh announces.

Max parks across the street from a narrow house with a white clapboard exterior and an overgrown lawn that’s littered with teens. Beer bottles and joints are being passed around right there in the open, like nobody even cares if a police cruiser drives by.

“Who owns this place?” I ask.

“This guy Jack,” Ash answers in an absent tone. She’s too busy waving to some girls on the lawn.

“Are his parents home?”

Kylie snorts. “Um. No.”

Okay then.

We climb out of the Jeep and weave our way through the crowd toward the front door. Kylie and Max disappear the moment we enter the house. Ashleigh sticks close to me. “Let’s grab a drink!” she says.

I can barely hear her over the deafening hip-hop song that’s shaking the walls. The house is crammed with bodies, and the air smells like a combination of perfume, body spray, sweat and stale beer. Not exactly my scene, but the bass line is sick and the kids look friendly enough. I half expected to see bare-knuckle brawls and people screwing against the walls, but it’s mostly just dancing and drinking and very loud conversation.

Ash tugs me into a small kitchen with linoleum counters and outdated wallpaper. Half a dozen boys crowd around the open screen door, smoking a joint.

“Harley!” she shrieks happily, and then she lunges forward and throws her arms around one of the guys, who separates himself from the group. “Omigod! When did you get back?”

The tall boy lifts her off her feet and gives her a very sloppy-looking kiss right on the mouth. I think he’s high, because his eyes are almost completely glazed over. I awkwardly lean against the counter and pretend like I belong here. This is what I want, I tell myself. A hard party that would drive my parents insane.

“Really late last night,” he says. “We stopped for dinner in Chicago and then powered through for the rest of the drive. Marcus said he’d rather drive through the night than pay for a motel.”

“You shoulda called me first thing this morning,” Ash whines.

He slings an arm around her shoulders. Is he her boyfriend? She hasn’t introduced us yet, so I have no idea.

“I didn’t even wake up ’til like an hour ago,” Harley says with a laugh. “Otherwise I would’ve called.” His eyes narrow. “You seen Lamar yet?”

“Nope. Don’t plan on it, either.”

“Tonya says she saw him with Kelly at the arcade last night.”

“Goody for Kelly. Can’t wait for Lamar to dump her skanky ass just like Alex did.”

Harley. Marcus. Tonya. Kelly. Lamar. Alex.

Who the heck are all these people? I stand there by the counter, growing more and more uncomfortable as Ashleigh and her maybe boyfriend toss random names back and forth to each other.

I look around the kitchen. Ash and Harley are still talking, arguing almost, about their friends. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t come here to listen to gossip. I’m tired of being passive, of allowing myself to be controlled. For the past three years, I’ve done what I’ve been told, taken the electives recommended, gotten the job that my parents set up for me.

And what’s my reward?

Another four more years added to my sentence. The cell door got slammed shut before I even got a chance to step outside. I glance at the case of beer. I could get drunk, but that’s too easy. I could get high, but that’s too dangerous. I need to do something between drunk and high that would make me feel good and piss my parents off.

A flash of movement catches my attention, and I turn to find a very good-looking guy stopping and leaning in the kitchen doorway. He has the darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re incredible. Over the left one, his eyebrow has a gap. It looks like a scar from this distance. Or a bad plucking accident, but he doesn’t look like the type to manscape.

His jaw is covered with dark blond stubble, making him look older than all the other guys here. The boys in the kitchen, Harley included, don’t have any facial hair. And they aren’t nearly as tall as Blue Eyes or as built or as attractive.

Him. That’s what I need. A very bad boy to take me down a very bad path.

A sense of power sweeps through me. This would make my parents angrier than anything. All kids drink, but hooking up with some random stranger? It would drive my proper mother nuts.

Internally, I rub my hands together with glee and start plotting. He’s not making eye contact with me, but he’s not staring at someone else, either—guy or girl. He’s not exactly aloof, but there’s space between him and the others. As if they’re afraid to approach him. He’s got an aura of someone cool and together.

The very things that I’m not.

I glance down at my ripped skinny jeans and skimpy yellow halter top and confirm that my zipper’s zipped and my boobs are sufficiently covered. I’m not the hottest girl here, but he’s alone and so am I.

Besides, if he says no, who cares? I won’t see him again. And the whole point of coming out tonight was to do things that I wouldn’t ever do. To get a taste of real life.

“Who’s your friend?”

I jolt at the sound of Harley’s voice. He’s finally noticed me. “Hey,” I say, tearing my gaze off Blue Eyes to smile at Harley. “I’m Beth.”

“Harley.” He releases Ashleigh and wanders over to hug me. Harley’s a hugger, it seems. “Nice to meet you. Wanna get high?”

“Um, maybe later?” I say coolly, hoping he doesn’t notice the flush on my cheeks and realize I’ve never smoked weed before.

“Yeah, let’s save that for later,” Ash agrees, much to my relief. “Let’s dance.” She moves to my other side and links her arm through mine.

Dance? I sneak a peek at the doorway, only to find that Blue Eyes is gone. Disappointment washes over me. I wonder where he went. Maybe he’s also heading to the dance floor—um, no. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who would “shake his ass” to a techno beat. Way too intense for that. Most guys won’t dance anyway. They think they’re too cool for it.

“Come on,” Ash says, tugging on my arm.

I place Blue Eyes on the shelf. I’ll dance with Ashleigh and then pursue him. I let my new friend drag me into the living room, where the music is louder and the air is hotter. I start sweating, but it’s okay because everyone else is, too. Ash bops her butt against my hip and the two of us laugh and whip our hair around and dance until we’re breathless.

This is what I wanted tonight. To have fun and feel young and not think about the fact that my life is a joke. I don’t have a life. I’m not allowed to go to parties, only to my friends’ houses, and only if their parents are home. Driving around with Scarlett tonight was a huge no-no. Scar’s folks knew it, too—my parents have been embarrassingly vocal to all my friends’ families about the rules. I think Scar’s mom feels sorry for me. When Scar and I were leaving, Mrs. Holmes pretended not to notice and I love her for it.

And I love this. The music and the noise and this room full of strangers who don’t know who I am. Nobody knows about Rachel. Nobody feels sorry for me. Nobody cares.

I toss my hair back and bump hips with Ash again. Then I stumble midstep when I catch another glimpse of Blue Eyes.

It’s fate. We’re supposed to meet tonight.

He walks over to the L-shaped couch and leans down to say something to a stocky boy in a red T-shirt. His hair is longer than I realized, curling under his ears and falling onto his forehead. The dirty-blond color is almost the same shade as my own.

I grab Ash’s arm. “Who is that?”

“What?” she shouts over the beat.

I bring my lips close to her ear. “Who is that?” I repeat, louder. “The guy by the couch.”

She frowns. “Which one?”

I look back and tamp down a groan. He’s gone again! What the hell. This guy appears and disappears like a ninja. This time, I’m not letting him get away.

“I have to pee,” I tell Ashleigh.

She nods and turns to dance with someone else. I make my way out of the crowd. Blue Eyes is back, leaning against the kitchen doorway.

I take a deep breath and force myself forward. I’ve never, ever hit on a guy before. This is going to be disastrous.

I spy a row of shot glasses on a table. I grab one and throw it back. The foul liquid burns on the way down. I slap a hand up to my mouth to cover a cough. Over my fingers, I meet Blue Eyes’s gaze.

With courage I didn’t know I had, I pick up two more shot glasses and carry them over.

“You look like you need a drink,” I say, offering him one.

He takes it. “You look like that was the first shot you ever drank.”

I’m so glad it’s dark in here so no one can see me blushing. “Nah, I’ve drunk a few in my time,” I lie.

“Mmm-hmm,” he says before lifting the shot glass to his lips. He downs it cleanly and then tucks the empty in his front jeans pocket. My eyes wander downward and then flip back up to see him staring at me in bemusement.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks.

I run my tongue across my lower lip, wondering what I should say. Is he famous? I don’t want to seem uncool. “Of course.” I shrug as carelessly as possible. “Doesn’t everyone here?”

Something dark passes over his face. “Yeah, probably. But you’re still here talking to me. Bringing me drinks.” He taps my shot glass.

“Like I said, you looked like you needed one.”

He scrubs a hand down his face. The dark shadow is gone, only to be replaced by a weary expression. “I guess that’s true. So why are you here? Want to take a walk on the wild side?”

His last sentence is said with great scorn. Intuitively, I know that the truth is not my friend, because if I admit I came here to piss off my parents, Blue Eyes is going to disappear, and I desperately do not want that to happen.

Not because I think this is the perfect way to get back at my parents, but because there’s something interesting about him. Because I want to get to know him. Because I want him to want to get to know me.

I can’t tell him the real reason, but I can be honest, as embarrassing as it is. “Can’t a girl bring a hot guy a drink? I tried to get your attention before, but you disappeared. You were standing here by yourself and I took a chance. If that’s wild behavior in your book, then you must not get out much.”

He cocks his head. “Is that a joke?”

“Yes. But not a good one because you’re not laughing.” I stare at the shot in my hand. This has gone more terribly than I imagined.

He exhales heavily. “Because my people skills suck. Joke or not, we both know I haven’t gotten out much in the past three years.”

I have no idea what that means, but since I already pretended to know all about him, I can’t ask for an explanation. “Does that mean I should go?”

“No. You should stay.” The corner of his mouth curves up. “Not gonna lie. This is all very good for my ego.”

“It hasn’t been good for mine,” I admit, a bit testy.

The half smile turns into a full one and my breath catches at how gorgeous he is.

“I’ve never had a girl as pretty as you say so much as hello to me.”

My heart flips over and I’m so dumbstruck I can’t summon a witty reply.

He ducks his head in embarrassment. “Too corny?”

I find my voice. “Too amazing. My head is so big right now I don’t think this house can contain me.”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

“Really?” My eyes grow wide. “Where?”

“Just outside. I like it outside.”

“Me, too.”

He holds out his hand. Mine slips easily into his. His long fingers curl around the back of my hand. Against my palm, there are hard calluses. We leave the shot glasses on the kitchen counter we pass. I don’t need the alcohol now. I’m holding hands with the hottest guy on the planet, and I feel like I’m floating on air.

We maneuver through the crowd. Some people stare. I lift my head. Yeah, I’m with this hottie.

Outside, the noise thins out and so do the people. He leads me down the deck and toward a small shed.

“Do you keep the bodies in there?” I joke.

He halts suddenly. “You have a dark humor, don’t you?”

The remark makes me think of the hysterical laughter that burbled in my throat during Rachel’s funeral. How I covered my face to keep it from spilling out and everyone thought I was sobbing. It wasn’t so much dark humor as a defense mechanism.

“I’d rather laugh than cry,” I admit. “I cry too easily. It’s one thing I hate about myself.”

He lowers himself onto the grass. “That’s not a bad philosophy—the laughing over crying thing.”

“I wish I had more control over my tears. It’s frustrating when I’m mad but everyone thinks I’m sad.” I drop to the ground beside him, wondering why I’m spilling these things to him. I shut up then, and listen to the crickets sing as the faint music in the house plays in the background.

“You have a name?” he teases.

“I’m Beth.”

He rakes a hand through his messy hair. My gaze doesn’t miss the way his biceps flex from that action. He’s got incredible arms. Sculpted.

“I’m Chase.” He tilts his head toward me. “And I still feel like you’re too good to be sitting out here with me.”

“You aren’t holding me down,” I point out. “Are you telling me to leave?”

“No. I don’t want that.” He exhales again and his perfect body is momentarily framed by the thin cotton of his T-shirt.

Gosh, he’s gorgeous.

“It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?”

I glance up at the night sky and then at Chase’s upturned face. It’s so cloudy you can barely make out the moon, let alone the stars. “I guess?” He’s beautiful. The sky? Not so much.

He chuckles to himself. “It could be raining buckets and I’d be happy.”

“Me, too.” Because I’m with you, I think. I haven’t felt this at peace with myself for weeks, maybe months. The fight with my mom seems like a long-ago bad memory.

His hand is pressed against the ground between us. I edge mine closer to his until our pinkies touch.

“Your fingers are long.”

He turns his head away from the sky to peer at our fingers. “Maybe yours are really short.”

“I have normal-sized hands.”

“Let’s see.” He slides his hand over mine and my fingers disappear under his.

My heart begins to beat wildly and my mouth goes dry. Body parts start tingling in places I didn’t know could tingle.

“Are you going to kiss me?” I blurt out.

His lips curve into that gorgeous smile of his. “Yeah. I think so. You okay with that?”

I nod.

“It’s been a long time for me,” he admits.

His honesty catches me off guard. “Me, too.”

“Good.” He tucks my hair behind my ear. He moves closer. “Then we can mess up together. Tell me if I do something wrong.”

He palms my cheek, strokes it gently. Ever so slowly, his lips meet mine.

3

Chase rolls onto his side. He reaches for something on the nightstand of the bedroom we wound up in. I hear the hiss of a lighter. The scent of smoke soon fills my nostrils as I lie there, staring at the ceiling. Taking a deep drag, he shifts onto his back and does the same. The crisp cotton sheet covers his lower body. His chest is bare.

Me, I threw my clothes on the moment it was over. Second thoughts are chased by third thoughts chased by so many thoughts that I’m paralyzed. What do I do now?

What have I done, period? My entire body is hot with embarrassment and my heart is pounding harder than the bass line that’s still shaking the house.

Chase takes another drag on his cigarette. He’s acting like what we just did was no big deal. But maybe it’s not to him. It probably isn’t. He probably has sex with hundreds of girls at parties.

I didn’t tell him I was a virgin.

I—

“I have to go,” I blurt out, shooting to my feet.

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t meet my gaze. I’m glad, because I don’t particularly want him to see the shame swimming in my eyes.

It’s not until I’m about to turn the doorknob that he speaks.

“Where’s your phone?”

My head swivels toward him, and, finally, our gazes collide. His expression reveals nothing. His chest still has a slight sheen of sweat on it from... I tear my eyes away.

“It’s in my purse,” I mumble. “Why?”

“Take it out.”

I’m helpless to say no when it comes to this guy. Face burning, I fish my phone out of my bag and wait.

He rattles off a number.

I stare at him, still feeling dazed. And my body, despite being sore, is responding to the sight of his abs.

“Put that number in your phone.” His voice is rough. “Text me when you get back to your friend’s place so I know you made it back okay.”

I keep staring.

“Beth,” he prompts, and I finally manage to find my voice.

“Give me the number again,” I whisper.

He repeats the digits and I dutifully type them into my phone.

“And, yeah, call me if you ever need me,” he says gruffly.

I nod, but I think we both know that aside from the one text I’ll send from Scarlett’s, I will never, ever, ever use his number again.

4

Tuesday is the first day of school. The first day of my last year, and I should be rejoicing. One year is all I have left under this roof. One year until I’m in college, the college I want to attend, free from my parents’ constant, watchful control.

Their eyes are pinned on me right now. They have questions. I can feel a heaviness in the air. Mom’s disappointment mixed with Dad’s frustration and resentment have formed a black thundercloud that clings to the ceiling and walls like smoke after a pan fire.

I try to act normally, as if I didn’t do things last night I sorely regret. Things I’ve lied about to Scarlett, to my parents, to myself. Since I opened my eyes this morning, I’ve been forcing myself not to think about Chase. But it’s so hard not to. And when the thoughts of him do surface, I feel like sobbing.

I had sex for the first time yesterday. I wanted to, and I enjoyed it. I really did—at the time. But it didn’t take very long for the glow to fade. For the thrill of doing something new and exciting and rebellious to be replaced with bone-deep shame.

My first time was with a stranger. It was a one-night stand.

What the hell do I do with that? I can’t even begin to process it, and I wish my parents would stop staring at me. I’m afraid if they stare long enough, they’ll be able to read my thoughts.

“Did you have a nice time at Scarlett’s?” Mom asks, breaking the silence.

The sound of her voice brings a phantom pain to my cheek. She hit me yesterday. She’s acting like she doesn’t remember. Or maybe she’s just trying to forget. Or hoping I’ll forget. Fat chance.

“Lizzie?” she prompts. “Did you have a nice time?”

“Uh-huh.” I push the sautéed zucchini to the edge of my plate. Scarlett had been sleeping when I crawled into her bed. When morning came, I barely spoke a word to her. She kept pumping me for details about the party, but I could only manage vague answers. I don’t want Scarlett to know that I gave it up to some hot stranger at some random party. It’s way too embarrassing.

“What did you do?”

My fork halts its trek to the side, a pale green half-moon stuck on one of the tines. This type of question is asked only when your parents are suspicious and want to catch you in a lie. The less said in times like these, the better. “Stuff.”

I force my hand to move, to pretend like my heart rate hasn’t picked up and my body isn’t tense with fear.

“Like what?” Mom’s tone is light, but probing.

“Same stuff we always do.”

There are several beats of silence during which I realize that they know something and are waiting for a confession. I keep my eyes pinned to my plate.

Next up for separation are the mushrooms. I hate those. I always have and yet Mom continues to cook with them.

Mushrooms were Rachel’s favorite.

There’s a shuffling of papers. White appears at the corner of my eye. I don’t want to look but I can’t help it.

“Do you know what this is?” It’s Dad’s turn to question me now.

This is a good cop/bad cop routine that they do. Mom pretends concern and when I don’t show any remorse, Dad steps in with his stern voice and even sterner commands.

“No.” That’s honest, at least.

“It’s a printout of your text messages.”

“What?” Jaw dropping, I grab the sheaf of papers. My eyes skim down the page in total disbelief. Either I’m hallucinating, or I’m actually reading a transcript of the texts I exchanged with Scar when I was leaving the party last night.

217-555-2956: How’s the party? U OK?

217-555-5298: I’m fine. Party’s lit. omw back now. cabbing it.

217-555-5298: Prnts call?

217-555-2956: No

217-555-5298: kk cover 4 me if they do

217-555-5298: Made it back, safe and sound.

My stomach sinks. That last one was the message I sent Chase. I almost cry with gratitude that I didn’t say anything more damning.

I flip backward and see more messages.

217-555-2956: party 2nite?

217-555-5298: yessss

217-555-2956: what abt prnts?

217-555-5298: Ill tell them have 2 wrk

Fear, anger and frustration spin around in my head. I don’t even know what to say. And in the back of my mind, all I can think is Thank God. Thank God I didn’t text Scarlett about Chase and confess to having sex for the first time. Thank God I didn’t message Chase about what happened between us. The mere thought of my parents finding out about it, reading it firsthand on some text message, makes me nauseous.

“I can’t believe you’re spying on me!” I shout, slamming the papers onto the table. Unwelcome tears prick the corners of my eyes. “You don’t have any right to read my text messages!”

“I pay for that phone of yours,” Dad thunders.

“Then I’ll pay for it myself!” I jump out of my chair and push away from the table.

Dad grabs my wrist. “Sit down. We aren’t done.”

The look in his eye says that I better sit or he’ll make me. He never used to be this hard, this strict. Before Rachel died, he was the fun dad. He told the cheesiest jokes because he liked hearing us groan and cringe at them. Now I don’t think he even remembers how to smile.

I gulp, try to find my bravado, but come up empty. I sit.

“It’s not your actions that disappoint us,” Mom says, “but your lying. We simply can’t trust you.”

“Which is why your car is being taken away,” Dad adds.

“My car?” I gape at them. My car is one of the single instances of freedom I have. They gave me Mom’s old hatchback the second I got my learner’s permit. I would’ve been fine taking the bus or walking, but my parents felt I’d be safer behind the wheel of a car than on foot at crosswalks or bus stops.

Rachel was on foot when she was killed after all. Apparently that means I can’t walk within five steps of a motor vehicle ever again.

God, I sound bitter. I hate feeling this way, especially when deep down I know my parents aren’t bad people. They just haven’t recovered from Rachel’s death. I doubt they ever will, not without years and years of therapy—which they refuse to go to. The one time I suggested it, Mom stiffly informed me that everyone grieves differently, and then she got up and walked out of the room.

But they’re hurting me as a result of their unending grief, and I am bitter. And now they’re taking away my car?

In my car, I can blast my music, scream profanities and give voice to all my inner frustrations. Losing it would be awful.

I grapple for reasons that’ll convince them that this is wrong. “How am I supposed to get to work? Or the animal shelter?” For the past year, I’ve volunteered at a local animal shelter twice a month. Rachel’s allergy made it impossible for us to have pets at home and even now that she’s gone, the no-pets rule is still strictly enforced. So volunteering is the only way I get to be around dogs, who are way better than people, in my opinion.

Mom doesn’t meet my eyes. Dad clears his throat. “You won’t be doing, either. We’ve informed your boss at the Ice Cream Shoppe and Sandy at the clinic that you’ll be too busy with school to be able to work or volunteer.”

“You...” I take a breath. “You quit my jobs for me?”

“Yes.”

I’m so stunned I don’t have a response. All I can see are the doors slamming closed in my already-constrained life. No car. Slam. No part-time job. Slam. No volunteer work. Slam. Slam. Slam.

“You’re saying I go to school and come home. That’s it?” The knot in my chest threatens to choke me. It’s my senior year. I should be looking forward to my world getting bigger, not smaller.

“Until you can prove to us that you’re worthy of our trust, yes.”

I turn toward Mom. “You can’t agree with this. I know you know that this is wrong.”

She refuses to meet my eyes. “If we were stricter before...” She trails off but I know what before means. Our lives are strictly bisected into BR and AR.

“Marnie, let’s not talk about that.” Dad likes to pretend that BR never happened.

“Right, of course, but it’s because we love you that we’re doing this. We don’t want a repeat of the past. Your father and I discussed—”

“This is bullshit!” I erupt. I spring to my feet and out of my dad’s reach.

“Don’t use that tone with us.” Dad shakes his finger at me.

This time I don’t cower. I’m too angry to be afraid. “This is bullshit,” I repeat recklessly. Tears are dropping—which I hate—but I can’t stop. I can’t stop my words, my anger or my tears. “This is punishment because I’m the one alive and Rachel is the one who’s dead. I can’t fucking wait until I leave here. I’m not coming back. I’m not!”

Mom bursts into tears. Dad yells. I spin on my heel and race to my bedroom. Behind me, I hear my parents shouting. I climb the stairs two at a time and slam my bedroom door shut. I don’t have a lock but I do have a desk. I break three nails and knock the wood against my shin twice, but I finally drag it in front of the door.

Just in time, too, because Dad’s at the door, trying to shove it open.

“You open this door right now,” he demands.

“Or what?” I cry. I’ve never felt more helpless. “Or what? You’ll ground me? You’ve taken away my job, my car, my privacy. I can’t make a call or write a text without you knowing. I can’t even breathe without having to report to you. You don’t have anything left to punish me with.”

“We’re doing this for your sake.” That’s Mom, pleading for me to be reasonable. “We’re not punishing you because of your sister—” she can’t even say Rachel’s name “—we’re trying to help you. We love you so much, Lizzie. We...” Her voice cracks. “We don’t want to lose you.”

I lie down on the bed and pull the pillow over my head. I don’t care what they have to say. There’s no justification for what they’re doing. I wouldn’t be sneaking out if they let me have some freedom. Scarlett’s parents don’t hold her down and she never sneaks out. If she goes to a party, she tells them. If she gets drunk, she can call them and they’ll come pick her up. And the truth is she rarely gets drunk, because they’ll let her have the occasional beer or glass of wine. It’s my parents’ fault I’m this way. They’ve made me into this girl—the one who doesn’t listen, the one who sneaks and lies and breaks promises, loses her virginity to some stranger.

I dig my face into the mattress as hot shame roils through me. I hate them. I hate Rachel. I hate myself most of all.

Because of my actions, the sweet animals at the shelter are going to suffer. Who’s going to take the doggies for a walk? Who’s going to feed Opie his medicine? I’m the only one that can handle the rottie. He hates everyone else at the clinic. And George, the snake? The techs there are scared of the python.

The sound of metal clanking against metal and the whirring of a drill grab my attention. I sit up and search for the source of the construction sounds.

My eyes clash with my dad’s, visible above the door he’s holding. He glares grimly at me before walking away. I gape at the open doorway. He removed my door. He fucking removed my fucking door.

I leap to my feet and rush over to the desk that’s still in the doorway. “What are you doing?” I say helplessly.

Mom appears in the hallway. “Sweetheart, please.”

“Are you serious?” I reach out, still in disbelief that my dad removed the door from the wall, but the empty hinges hang there in mocking proof.

“This is only temporary,” she says.

“It’ll be permanent if she can’t clean up her act,” Dad yells from below.

“Mom. I’m seventeen. I need a door to my bedroom.” I can’t believe my voice is so stable when my insides are rioting. “Even prisoners have a door!”

Her gaze falls to the floor. “It’s only temporary,” she repeats. “Until we can trust you again.”

I stumble back. “I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe this.”

“Don’t curse,” she snaps. “You know how much I hate that.”

“Right, because Rachel never cursed.”

“It’s not about Rachel.”

“Of course it is. Everything in my life is about Rachel. You let Rachel do whatever she wanted. She didn’t have to follow a single rule and it backfired on you, so now you’re doing the exact opposite with me,” I spit out. “You’ve kept me on a leash since she died, and now the collar’s so tight it’s going to choke me to death.”

“Don’t say that.” Mom’s eyes glitter dangerously. She advances, stopped only by the desk. “Don’t you say that. Don’t you say that word.”

“Or what?” I challenge. “You’re going to hit me again?”

Her face collapses. “I’m sorry I did that,” she whispers. “I—”

“What’s going on?” Dad has returned. He looks at me and then at Mom.

“Nothing,” we say at the same time.

And then we all fall silent because there’s nothing left on our tongues but caustic, hurtful words and we’ve done enough to inflict pain on each other. I return to my bed, shut my eyes and ignore the grunts from my father as he lifts the desk away from the doorway, the mewling noises of my mother as she frets over how our household is a war zone.

This is my life now. I’m imprisoned in my own home, with no privacy and no escape. Graduation can’t come soon enough.

5

The bus stinks of nerves and cold sweat. The freshmen are huddled toward the front, but the smell of their fear drifts all the way to the back. Next to me, Sarah Bunting chatters on about her new manicure and the “lit as fuck” Converse sneakers she scored at the Premium Outlets in Rosemont.

I turn my music up even louder and slouch down in the seat. Seventeen, licensed, has her own car, but still rides the bus. How lowering.

I keep my head down as I walk to my locker in the seniors’ wing. I don’t greet anyone and whether it’s the surly look on my face or something else, everyone leaves me alone.

I spin the locker combination, jerk my door open and stuff my backpack inside. My first class is AP Calc. Woo-hoo. At least there won’t be some long lecture—only a bunch of practice problems. I grab my supplies for the next three classes and slam the door shut. Scarlett’s face appears and I try not to jump in surprise.

“Hey,” I mutter.

“I’m so sorry.” She looks genuinely regretful.

First thing I did this morning was IM her with the heads-up that I’d been busted. With my parents having evidence that Scar and I have sneaked out to parties before, I had to warn her in case my parents snitched to hers.

“Forget it.” It’s not her fault, really.

“Everything is just going to shit, huh?” She sighs. “You’re having the worst luck—first your parents and TextGate, and now this.”

I guess she means the grounding. “They took my phone away, too,” I say glumly.

“Oh, okay, so that’s why you haven’t responded to the million messages I’ve sent you.”

“Yup.”

She clucks her tongue sympathetically. “I don’t know, maybe it’s a good thing you don’t have a phone right now. I can’t imagine what people are texting you. Kids can be so dumb.”

My cheeks feel hot. Why would anyone be texting me? Did someone see me at the party? Did they know what happened with me and Chase? Do they know what’s going on in my house? Did my parents actually tell other parents that they took the door off my room? God, this year is going to be nothing but one set of humiliations after another, all courtesy of my parents.

“Whatever.” I force one shoulder up in a careless gesture. “It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. After this year, we probably won’t see half these kids ever again.”

“Gosh, I hope not.” Scarlett tugs on my books. “Let me carry those.”

“Why? I can carry my books.”

“I know you can. I just... Forget it.” She slips her arm through mine. “Let’s go to Calc.”

“Why did we ever decide taking AP Calc was a good move?”

“Something about it looking good on our college apps. Have you decided what visits you’re going to do this fall?”

My mood dives even lower thinking of the applications Mom has stolen. Guess what. I’m going to get new ones and reapply. The problem is I can’t do it online because I need a credit card to pay the fees. I was able to mail a money order. I’m not sure how I’m going to pull off future applications, but I’m going to make it happen. Somehow.

“USC, Florida, Miami, San Diego State.” I rattle off my dream destinations. Granted, I have no clue what I want to major in, but at least I’ve got the location category confidently checked off.

Scarlett grins. “Hmm. I’m sensing a beach theme.”

“You’re so smart, Scar.”

“I know, but you don’t really want to go so far away, do you? I’ll miss you so much.”

Any response I would’ve had dries up at the sight of a tall, broad frame at the end of the hall. I wouldn’t have noticed him, if not for the fact that the entire senior hall has fallen silent.

My heart rate speeds up as my eyes meet familiar blue ones. Oh my God. Oh my God. What is he doing here?

“What is he doing here?” I say out loud before I can stop myself.

Crap. Now she’s going to ask how I know him and I’ll have to admit to meeting him at the party, and she’ll read between the lines and know exactly what I did. Or maybe someone from Darling saw Chase and me together and told everyone, and Scarlett already knows. Either way, embarrassment is burning holes in my cheeks.

Scarlett follows my gaze and halts in her tracks. “Right? The nerve of that guy! To show up here.” She steps forward and then turns to try to block my view of Chase. “I can’t believe they didn’t make him go to a different school, but I’m sure it has to do with his mom being the mayor’s wife now.” She tsks again. “Favoritism is so gross.”

“He’s the mayor’s stepson?” I say blankly.

“I didn’t know that either until this morning. Wendy Bluth said that his mother was secretly dating the mayor for years and they just tied the knot this spring. I don’t think anyone would’ve voted for him if they’d known the truth.”

“The truth?” I’m so confused.

Scarlett’s mouth turns into a sympathetic frown. “I get it. You don’t want to talk about it.” She glances over her shoulder to check if Chase is still there. “It’s weird. I didn’t even recognize him at first because he looks totally different, but you can’t mistake the scar.”

My bewilderment deepens. There’s no reason for Scarlett to recognize him at all. She wasn’t even at the party.

I turn back and stare. He doesn’t look any different from Saturday night. He looks exactly the same. Breathtakingly attractive. His chin is completely clean today. His dark blond hair sweeps down in the front, almost, but not quite, covering the scar that bisects his eyebrow.

I kissed that scar a few times that night.

The heat of embarrassment creeps through me again. I can’t believe he’s standing ten feet away from me right now. I thought I’d never see him again, and I was okay with it because that was the less humiliating option. Coming face-to-face with him again after what we did is a million times more humiliating.

Our eyes lock. My breath catches. Scarlett’s saying something, but I can’t hear her over the roaring mortification in my ears. Or is that something else I’m feeling? I swallow and it feels like there are razor blades in my throat.

“Come on,” she says. “Just ignore him. He isn’t worth your time.”

How does she know? “Does he have a rep?” I ask hoarsely, because it suddenly occurs to me what might’ve happened. If Chase has the reputation of being a player, maybe he bragged about Saturday night to anyone who’d listen. Darling and Lexington Heights are neighboring towns—word travels fast if the right people are talking about it.

“Meaning does everyone know about him?” she asks.

I nod without looking at her.

“Of course everyone knows about him.” She huffs in disgust. “Oh, there’s Jeff.”

A flicker of green catches my eye. Directly over Chase’s shoulder, Jeff Corsen’s dark head appears.

I’m not too surprised to see him. I heard he was coming back to Darling. After Rachel died, Jeff totally broke down. Barely managed to finish his sophomore year and then disappeared for more than two years. Grief, his parents said. They sent him to England to live with his grandparents, but apparently he didn’t finish senior year over there because he’s back at Darling High. It’s weird that my sister’s boyfriend, who used to be two years ahead of me, is now in the same grade.

In his forest green hoodie and faded jeans, Jeff strides forward, his shoulder deliberately bumping Chase’s. It breaks our eye contact. Chase’s mouth thins and I tense up, anticipating a confrontation. But then Chase merely turns aside, ignoring the insult.

He’s not fazed by a thing. Not by seeing his hookup standing at the end of the hall on the first day at a new school. Not by being physically brushed aside by another guy. Not by the stares and silence of his new classmates.

I envy that. God, I envy his composure a lot. It reminds me of why I was attracted to him in the first place. There’s a surety about him. Like, a hurricane could sweep through and he’d still be standing in the hall, feet firmly planted, shoulders back.

I bet his parents wouldn’t have the nerve to take the door off his bedroom.

Noise penetrates my brain. Jeff’s appearance has broken the spell cast by Chase. A few classmates laugh. Others rush up to greet Jeff. He was popular before he left. He and Rachel were the golden couple. If she’d lived to her senior year, the two of them would’ve been king and queen of homecoming and the prom.

If she’d lived... My heart seizes up and a familiar discomfort churns in my stomach. I’m not going to think about that.

Instead, I wonder what it was like for Rachel, to be so loved by a guy that he had to move to another country to recover from her death. Did he love her more than I did? I know my parents think I didn’t love Rachel enough, that I don’t mourn her like I should. If I did, I’d behave.

I did love her, though. We were two years apart, but she never treated me like I was a bratty little sister, not even when she started high school and I was still in middle school. We helped each other with homework. We played volleyball. We had slumber parties in her room. She was my big sister. Of course I loved her.

I swallow the pain again. Banish it. Unlike my parents, I won’t let myself obsess over Rachel. I can’t.

“Hey, Lizzie,” Jeff says when he reaches me. His hand, the one with the long, elegant fingers that floated across the piano keys, reaches out and curves around my ear. “Long time, no see.”

“It’s Beth.” When he makes a quizzical face, I repeat, “Beth. I don’t go by Lizzie anymore.”

“All right. Beth it is. How are you?”

“Hi, Jeff!” Scarlett chirps at my side before I can respond.

“Scarlett,” he says. His voice is different, accented.

Scarlett notices. “Oh my God. You came back with an accent. That’s so cool.”

“Is it?” Jeff cocks his head. Behind him, I spot Chase again. His face is half-hidden by the locker door, but I know it’s him.

My body tingles. I guess I’d know it was him if I was blindfolded. A connection was made the other night—one that neither of us can really deny by the looks of the way we stared at each other before Jeff appeared.

Why am I the one ashamed of what happened? It was my choice. I wanted it. The thing I should be embarrassed about is running off like a scared girl. But I can’t help it.

I’ve never been one of those girls who pictured candles and rose petals for her first time, but I at least thought I’d be going out with the guy I gave my V-card to. He’d be my boyfriend, and we’d take it slow and make out a bunch and fool around until we eventually did the deed. But that didn’t happen, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

What I do know is that I can’t let him, or anyone else, see how shaken up I am. I straighten my shoulders. Confidence is what Chase has. I want that.

“Nice to see you, Jeff,” I say, and then I take a few steps forward, in Chase’s direction.

“Wait—” Scar catches my arm. “Do you really think this is a good idea?”

“Why not?” I shrug. “He obviously goes to school here. I might as well face up to him now instead of trying to hide from him for the next nine months.”

“There’s no reason for you to talk to him,” Jeff says. “We’ll keep him away.” He throws a dark look over his shoulder toward Chase, who’s gathered his books and is walking away.

Yeah, Chase definitely has a rep. Even Jeff, who’s been gone for so long, has apparently heard that something went down between me and Chase. That means word’s gotten around.

A spark of anger lights my belly as I picture Chase bragging to all those Lex kids that he bagged a Darling girl.

I speed up, walking fast down the hall with my eyes pinned on Chase’s back.

He’s an island. Like, there’s literally a bubble of space around him, which is shocking given the size of my class. Three hundred seniors attend Darling. The halls are packed this morning, yet no one seems to be able to penetrate his personal space. Fuck. I kinda love that.

I walk faster, waving hello to classmates but not stopping until I reach Chase. He’s halted in front of the AP Calc room. How convenient.

I hug my books close to my chest and clear my throat. “Chase.”

He spins slowly until we’re facing each other. “Beth.”

Despite my anger that he might’ve told people about us, I appreciate that he calls me Beth. He knows me only as that. I don’t have to remind him that it’s my name now.

“Who’d you tell?” I say bluntly.

He wrinkles his forehead. “Tell?”

“Yeah, who did you tell?” I repeat, sounding way more confident and confrontational than I feel right now. Just being in his presence is fogging my mind. “About Saturday night.”

Rather than flush or look sheepish, he meets my gaze head-on. “Nobody.”

“Nobody,” I echo, still suspicious.

“Yeah. Why would I tell anyone?” he says simply.

For some inexplicable reason, I believe him. I believe he’s kept quiet about what we did at the party. Someone else must’ve seen us. Maybe someone saw me coming out of that bedroom. Ashleigh, or the guy who owned the house. Whoever it was, I know it wasn’t Chase.

“All right, then,” I say with a nod.

The corners of his eyes crinkle in humor. “All right, then,” he echoes.

Anger dissipating, I brush by him, open the classroom door and then reach back and grab the sleeve of his untucked and unbuttoned denim shirt to pull him inside. “So I don’t know if you’ve heard the scoop, but the AP Calc teacher is a monster. Rumor has it she stays up nights and spends her weekends thinking of new ways to torture us. Expect constant pop quizzes and no-mercy midterms.”

He sounds amused. “Okay.”

There are a few other students inside. Macy Stedman waves to me until she notices Chase. Then her hand falls and her face grows anxious.

“Lizzie, come here.” She motions me over.

“Lizzie?” asks Chase, an odd note in his voice.

“It’s Beth,” I tell him. “Elizabeth Jones.”

There’s a long, strained beat.

“Elizabeth Jones?” he chokes out.

“Yes. But everyone calls me Beth.”

He jerks his arm out of my grip. My hand drops to my side. I flush lightly, embarrassed by his sudden need to get away from me.

“Did you tell me your last name the other night?” His voice is low and harsh. I have to lean in to hear him.

“Maybe. No. Probably not.” I don’t know his, either, I realize. “Why? What’s yours?”

“Lizzie! I need to talk to you!” Macy calls shrilly.

“It’s Beth,” I tell her between gritted teeth. “And I’ll be there in a sec.” I turn back to Chase, whose face is chalk white. “What’s yours?” I repeat.

He licks his lips and takes another step back. And then another. Until two desks are between us. “I’m Charles Donnelly. And I’m sorry.”

With that, he turns on his heel and walks out of the classroom.

Charles Donnelly.

My stomach lurches. “I thought your name was Chase!” I yell after him.

Macy appears at my shoulder. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

I turn bewildered eyes to her, hoping for some help in processing what I just learned. “That was Charles Donnelly?”

“Uh-huh.” She nods and rubs a hand up my arm.

“I didn’t recognize him.” My head’s clogged up. I can’t stop blinking.

“He’s changed a lot. Prison will do that for you,” she sneers toward the empty doorway. “Come on. I bet you’re in shock. I can’t believe you have classes with him. Admin sucks. They are so incompetent.” She leads me over to the desk next to hers. “Should I get you a water? Or, um, a Coke maybe? I’ll get a Coke. Be right back.”

I barely register her leaving because my mind is still whirling over the fact that I slept with Charles Donnelly.

The guy who killed my sister.

I barely make it to the trash can before my breakfast surges violently up my throat.

6

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Macy asks for what feels like the thousandth time.

“Yep,” I answer as brightly as possible. The lunchroom’s familiar buzz isn’t settling my nerves like I’d hoped. Instead, I keep wondering how many of those conversations are about me. I’m not blind to the fact that there was a shit ton of head turning when I entered.

“You didn’t stay in the nurse’s office very long,” Scarlett says quietly. “I would’ve lain in there all day.”

“He shouldn’t even be here,” Macy insists. “Like why isn’t he at Lexington Public or Lincoln?”

“The mayor lives in Grove Heights and that’s Darling school district,” Yvonne, one of my other friends, points out.

A voice of reason. I throw her a small relieved smile. She frowns in return, as if smiling is not permitted at a time like this, so I let my gaze fall back onto my unappealing salad.

“The mayor should open enroll him into Lex. Isn’t that where all the delinquents hang out?” Macy asks.

“There was that huge drug bust in the parking lot last year,” Yvonne confirms. “Their quarterback got sent to juvie.”

“Do you think Charlie and him were in the same cell?” Macy’s tone is scandalized, but she leans forward, elbows on the table, anxious for more gossip.

“Wow. I never thought of that,” Yvonne says.

The table falls silent as they all contemplate this possible turn of events. I shove some wilted lettuce in my mouth and pray that we change the subject.

I’m Charles Donnelly. And I’m sorry.

His rough words keep running through my mind and I’m not trying very hard to shut them out. It’s like when you have a song stuck in your head and you force yourself to listen to it a hundred times until you get so sick of it you never want to hear it again. I’m forcing myself to think about Chase’s—no, Charlie’s—words, to picture his ashen, pained expression when he realized who I was. Maybe if I think about it long and hard enough, I can make sense of what happened without wanting to puke my guts out.

“He is...hot, though, don’t you think?” Macy says in a hushed voice.

Scarlett gasps. “Oh my God, Macy.”

“I’m just saying. He’s hot and you’re all lying if you deny it.” Macy pouts, sitting back in her lunchroom chair.

I hunch over my salad and hope that my friends can’t see my reddened cheeks. I thought he was hot, too. Saturday night, I thought he was the best-looking guy I’d ever laid eyes on. I still do, and that makes me even sicker. I set down my fork and try to breathe through the layer of bile coating my throat.

“He’s not hot. He’s gross. He killed someone,” Yvonne says in disgust.

“Not someone.” Scarlett’s voice rises. “Lizzie’s sister. He killed Lizzie’s sister.”

She’s loud enough that conversation stops at the tables next to ours. I want to slide under the table. I thought my worst day of school was the one where Michelle Harvey spilled her apple juice in my lap during third grade and then Colin Riley ran around telling everyone I’d peed myself. No, the worst day of school was the day they held the memorial for Rachel here. That was definitely the worst. I didn’t cry and everyone eyed me with suspicion. Like I should’ve been curled up in a ball on the ground, comatose with grief and unable to function.

Anxiously, I change the subject. “So does the Calc homework look hard?” I ask Scarlett.

Thankfully she picks up on my distress immediately. “No. She only assigned five problems and they were all review.”

“Great.”

“Do you want to go over them tonight?” she offers. “We can IM.”

“Nah, I think I’m going to do them right when I get home and then go to bed. I have a headache.”

“Of course you do,” Macy coos. She pulls my head onto her shoulder. “You should stay home tomorrow, too.”

I will if it’s going to be like this.

* * *

I sleepwalk through my final classes of the day. Word has spread like fire throughout the school. It reminds me of the first day of high school when everyone whispered behind their hands, “There goes the dead girl’s sister.”

I shove my earbuds in the minute the last bell rings and blast my music so loud that it hurts. I keep them on, not pulling them out until the bus rolls past the drop. Wearily, I trudge to my front door.

Mom is waiting inside, concern etched into her face and her taut frame. I run a shaky hand through my hair. I’m not up for this. Not one bit.

“How was your day?” She tries to reach for my backpack.

I jerk out of her reach and drop the backpack onto my section of the mudroom bench. Rachel’s space is completely empty, of course. Mom keeps it that way as if Rachel’s going to show up one day and need a place to put her shoes and coats.

“How do you think it was?” From the worry in her eyes, I know she’s heard about Charlie Donnelly’s appearance at school. “Did you know he was going to Darling High?”

She hesitates, only for a beat, and a rush of anger spirals through me.

“Oh my God, you totally knew,” I accuse. My parents knew he was back in town and they hadn’t said a single word to me about it?

“I’m sorry. When the nurse called and said you were sick... I know we should’ve said something last night... It was just... We were too...” She trails off, unable to come up with the words.

Silently, I fill them in for her. I know we should’ve warned you that the guy who ran over your sister three years ago is now going to your school but we were too busy being mad and tearing down your bedroom door.

I don’t say this out loud because I’m tired. Tired of the drama, the attention, the pity, the worry. All of it. I keep my mouth closed and my head down. I toe off my shoes and brush by her. She moves out of my way, but her distress follows me like a dark magnetic cloud.

I stop at the stairs. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

“It’s not nothing. Oh, Lizzie, I’m sorry. I’m sick with worry all the time. Every minute that you’re gone from the house, I keep thinking what if. What if you’re hurt, too? I can’t have that happen.”

I run up the stairs. I need to get to my room and away from my mom. I reach my bedroom and stare in surprise. I’d forgotten they’d removed the door. I spin around to see Mom right behind me. She flushes with guilt, not even able to look me in the eye.

I fist my hands at my sides, digging the nails in deep so that my self-inflicted pain keeps me from going off, saying things that will end up in an ugly shouting match.

Instead, I trot downstairs and aim for the back door.

“Where are you going?” Mom screeches in alarm.

I lean my head against the wood door frame. There are black marks on it around the handle. Likely from my dad. His fingers are always smudged with oil or grease or dirt. I rub my finger against one mark. It doesn’t budge. “Outside,” I mutter. “To the swing.”

Not waiting for her to respond, I jerk the door open and dart outside. The autumn weather is crisp and fresh. Dried leaves that have just started to fall crunch under my feet as I walk and then begin to run toward the rope swing hanging in the corner of our lot.

Dad hung this swing when Rachel was eight. She climbed on it and broke her wrist a week later. Mom cried and begged Dad to take it down, but, strangely enough, he didn’t. Instead, I wasn’t allowed to swing on it by myself for an entire year after that. Mom didn’t think it was safe.

Despite her fears, I never injured myself on it, and now, years later, it’s still strong as ever. I sit down. The afternoon sun gives my face a kiss. I take a deep breath and push off with my toe. I want to get over Rachel’s death, but here, in this house, in this town, it’s impossible.

Rachel is everywhere. Her room is in the same exact condition it was the night she died, except Mom has made the bed. Rachel never made her bed. She’d wake up late, throw the covers on the floor and rush to the bathroom we shared. Downstairs in the mudroom, Mom still has her name in white chalk over her section of the storage bench. The piano that only Rachel ever played still sits in our living room, meticulously dusted each and every day by my mother. The wood-and-rope swing Dad constructed for Rachel is still hanging in this yard, even though no one has used it since she died. If I go into Rachel’s room, I’ll see her volleyball uniform hanging on the back of her door. Even her toothbrush is still in her side of the Jack-and-Jill bath.

I once asked Mom why. She broke down and shut herself in her bedroom for an hour. Dad glared at me the whole time. I never asked again, but Mom told me later that it was so we would never forget.

Forget Rachel? How could you? Even if you razed this house and all its possessions to the ground, you wouldn’t forget her. I don’t say any of this to Mom, though. The grief counselor they sent me to after Rachel’s death says everyone grieves in their own way and that no way is wrong. But I can’t help but measure my sadness, or lack thereof, against my mom’s or dad’s or, hell, even the kids at school.

All of them expect me to react a certain way, but I just want to be me. If I knew who me was. I’m trying to figure that out. It’s why I keep trying different things. I don’t fit in here. None of the Darling crowds feel right to me. That’s why I went with Ashleigh the other night. It’s one of the reasons that I slept with Chase—no, sorry, Charlie. I thought, wrongly, that I’d find out something about myself.

I guess I did. I found out I make shit choices when it comes to guys.

Shame tickles my throat. I gulp it down, because really, I have to cut myself some slack about this. Having sex isn’t a crime. I’m seventeen—most of my friends, Scarlett included, have already lost their virginity. Macy had sex for the first time in freshman year, Yvonne when she was a soph. Technically, I waited way longer than most of my peers.

But if I had to do it over again, I’d turn around and walk away.

Wouldn’t I?

I scrub my hands over my face, but a soft whining noise has me lifting my head. For the first time in what feels like years, a genuine smile tugs on my mouth.

I hop off the swing and wander over to the wooden fence that separates our yard from the Rennicks’. The sweetest sight greets me—big brown eyes and a wet black nose and the sloppy, drooly tongue of the big black mutt whose head is popping out from between two slats. The gaps in the fence are just big enough for Morgan to stick his head through, but not enough that he can wiggle his whole body free.

I wish he could, though. I’d love nothing more than to run around in the yard with him and be the receiver of his doggy kisses. Actually, I want all the neighborhood dogs to join us—Morgan, Mr. Edwards’s yappy terrier and the Palmers’ labradoodle. That would be a thousand times better than sitting here thinking about what a failure I am.

“Hey, buddy,” I greet the dog, kneeling down to pet his face.

His tongue instantly comes out to lick my hand. He looks so happy to see me that I want to cry. Animals break my heart sometimes. They love you so unconditionally, so deeply. Even when you’ve mistreated them—and I’ve come across many abused animals at the shelter—they still want nothing more than to please. Fucking heartbreaking.

“How was your day, cutie?” I ask him. “Did you chase any squirrels? Find any sticks? Tell me everything.”

A male chuckle sounds from behind me, and I shoot to my feet in surprise. When I turn around, I’m expecting to see him.

Only it’s not him.

It’s Jeff.

7

“Hey there, Lizzie.” Jeff smiles at me, then at the furry head sticking out of the fence. “Cute pup.”

“He is. And it’s Beth,” I correct by rote.

A crooked smile appears. “Right. Beth. I forgot. You’re all grown-up now.” He reaches out and pulls on a lock of my hair, something he did back when I was fourteen and had a giant crush on my sister’s boyfriend.

I try not to blush and fail. “You’ve been gone awhile,” I say to cover my embarrassment. I head back to the rope swing and plop down on the wooden seat.

His crooked smile grows into a full-blown grin. He doesn’t look any different than when he left Darling two years ago. He still has that solid square jaw and dark eyes that crinkle at the sides when he smiles. My sister thought he was the most beautiful boy in the world. I didn’t disagree.

“Two years,” he confirms. “But Darling hasn’t changed at all, has it? The same stores, streets, people.”

“Yup.”

“I like it.” He brushes some nonexistent dust off his jeans. “Everything overseas was foreign and different, but Darling is the same. That’s why we always want to come home, yeah.”

“Yeah? You picked up an accent,” I tease.

He grabs the rope and gently pulls me forward. “Hard not to after two years there, but I’ll lose it in time.”

“Do you miss England? I’d like to go sometime.”

“Would you?” He chuckles. “I don’t think you’d like it. You’re made for small-town America, Lizzie. It fits you. There’s no point in going away from here. It’s got everything you need. People you love and who love you back. Out there, no one really knows or gets you.”

“Dinner!” Mom calls from the back door.

“Great. I’m starved.” Jeff waves a hand toward my mom to let her know we’ve heard her. “Come on.”

“Are you staying?” I drag my toes into the ground to bring the swing to a stop.

“Yeah. I miss your mom’s roast beef. Can’t get that over there in the UK. The meat’s not the same, you know?”

“Aren’t they famous for their cows? I read that on the internet somewhere.”

He throws an arm around my shoulders. “Didn’t they teach you in fifth grade that seventy-five percent of what’s on the internet is trash? You going to trust me, your old friend Jeffrey, or some online rag?”

“You.”

“That’s right.” He squeezes me.

His arm feels strange around my shoulders. It doesn’t belong there. This is Rachel’s boyfriend. It’s her shoulders his arm should be around.

Dinner is less of a mess than I’d imagined it would be. My parents love Jeff and are thrilled he’s back at the table.

“It’s like old times.” Mom sighs.

“Only better because we’re older and Lizzie is prettier and I’ve been lifting.” He flexes and Mom laughs at his playful antics.

Dad grunts some form of approval.

“How are sales at the store?” Jeff asks my dad. “I heard they might be opening up a Home Depot in Lincoln, so some competition might be cropping up, huh?” Lincoln is a town twenty minutes east of us.

“They’ve been saying that for years and it still hasn’t happened. And even if does, I’m not worried. Those big-box people don’t know the difference between an Allen wrench and a Phillips screwdriver, son. As long as they keep employing ignorant boys, the folks here will always come back to me.”

Jeff and my dad talk about the store some more, and then Jeff tells us about his grandparents’ apartment in England, except he calls it a flat and his accent bothers me a little but I can’t explain why. Of course you’re going to pick up certain phrases and mannerisms when you live somewhere else for two years.

It’s not Jeff, I guess. I’m just on edge from everything that happened today. Seeing Chase at school. Finding out that Chase isn’t Chase. He’s Charles. Charlie. The boy who, in my house, is looked upon as a villain. A murderer.

I’m Charles Donnelly. And I’m sorry.

As I pick at my dinner, moving my mashed potatoes around on my plate, my mind drifts. I try to recall what I know about Charlie. He was a summer kid, as far as I remember. His parents were divorced, and he visited his mom in Darling during the summer and lived with his dad the rest of the year. His dad lives in Springfield or Bloomington or something. Definitely a city, but I can’t remember which one. And I only know this because my parents told me. I’d never met Charlie before Saturday night.

I shove some mashed potatoes in my mouth and chew quickly.

I don’t think Rachel ever met him, either. He was a stranger. A teenage boy who came to stay with his mom one summer, stole a car, took it for a joyride and ran over my sister.

Again, I know those details only because of my parents. I wasn’t allowed to read the newspapers after it happened. There was no trial. No media storm. My parents shielded me from the whole thing. Charlie took a plea deal and was whisked off to juvenile detention. It was all very nice and tidy.

Except it left my family a mess. In pieces.

And, ironically, Chase wasn’t the only one who wound up in prison.

I snort at that thought, and everyone turns toward me.

“Ah. Sorry,” I mutter, staring down at my plate. “I was just thinking about...something funny.”

My father’s tone is tinged with disapproval. “There is nothing funny about what we’re discussing, Elizabeth.”

What are they discussing? I’d completely tuned them out. When I lift my gaze, I find three grim faces staring back at me.

“Anyway,” Jeff says, picking up wherever he’d left off, “I also disagree with the administration’s decision to let him attend Darling High.”

My pulse kicks up a notch. They’re talking about Chase.

Dad nods tersely. “We’re planning on voicing that sentiment when we meet with the school board.”

My gaze swings toward my father. “What? Why are you meeting with them?”

“Because it’s necessary. They need to know that we don’t take kindly to that boy being allowed back into the community. I don’t give a shi—a damn,” he says hastily, “who his mother is married to these days. He should not be allowed to attend the same school as my daughter, as my—” Dad’s voice gets louder “—my surviving child!”

I cringe. Is that how they think of me? As their “surviving child”?

I scrape my chair back. “May I be excused?” I mumble under my breath.

“No,” Dad says. “We have a guest, Lizzie.”

“It’s Beth now.” This time it’s Jeff who does the correcting.

I glance at him with grateful eyes.

“And I should probably take off anyway,” Jeff continues, even though his food is only half-eaten. “I’ve still got a ton of unpacking to do at home.”

“Tell your mother I’ll give her a call tomorrow,” my mom says. “I’d love to catch up with her and your father.”

“They’d love that, too. Maybe we can have a barbecue this weekend, while the weather’s still nice. Like old times,” Jeff says, winking at my mom.

“That sounds lovely. Lizzie, why don’t you walk Jeff to the door? And then you may be excused to your room.”

I don’t thank her for that, but I do thank Jeff when we stand in the front hall. “Thank you for backing me on the name thing. They refuse to call me anything but Lizzie.” I swallow. “And I’m sorry if you felt like I was trying to run you off. I just... I’m not in the mood for family togetherness.”

He nods. “I get it. My mood sank pretty fucking fast when I saw that killer at school today.”

Guilt arrows into me, and suddenly I find myself praying that nobody at the party on Saturday saw me going into the bedroom with Chase. That nobody saw either one of us walking out of that room hours later with our clothes disheveled.

It never happened. Maybe if I just keep saying that, over and over again, I’ll actually be able to forget it.

“Don’t worry, though.” Jeff’s voice lowers ominously. “He won’t get away with what he did to us.”

I eye him warily. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he won’t get away with it.” Brown eyes glinting with fortitude, Jeff pulls me in for a tight hug. “He took away the most important person in my life, in our lives. Trust me, he’ll pay for that.”

“He did pay for it,” I point out, but my voice comes out weak and shaky, hardly a firm objection.

“Three years in juvie?” Jeff spits out. He’s still holding me, and his breath fans hot against my cheek with each angry word. “You think three years makes up for the loss of a life? He killed someone.”

“It was an accident,” I whisper. “He didn’t hit her on purpose.”

“That doesn’t make her any less dead, now does it?”

The venom in his tone makes me flinch. Gulping nervously, I ease out of his embrace. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow. I’m glad you’re back, Jeff.”

The anger in his eyes dims, replaced with a flicker of joy. “I’m glad I’m back, too.”

I close and lock the door after him and then hurry upstairs to my bedroom. Once again, the lack of a door throws me for a loop. Frustration has me stomping forward with more force than necessary. My room happens to be directly above the dining room, and I smile with grim satisfaction at the thought of my parents hearing my angry footsteps thudding on the ceiling.

They might have taken away my phone, but I’m still in possession of my laptop and an internet connection. For all I know, they hacked into the computer and set up a bunch of spy programs or parental controls, but I don’t care if they did. I know they’d never take away the laptop. I need it for schoolwork, and school is very important to my parents.

I flop onto the bed and open up a search engine. It doesn’t take long to find out everything I can about Chase, and it’s not much more than I already knew. He pleaded guilty to reckless homicide. As a minor, he was sentenced to three years at a juvenile correctional center in Kewanee. I heard it was a harsh sentence, because most of those cases get only probation. Chase—I mean Charlie—started serving his time when he was sixteen. That’d make him nineteen now.

The only valuable piece of information I discover is the picture. All the papers ran one photo of Charles Donnelly, and the kid on those front pages looks nothing like the guy I met at the party.

No wonder I didn’t recognize him. Back then, his hair was cropped short, almost completely buzzed off. His features were smoother, giving him almost a baby face. He had no facial hair. His mouth was more sullen, whereas now it’s...tighter, resigned.

I run my finger over the computer screen, tracing Charlie’s grainy lips. Does he regret what he did? Does he wish he never stole that car? Never drove over the speed limit? Never hit my older sister and sent her flying onto the pavement?

The gruesome image brings bile to my throat, but it doesn’t make me want to circle the wagons and raise the pitchforks and march to Chase’s house in a violent mob.

If anything, I want to talk to him. If I had my phone, I’d use the number he gave me and... And what? Text him? Call? What the hell do I say to the boy who ran my sister down with his car?

Ding.

An IM screen pops up with a chime. It’s Scarlett. I glance toward my gaping doorway. Luckily, my parents aren’t lurking there. I mute the volume of the chat window and read Scar’s message.

You there, bb?

Yes, I quickly type back. The parentals didn’t take my laptop away.

Oh, perfect! This is just as good as texting.

Yup.

Can’t believe your parents didn’t tell you about CD coming back.

They were too busy taking my door off the hinges.

WHAT? jk, right?

Not jk at all. 1 sec.

I pick up the computer and turn it around so that the webcam has a view of the door. I snap a picture, load it into the IM screen and send it. Scarlett’s reply is swift and appropriately shocked.

OMG! THEY DIDN’T!

Oh they did.

I hear soft footsteps coming up the stairs and curse under my breath. Wonderful.

Gotta go, I type to Scarlett. Bbiab.

I minimize the chat screen just as Mom appears in the doorway. “Can we talk?” she asks quietly.

“I’m doing homework,” I answer in a curt voice.

“Lizzie.”

“Beth.”

She sighs. “Beth.”

I pretend to be focused on the screen. Mom can’t see it so she has no idea I’m just staring at a screensaver picture of me, Scarlett and Macy at the lake last summer. But Mom’s not going away, either. I can make out her slender frame from the corner of my eye.

She stands there, silently, patiently, until finally I release a loud groan and say, “Fine. Talk.”

Mom steps into the room and sits on my desk chair. I close the computer and wait for her to speak.

She begins with “Your father and I are concerned—”

I can’t stop a snort. “What else is new?”

“Beth,” she chides.

“Sorry.”

“We’re concerned that the boy might harass or upset you at school.”

My gaze flies to hers. “Why would he harass me?”

“Because you’re a reminder of what he’s done to our family, to this town. People don’t like to be reminded of their mistakes. Sometimes they lash out as a result.” Her lips thin out. “I don’t want that boy anywhere near you, Lizz—Beth.”

Despite my anger, I soften slightly, because I appreciate the effort she’s making to call me Beth. She’s trying. More than Dad is willing to try.

“Your father and I will try to have him removed from your school, but I can’t promise that we’ll be successful.”

I arch a brow. She’s acting as if I’m the one who requested they do that. Which I didn’t. “I’m not asking you to do anything. I don’t care if he goes to school with me.”

“Just the sight of him made you sick to your stomach today!” Mom is visibly stricken. “He’s a threat to your mental health and your well-being, and I promise you we’ll do what we can. But on the off chance that we fail, we need you to promise that you’ll stay away from that boy.”

Hysterical laughter burns my throat. Too fucking late, Mom.

“We won’t let him hurt you or our family ever again,” she says, and the ferocity of her tone startles me. “I won’t let him. He already took one daughter from me, and...” Her voice catches, and she takes a long, deep breath.

The pain in her eyes chips away at more of my resolve. We used to be so close. When I was growing up, she’d take me on an outing once a month, just me and her. I think it was her way of showing me she loved me as much as Rachel, even though deep down I knew Rachel was her favorite. Rachel was Dad’s favorite, too. I guess the firstborn daughter always is. But I didn’t care about being their favorite. At least when Rachel was alive, I had parents who loved me.

I miss that.

“He won’t hurt me, Mom.”

She doesn’t seem to hear me. “What you said yesterday. About...about this being a prison.” She lifts her gaze to mine. There’s so much anguish there. “This house isn’t a prison, Beth. It’s a safe haven. It’s the only place where you’re truly safe. Where nothing can hurt you.”

I stare at her. Really? I am hurt in this house. They’re suffocating me with their fears. They took away my door, my privacy.

She’s delusional if she believes I feel safe here.

About as delusional as me thinking I can pretend I didn’t sleep with the boy who killed my sister.

8

The next morning, I find Scarlett and Jeff waiting by my locker. Scarlett immediately throws her arms around me and whines, “It sucks that you don’t have a phone.”

“I know,” I say glumly.

“Your dad said he took it away because you snuck out to a party?” Jeff prompts.

I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t remember that coming up at all during dinner last night. “When did he tell you that?”

“This morning. I stopped by the hardware store to say hello before school.”

The revelation bugs me a little, but I can’t explain why. Jeff was over at our house all the time when he was with Rachel. He practically lived there. But it’s been ages since anyone has seen him, and Rachel is gone, so this insta-closeness with my family is weird to me.

“Where was this party?” Jeff keeps pushing for details. “Was it just you and Scar?”

“I didn’t go,” Scarlett, the traitor, tells him. “Beth went on her own. With a bunch of kids from Lexington Heights.”

I scowl at her and she shrugs as if to say I didn’t know it was a big secret.

“Lexington kids?” Jeff says with visible disapproval. “All those Lex kids are total trash, Lizzie. Everyone knows that.”

“Not all of them,” I say in the defense of Ashleigh and Harley and the rest of the kids who were nothing but nice to me on Saturday. “I had a good time.”

“Yeah? Doing what?” he says suspiciously. “I’ve heard about the kinds of drugs that float around at those Lex parties.”

“I don’t do drugs,” I say stiffly.

“I should hope not.”

The judgment in Jeff’s eyes grates on me. Who is he to judge? He doesn’t even know me anymore. The last time he saw me, I had a mouth full of braces and a face covered with zits. I don’t think I’d even kissed a guy at that point.

“Anyway, it was fun,” I tell Jeff and Scarlett. I slam my locker shut and shift my backpack onto my shoulder. “I have to go. I want to talk to my Calc teacher before the bell rings. I’m already a day behind because I missed class yesterday.”

I leave before they can respond, waving a hurried goodbye over my shoulder. Truth is, I do want to get to AP Calc early. But not to talk to the teacher.

My heart is racing as I lurk outside the classroom door. Kids stream past me up and down the hallway. Some duck into the classroom I’m waiting by, others dart through the other open doorways in the corridor.

Where is he?

Impatience has me tapping my foot and playing with the straps of my backpack. I search the hall for him, scanning every boy that comes near. I dismiss the ones with dark hair, the gangly ginger-haired one, the one with the dreadlocks and his buddy with the shaved head. I wait in the hall, even after the bell rings, even after the classroom door closes.

And finally, my patience pays off.

Charlie Donnelly appears at the end of the hall. He’s wearing black cargo pants and a black T-shirt, and a harried look on his face. He rakes a hand through his dirty-blond hair as he rushes down the tiled floor. He’s clearly pissed at himself for being late.

When he sees me, he stumbles to a dead stop.

“Fuck,” he murmurs.

“Chase,” I say awkwardly.

I take a step forward, and he takes a very fast one to the side.

His hand shoots out for the doorknob. “We’re late for class,” he says, and his tone is so cold, so aloof, that I frown deeply. He won’t even look at me.

“I don’t care if we’re late. I need to talk to you.”

“Got nothing to say,” he mutters.

“Please,” I beg.

I grab his hand before he can turn the knob. He flinches as if I’ve burned him with a hot iron. Hurt trembles in my belly. A few days ago, he was begging me to touch him. Now it’s like he can’t stand the sight of me, the feel of me, the—

And why the hell do I care? A wave of anger and self-reproach washes over me. This guy hit my sister with his car and went to jail for it. I shouldn’t give a flying fuck if he isn’t into me.

“Well, I have something to say,” I grind out. “And it doesn’t matter if we’re one minute late or five minutes late—late is late. So you might as well give me a few seconds of your precious time.”

His hands drop to his sides. He’s still making a very obvious effort to not look at me. Those blue eyes focus on a spot a few feet above my head. I feel stupid talking to his chin, but I do it anyway.

“You’re going to school here now,” I start.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” His gaze swings briefly to mine before sliding away.

“I’m stating a fact. You go here now. I go here. We have classes together.” I awkwardly jerk my hand at the door behind me. “So...yeah. Given that this is the situation we’re in, I think we should...clear the air, I guess.”

His dumbfounded gaze collides with mine. “Clear the air.” He makes a choked noise. “I...” He wrenches his gaze away again. “You’re Rachel Jones’s sister.”

My heart clenches. “Yes.”

“So there’s no air to clear, Elizabeth.”

“It’s Beth.”

He ignores me. “Move away from the door.”

“No.” I stubbornly plant my feet on the ground and cross my arms. “You can’t pretend I don’t exist. You can’t pretend that we didn’t have se—”

“Shut up,” he growls.

My eyes widen.

Almost instantly, his features twist with distress. “I’m sorry for snapping,” he says roughly. “And I’m sorry for the other night...” He trails off, and I realize that the dark emotion swimming in his eyes isn’t quite remorse.

It’s shame. He’s ashamed of what we did, too.

“You regret it,” I mumble.

This time, he looks right at me, and his stare doesn’t waver. “Yes.”

I can’t explain the wave of hurt that crashes into me. “Because I’m her sister?” I have to ask. My voice shakes wildly with every word.

“Yes,” Chase says again.

That gives me pause. “But if I wasn’t her sister...” I draw a quavery breath. “Would you regret it?”

He eyes me for a long moment, those blue eyes sweeping over my face, then shifting lower. “No,” he finally admits.

It’s my turn to feel ashamed. That one tiny syllable—no—brings a flash of relief, a flicker of happiness. Nausea burns my throat and I want to throw up at my response to this guy.

While I stand there immobile, Chase gently moves me aside and opens the classroom door. He disappears inside without another word.

I turn and watch his broad back as he makes his way to his desk. He folds his tall frame into a chair and stares straight ahead.

At the front of the room, Mrs. Russell is talking about Mathematical Practices for AP Calculus, or MPACS, that will dictate our course of study this semester. She notices me in the doorway and a slight frown creases her lips. She glances at Chase, then at me, then says, “Beth, why don’t you take a seat? There’s an empty one in the back.” AKA as far away from Chase as possible.

I trudge into the classroom, making a pointed effort not to look at him. Our conversation was too short. I have more to say to him. I’m not entirely sure what, but I do know one thing. Chase and I have unfinished business.

I check my watch. Our next class together is Music History. That gives me two hours to plot. Even a stone can be worn away by a constant drip of water. Well, watch out, Chase. Here comes a flood.

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