 
### The Secrets We Keep

### by Kimberly Blackadar

### Smashwords Edition

### Copyright 2014 by Kimberly Blackadar

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### Dedication

For several years, I abandoned this book as well as my desire to write, but some of my readers never gave up on me. Their gentle urgings and prayers brought me back to my computer, compelling me to finish Callie's story. Until now, only one person had ever read this manuscript, so in some ways, I finished this book for an audience of one. Mindy, as my friend and editor, this novel is for you. Thank you for encouraging me, but most of all, thank you for asking those tough questions, offering fantastic feedback, and prompting me to add more details to the last chapter. It was a process, albeit a long one with quite the hiatus, but, hey, we made it.

### Table of Contents

Prologue: The Story of the Seven Cs

1. Friday Night

2. Saturday

3. Sunday

4. Monday

5. Tuesday

6. Wednesday

7. Thursday

8. Friday

About Kimberly Blackadar

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Prologue: The Story of the Seven Cs

In sixth grade, a friendship formed under the strangest conditions. A gym teacher placed the girls on one side of the gym, and the guys on the other, sitting them alphabetically—by their first names. So it was in last period gym class, two sets of best friends—Courtney and Chloe, Caitlyn and Carly— lined up with Callie, Christina, and Cynthia. Never remembering their names, the teacher simply referred to them as the "Seven Cs."

Yes, the fates of alliteration brought seven very different girls together, forming a circle that no other circumstance would ever create. The seven soon ate lunch together, sharing their secrets and dreams, sealing the bond with a friendship book and a secret handshake.

Their bond lasted through the rest of middle school, but in high school, with each passing year, the group became smaller and smaller. Eventually only one of the Cs remained, eating her lunch, all alone.

Will the girls find a way to reconnect, and if so, what circumstance could bring them all back together again?

Enter the story now: It's the summer before their senior year in high school, and it's life from Callie's perspective...

1. Friday Night

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Out!"

"And when will you be home?"

Never, I want to say because this crappy apartment doesn't feel like home, but I say nothing as I fling open the door and slip into the humid night air. Fingers of heat crawl across my skin as I jog-walk down the hall.

"Come back here," her voice pursues me. "I'm not done talking to you..."

I pick up the pace, round the corner, and descend the metal stairs. When I reach the bottom, I pull out my phone: "You busy tonight?"

*****

Driving under the influence of emotions equates to vehicular suicide. It has to be worse than driving drunk—at least drunk people try to focus on the road and try to observe the speed limit. I eye the speedometer, the needle hovering at 85 MPH, but I don't consider slowing down. I don't consider anything but how fast I can make it to the beach, and how fast I can get away from her and what she told me.

No matter how much I push the speed, the drive stretches slowly under the darkening sky. I focus on yellow dashes and white lines as the highway curves and straightens. Tree clusters grow thick and then thin out. The peripheral pattern repeats until a stretch of charred splinters interrupts the interminable greenness. The lasting evidence of a forest fire cuts across the highway, and I am a child again, sitting restlessly in the back of our silver Mercedes while my parents stress about getting somewhere on time. There was no exit, no alternate route around the insatiable fire, just a parking lot of cars inching toward various destinations. I have no idea where we were going that afternoon: all I can remember is the heated tension spreading inside the car, engulfing three young children.

As I continue along the highway, a housing development marks the end of the arboreal graveyard, and I wonder how realtors spin those listings—"borders a quiet forest" and "convenient to the highway." My mom's a realtor, and I have grown up with her gratuitous jargon, meaning I have always taken whatever she said and sliced it in half.

Needing a distraction, I opt for some music, but after the initial boom-duh-duh-boom, I remember who was with me and what we were doing when I last heard the song, so I settle on silence.

Yet silence opens the doors to the voices—the ones that remind, and admonish, and stab at my sanity with a knife. I listen, get angry, then cry.

It's a vicious cycle, and I am an easy target tonight.

Tears fill the final minutes of the drive, and then I veer off the highway and head toward the Atlantic coast. I cross the bridge, which spans the Intracoastal, and take a quick right onto A1A, heading opposite of Daytona Beach. I follow the steady stream of cars into Ponce Inlet, a quiet beach town landmarked by the tallest lighthouse in Florida. Slivers of a blackened ocean dance behind the houses and looming condo complexes. Soon the condos diminish, and the houses, boasting great views, sit on the coast, huddled close to their neighbors.

I turn up the driveway of a multi-leveled grey house and park my car. Before I get out, I check my face and notice how my brown eyes, red and puffy, reveal the truth. I sigh at my own reflection and then undo my ponytail, letting my dark chestnut hair hide my face.

With nothing but a forced smile and a jam-packed duffle bag, I head toward the front door and peer through the frosted glass. I ring the doorbell and hear the melodic chimes, a familiar waft of some famous symphony.

No answer.

I ring again, growing impatient.

The door opens with an apology: "Sorry, I was just finishing my makeup." Courtney greets me with a big hug and rocks me back and forth. She has sun-bleached hair and a killer bod, making her the quintessential surfer girl. "I'm so glad you're here," she says, then lets go of me, never really seeing me, and starts down the wide tiled entranceway. "Can you believe this is our last week of summer vacation—the last week before our senior year? The summer has gone incredibly fast, huh?"

"Uh-huh."

I deposit my flip-flops by the front door and follow her, noting the coolness of the tiled floor. "I'm so excited that you're here! We're going to have a blast—the best week of our entire summer!"

"Yeah, well," I grumble. "It can't get any worse."

She turns like she finally sees me¬—and is no longer talking to her imaginary friend who is eternally cheery. "C'mon Cal. Try to be happy."

"Woo hoo," I muster, adding some sparkle fingers.

"Now, that's the spirit!"

"Yeah, yeah, rah, rah," I return darkly.

"Did you talk to Caitlyn?" Any mention of cheerleading—and it is usually in the negative sense—makes us think of our friend who is now the captain of Riverside High's varsity squad.

I shake my head.

"What about Chloe?"

"Nah," I say with a frown, thinking how the summer has changed Chloe more than any of us. "She has her own problems."

"So—you came to me!"

"Yep, you were the only one left, Court."

Currently, I have three best friends: Chloe Preston, Caitlyn Rivers, and Courtney Valentine. There used to be seven of us in our middle school clique called the Seven Cs—a friendship formed by the capriciousness of alliteration. Some moved away, but one, Carly Evans, just stays away from us since she treats being normal like the bubonic plague.

"Ah, I feel so special."

I roll my eyes. Courtney has never been lacking in the self-esteem department, and no matter what happens to her, she emerges with her big smile intact.

She stops in front of an open door, sweeping her arm gracefully to her side. "And your room, Madame. I trust the accommodations will meet your standards." She says this in jest, but it stings, reminding of the fiscal disparity between our families now.

I enter the room and drop my bag on the end of the bed. Courtney follows, her phone buzzing with a text. "It's Ian," she says. "And he really wants to meet you." She pauses and offers a grin that says, Do whatever I ask, and then she steps closer to me. "You up for it?"

"No."

"Oh, come on, Cal."

"No!"

*****

Minutes later, I am sitting in Courtney's apple red convertible, top down, as we bullet down A1A. I turn up the volume, letting the music mingle with the wind and the purr of the engine. We sing—no, shout—along to familiar songs, and intermittently, we look at each other and sing to one another—especially the mushy love songs—and then giggle at our stupidity. I hate to admit it, but there is something magical about driving down A1A in a bright red convertible, singing, laughing, and just being silly and seventeen. And for a brief moment, I forget the anger and the sadness.

As we head deeper into Daytona Beach, guys take notice of us. Seeing two girls, scantily clad, elicits a rabid response from the opposite sex. Courtney thrives on the attention and always dresses the part. Me? I'd rather be decked out in a T-shirt and basketball shorts, but tonight, I have on cut-off jean shorts and a skimpy tank—courtesy of Courtney's wardrobe. Not what I would choose to wear, but I left the apartment in such a rush that I didn't have time to repack from basketball camp.

Even though Courtney and I have different shapes—I'm a long rectangle, and she's a classic hourglass—we can share clothes. They just have a different effect on our bodies, from hugging to hanging. I look down at my chest—or at least where it should be—and wish I had a push-up bra with me. I read this article about body types a few months back, and it said to accentuate the chest in order to create the illusion of having a fuller shape. But at an inch over six feet and weighing in at 150, I am tall, thin, and definitely all legs. No illusion about it, I look like a basketball player—good thing I can actually play.

We pause at the red light, and a hollowed-out jeep, full of shirtless surfer boys, stops next to us. One leans out the passenger side door. "You," he emphasizes, "are like nectar from the gods." His words, aimed at my blonde best friend, awaken the jealousy demon.

Then the light turns green, and Courtney hits the gas; she crosses the intersection and swerves in front of the jeep. She searches for more confirmation and gets it from some college boys in a silver SUV, locals crammed in a muddy pick-up truck, and horny businessmen sporting a white Ford Taurus. The Ford sidles up next to us. An old, bald guy points at a high-rise and hollers, "Room 5-2-2, honey!"

"Bleh." Courtney cringes. "He's like our dad's age."

Then she takes a quick left into an old residential section of Daytona Beach where houses, painted in shades of stale hi-liters, crowd the streets. Courtney inches down the road where cars line both sides. Soon a silver sedan slips out into the street and leaves an opening in front of a pale pink house.

Courtney takes the spot. With the engine still purring, she cuts the music and turns toward me. "Cal, I know you're really upset right now, but try to have fun...okay?"

"Yeah, okay," I mumble, folding my arms across my chest.

"And I'm sorry about Mike. I don't know the whole—"

"Listen." I turn and face her. "I didn't come here to talk about it. I came here to get away from it."

"I know that."

"Then don't bring it up."

"Okay, okay, I won't bring it up." She lifts up her hands. "I won't say anything...I won't say anything at all."

"Good."

"Good," she echoes.

Silence creeps between us, yet I hear her intermittent sighs over the hum of the air conditioner while a truck sputters down the street. Then I notice some people sitting in a circle of lawn chairs, partying it up on the front yard. One guy gets up, staggers a few feet, and tosses a stick to a dog.

"So, uh..." Courtney begins. "There'll be lots of hot guys in there. That should cheer you up!"

"Huh?" I turn and then follow her gaze. Her eyes fall on an aqua house across the street. "I'm not like you."

She takes offense. "What does that mean?"

"It means," I slip in a little attitude. "I don't need a guy to fill some void in my life."

"I don't have any voids in my life."

"Yeah, I forgot." I channel my inner sarcasm. "Your life is so perfect."

"I didn't say that, Cal, and don't take this out on me. I didn't do anything."

"Yeah, you did. You brought it up."

"Oh, whatever," she huffs. "Just forget it."

"Good." I gaze across the road again and watch the guy toss a stick into the road. The dog rushes into the street and plays dodge car with oncoming traffic. I hold my breath until the dog returns safely to the yard.

"Do you just wanna' go back to my place?"

I turn and look at her. "Yeah, I didn't want to go out anyway. It was all your idea, remember?"

"Fine." She kills the engine and hands me her keys. "Go back to my house. Have fun!" She opens her door. "I'll just have Ian drive me home." Courtney gets out and marches in front of the car; then she opens the passenger-side door. "No, forget it. You're not leaving."

I just stare at her, thinking evil thoughts about killing her. Courtney Valentine has to be one of the most annoying people in human history. I slip out of the car and she gives me a fake hug—a millisecond middle-school hug that says "sorry" with the sincerity of a thirteen-year-old girl. "Thanks for changing your mind."

"You're really pissing me off, you know that?"

"So sorry," she offers and extends a palm. "Keys, please?" I drop the keys in her hand, wishing I could keep them. I would not think twice about leaving her sorry butt at his party. I glance around at the neighborhood. Okay, maybe I would think twice.

Courtney slips back in the car to put up the top, gets out, and then presses the lock button on the remote key several times. Then she places a hand on my shoulder, attempting sincerity. "I'm sorry...but you know I'm not good at this." She shrugs. "I mean, I'm glad you're here and all, but I don't know what to say to you."

"That's the whole point, Courtney. Don't say anything at all."

"Nothing?"

"Well, nothing important."

"You mean, you just want to engage in shallow, meaningless conversation?"

"Yeah," I say, pretty much meaning "duh."

"Well, that's my specialty."

"I know." I point at her and offer a sardonic smirk. "That's why I came to you."

"Well, then." Her eyes twinkle. "Let me tell you all about Ian. He is so unbelievably..." Courtney rambles on about the new guy as we amble toward the aqua house. We head up the driveway where healthy weeds sprawl out of the cracks. The neglect eats at me, reminding me of what happened to our house after my dad moved out. I push back the memory and curse my mind for its uncanny ability to construct an instantaneous bridge between the painful past and the present.

That's why I envy amnesiacs: They can erase the past and start over again. Well, wouldn't that be nice?

I also envy people with money. No matter what they say, it really can buy happiness. Trust me, I know. My family used to have money—lots and lots of glorious money. Now we just have debt. When my mom pays the bills, she sits at the kitchen table, hunched over, and shakes her head, mumbling some nonsense about me getting a job. I'm not a spoiled brat, but I play basketball on the elite circuit. I'm good, really good, and the coach waives most of the fees. So it doesn't cost her that much. But if I quit the team, it would cost me my future, which, right now, is all I really have...

...which brings me back to amnesia...

If I only had a future, and not a past, I could focus all my energy on basketball. I'd be unstoppable. I conjure up thoughts of my own awesomeness and picture myself flying toward the net in a spiraling jump shot. I slam the ball into the basket, and the crowd roars with enthusiasm.

"Well, do you?" Courtney interrupts.

"Uh...do I what?"

"Want to go to the game?"

"What game?" I ask.

"Forget it."

"Good."

Courtney and I reach the front door, but she doesn't knock. She opens the door, marches across the threshold, and snakes through the packed crowd. I follow and try not to take a whiff of the foul ambience: a manly meld of locker room sweat, stale beer, and pepperoni pizza. We step deeper into the family room where the music vibrates the walls and drowns out conversations. Courtney stops in front of a tall, blonde guy. He is insanely cute with his disheveled, sun-streaked hair and body-building physique. His chest swells under his tight, grey T-shirt, and Courtney rushes in for a hug. She finds his lips, kisses him gratuitously, and then turns to face me again. "Callie, this is Ian. Isn't he hot?"

I smile, somewhat uncomfortably, and notice how Ian winces at the introduction. He steps forward with an outstretched hand, and I accept his warm handshake. "Nice to meet you, Callie," he hollers above the bass. "Courtney's told me all about you."

"All good, I hope."

"Yep, nothin' but," he returns. "Can I get you something to drink?" He pantomimes a glass and tilts it toward his lips.

I shake my head, but Courtney always wants one.

Ian leans closer to me. "You don't drink?"

"Nope, not anymore."

Ian smiles broadly. "Really? That's cool." I wonder why this impresses him since he happens to be holding a bottle of beer.

For over a month now, I have sworn off alcohol and pretty much avoided the party scene altogether. Our close friend Chloe was date raped at a party—one that happened at Courtney's house nonetheless, and it was pretty obvious that the culprit slipped a Rufie into her drink. Just thinking of that night makes me want to be anywhere but at a drinking party, but I say nothing and follow Courtney and Ian into the cramped kitchen. Ian rifles through the fridge and returns with a couple of beers and a bottle of water for me.

"In case you get thirsty, Callie," he says in my ear. Then he slides back with a warm smile and then I place him; he's one of those good-looking guys who gets all the girls but still remembers what his mama taught him.

Really, I prefer that kind; my last boyfriend, however, required training. Not to be mean or anything, but he was not a quick learner. After months of dating, I would still stand in front of the door and wait for him to open it. More often than not, he would make some snide remark like "What? Your arm broken?"

I look up at the perpetually smiling Ian and thank him for the water.

"Let me know if you need anything else," he replies with a wide grin.

Then a guy saunters up behind Ian and clasps his shoulders, and Ian turns to start up a conversation with him. I shout-whisper my approval in Courtney's ear. "I like him. He seems nice." I leave out the "hot" part, since Courtney might get all possessive on me. She's weird like that. She always asks if I think her man is hot, but if I agree with her, then she thinks I want him.

"Yeah, he'll do," she returns with a sassy smirk, "for now."

"Oh, that's nice."

She spreads her hands to the side and smiles. "Well, you know me."

"Unfortunately, yes."

She drops her jaw, acting offended.

Then I shake my head and shrug.

Some friendships make sense; some don't. Courtney and I don't make any sense, but history explains our connection. Courtney has been best friends with Chloe Preston for years, and Chloe dated my brother Landon several summers ago. Their middle school romance didn't last long, but Chloe and I formed a close friendship. And being besties with Chloe means being friends with Courtney.

Now, Chloe Preston gets my total respect. For starters, the girl can really move on the court. She may lack finesse, but she makes up for it with effort. Back in middle school, back before we had drinking parties every weekend, Chloe, Courtney, and I used to play H-O-R-S-E at Rob Callahan's house. Rob, Courtney's next-door neighbor and Chloe's boyfriend, had the go-to house in middle school—basketball net, huge pool, and the cookie-baking, glass-of-lemonade kind of mom.

When we played H-O-R-S-E, Courtney would get out with five consecutive misses. We'd all crack up when she got "HO" because, even back in middle school, she was, well, a bit of a slut. Chloe, however, would hang in there, always celebrating with each basket. Then Rob and I would duke it out, and every once in a while, he would actually beat me.

Those were the good years of friendship, the simpler years. That was when I could be friends with Courtney and not wonder why. Now I wonder why, adding it to all the things that don't make sense in my life.

I take a sip of water and watch as Ian turns back around. His friend, about my height and decent looking, moves next to me. "So what's your name?"

"Callie."

He nods. "My name's Doug. That's 'god' spelled backwards..." He pauses to wink. "...with 'u' all wrapped up in me."

My mouth pops open. "You did not just say that!"

He starts chuckling. "Ah, I'm just kidding with you."

"Good."

Doug eyes my water. "So...can I get you a real drink?" His voice drops lower as he slides closer to me. Then I realize his age—probably early twenties.

"Nah, I'm good." I take another sip of water.

"You live 'round here?"

"Nope."

"On vacation?"

"Something like that."

"How long?"

"A few days." I shrug. "Maybe longer."

"That's good." Doug inches closer. "Real good." He rests a hand on my shoulder, and it slides slowly down my bare arm. "You having a good time?"

"Um...I just got here."

"Yeah, I know." He grins. "I saw you walk in." He leans in closer. "I mean, what guy wouldn't notice a girl like you?"

I freeze, not sure what to say. I lift my water bottle, about to take another sip, when the crowd shoves me toward Doug. Water trickles down my tank top and pools in my bra. Doug steadies me by sliding a hand across my lower back.

"It's really crowded in here," I shout. "And loud."

"Yeah, you wanna' go somewhere else?"

"Um..." I glance above the crowd, searching for Courtney and Ian.

Doug leans in closer, his arm resting across my back and his hand cupping my waist. "Like my bedroom?" His suggestion slides out with his beer breath. "That way we could get to know each other...better." His hand moves under my tank top and his fingertips trickle across my skin. "Know what I'm saying?"

"Uh...no...I mean yes...but no." I turn and search for Courtney. "I need to find my friend."

"Okay, but don't go too far," he begins with a low snicker, "or I'll have to find you."

I bolt from his grasp and start searching for Courtney and Ian. I holler "excuse me" to an unyielding mass of partiers, but no one seems to notice, or move, for that matter. I squeeze through the sweaty bodies and feel a sudden urge to take a long, hot shower. As I glide through the family room, some random guy grabs my butt. I turn to say something, but he and his moronic friends just laugh, so I narrow my eyes and mouth an expletive. When I open the sliding glass door, I discover Courtney on the porch, pressed up against a wall. Ian's driving his tongue down her throat, and her hands tug at his shirt, exposing his tanned back. Ian and Courtney keep at it, looking like they could do it vertically if given a few more minutes, so I cough to announce my presence. Ian glances in my direction and takes a sudden step back. "Um, we were just...uh..." he begins.

"I know what you were doing. I'm not five, you know?"

He juts out his jaw and nods before he takes a few sips of beer.

I step toward Courtney. "I'm ready to go."

"Why?"

"Because this party sucks."

The door slides open and a few more people add to the head count on the back porch.

"Yeah, it's getting a little out of hand," Ian admits after he chugs the rest of his beer and adds it to the collection on the patio table. "How 'bout we head to the movies?" He glances at his watch. "We could make a midnight showing."

*****

On the way to the car, Courtney tosses me the keys, and I drive to the movies. Ian sits in the back, mostly on his phone, making plans, but occasionally he leans forward and talks to us. He asks me a slew of questions, and even though he's a hormone-controlled guy whose foremost goal is to have hot sex with my friend, I still like him.

Thankfully, I know not to get too attached to Courtney's love interests. She tends to go through boys like a cold sufferer with a box of tissues. Gross, I know, but it totally fits her.

I find a parking space near the front door, and the three of us stroll up to the ticket window, chatting easily. Ian pays for us, and as we head toward the concessions, we meet up with two of his friends. Both of them are taller than Ian. One wears Duke paraphernalia; the other sports the Nike logo.

The Duke fan steps forward and fist bumps Ian. "Hey, man, what's up?"

"Not much." Ian answers. "This is Callie. And, well, you know Courtney."

"Yeah, yeah, how's it going, Val-en-tine?" She rolls her eyes, but she gets it all the time. Guys say the lamest things to her because of her last name—especially on Cupid's favorite holiday.

Then the Duke fan looks at me. "I'm Tommy." Then he gestures at his friend. "And this is Mark."

Mark offers a brief smile.

I nod, manage a half-hearted "nice to meet you," and we advance slowly in line. Tommy starts talking about basketball—some summer pick-up game on Saturdays. "Rex gets back on Wednesday. Kurt is out with his knee. But what about Ry? Will he ever show?"

"Yeah, he'll be there," Ian answers.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I just texted him. He's in."

"Really? What's he doing tonight? Washing his hair? Knitting a sweater?" Mark laughs along with Tommy. "No, I know. He was, uh, out playing bingo with his grandma."

"Dude, don't be such a—"

"What?" Tommy baits Ian. "You can't say it in front of your girlfriend."

"Listen, man, I can say whatever I want—especially to you, but I treat Courtney with respect," Ian returns.

"And that's your first mistake," Tommy returns with a chuckle.

"Speaking of girlfriends, where's yours?" Courtney chimes in.

Tommy shrugs. "Don't know, don't care."

Oh, please tell me Courtney is not trying to set me up with one of these two guys. After all, Tommy represents everything I don't want in a guy, and then there's Muted Mark. We've been hanging out for ten minutes, and he has yet to utter his first word. I half-consider stepping on his toe, just to see if he'll make a sound.

"Even with Ry, we still need a fifth." Tommy glances at Ian, then Mark. "You got any ideas?"

"A fifth? A fifth of what?" Courtney asks. "Gin?"

"No, Court," I say. "They're talking basketball. They need a fifth player."

Courtney eyes light up. "Then why don't you play?"

"Uh, I don't think so."

Ian steps toward me. "Well, you'll be there with Courtney anyway." I consider his logic. "Why not play?"

"Because..." I start.

"Because she's a girl," Tommy finishes.

Courtney's eyes narrow. "So what if she's a girl? She happens to be the best player on the team."

"Yeah, on a girls' team," Tommy taunts back.

"Dude, do you gotta' be such a—" Ian begins.

"Would you like me to fill in the blank?" Courtney sasses back.

Ian puts his hand on Courtney's shoulder, silencing her, and then looks at me. "Callie, could you fill in tomorrow?" He slips in a soft smile. "Please?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Cool." Ian turns back around and advances to the counter. While he orders popcorn and drinks, Tommy scrutinizes me. "What position do you play?"

"Forward."

"Really? I bet I could outscore you two to one. Maybe three to one."

Courtney slides into our conversation. "I bet you couldn't."

"Wanna' wager on that, girlie?" Tommy returns.

"Yeah, I do," Courtney accepts. "How 'bout the loser throws a party and supplies the drinks—and I don't mean Kool-Aid?"

"Yeah, yeah, you're on." Tommy shakes her hand.

Then we all head toward the movie theater, but I lag behind. Courtney slows and keeps pace with me. "I don't have that kind of money, Court."

"Don't worry. You'll smoke him."

I look down. "I don't know."

"Cal?"

"What?"

"I know you don't want to talk about it, but you gotta' get over it. Crap happens, you know?"

"Is that your idea of a pep talk?"

"Yep."

"That's the best you have?"

She shrugs. "Kinda'..."

"Well, you kinda' suck at it."

The corners of her mouth lift into a smile.

"Why are you smiling?" I ask.

"Because you're being mean." She swings an arm over my shoulders. "And I happen to like that side of you."

"I wish my mother felt the same way," I mumble.

"Mothers," Courtney huffs.

"Yeah, you can't live with 'em..." I begin.

"And you wouldn't be alive without 'em," she finishes.

"Oh, crud," I say. "I should have called her when I got here. My mom's probably freaking out right now."

"Text her," Courtney suggests as we walk into the darkened theater. Courtney finds Ian and slides next to him, and I sit at the end and message my mom. I glance down the row: Ian and Courtney are holding hands, sandwiched between three third wheels. My best friends always have boyfriends. But I have only had a few of them, and Mike was my first serious one—and the first guy to ever hurt me. As the previews flash on the screen, I glance at my watch: 11:55 P.M. Mike and I "officially" broke up six hours ago. Sure, it hurt, but it wasn't why I left home.

### 2. Saturday

After a night of restless sleep, I dangle my leg over the side of the bed, trying to convince the rest of my body to get up. If it weren't for the game, I would remain in bed. It's the ideal place to lounge around and feel sorry for myself. But since I need to get in some practice, I get up, find some marginally clean clothes at the bottom of the duffle bag, and then slide into the kitchen for a quick bowl of cereal. Before I head out the door, I write a note to Courtney: Back in an hour.

From Courtney's place, I take a right onto A1A, away from Ponce Inlet, and spot some hoops at a beachside park a few miles up the road. The court, still empty, faces the beach, and I park my car in the open lot. Below, the waves lap at the shore as cars crowd near the dunes and beachgoers set out towels and coolers for the day.

Growing up, Saturdays, if we did not have a game, were for basketball drills, not relaxing at the beach. After we got up and had a quick high-protein breakfast, my dad would take my brothers and me to the sport court behind our house. There, we'd practice shots until we couldn't miss. He would stand behind us, trying to get into our heads, putting words there, and to this day, I never shoot hoops without my dad barking at me.

As I head toward the court, two guys, dishing smack to one another, pass me and take the first net, so I head to the far end of the court. Dropping my duffle bag on the metal bench, I plop down and eye the "competition," but as far as I can tell, their game consists of pushing, shoving, hollering, and an occasional basket.

I lace up my shoes, down some water, and start at the free-throw line. There's no reason to miss an undefended shot. I sink a few easy ones. C'mon, you should be able to do these in your sleep. I move around the key, trying my luck outside the arc. I make the first shot but miss the second. Shoot until you can't miss. I toss up a series of incredible three-pointers as I get comfortable with the shot.

Taking a breather, I turn, noticing the audience behind me; one of the guys flicks a nod of approval. I pretend not to notice and slide my eyes toward the ocean, hoping he doesn't try to start up a conversation. I don't like to talk when I'm in the zone.

Trying different shots, I move in for some easy layups, slide back for a few hooks, and then end with a few more three-pointers. Confident, I call it good and return to the bench. I sit down, lean over, and pull up my shirt a little, swiping the sweat off my face.

"You live 'round here?" a deep voice asks.

I look up and notice a tall, middle-aged man standing in front of me.

"Hi," he says with an overzealous grin. "I'm Coach Adamson, but everyone calls me Shorty. I coach the high school girls' team." He thumbs inland. "And you—with that incredible three-point shot!—would make a great addition."

"Well," I begin, "I don't live here."

"Ah, that's too bad," he says, shaking his head, sadly. "We, uh, lost a few starters last year, you know?"

"Yeah, I understand," I say, thinking about senior recognitions at the basketball banquet and how after losing a few key players, coaches can expect a tougher season during the rebuilding year. Our high school boys' team will definitely feel the loss of my brother Landon, my ex Mike, and a few other top players, so it will be almost impossible for Varsity to advance to State again this year. I take a few sips of water and glance at my watch.

Shorty drops the ball in front of him and then catches it. "What year are you?"

"Senior."

"Well, good luck with your last season—especially the recruiting." He starts dribbling the ball toward the basket. "Go with a good solid program—but one that'll give you the most playing time."

I nod, but I know all this: I started getting scouts at my games in middle school and already have several programs wooing me and waiting for my verbal commitment. I check my watch, realizing that I need to go. I have to swing back by Courtney's place before the game, so I grab my duffle bag off the bench. "Nice to meet you, Coach, and good luck with your season."

"Thanks, you too." He takes a quick shot from the free-throw line and makes it. "Of course, with that three-point shot, you won't need any luck."

"Thanks," I say, feeling a little confidence seep into the mix of emotions. But then again, basketball is my thing, and it rarely fails me.

*****

Courtney decides to drive, so we head to the local park in her convertible, top down, and find an empty parking space between two pick-up trucks. We take the sidewalk, passing picnic tables, tennis courts, and an extensive playground. The kids scamper under a canopy of live oaks. A small boy zips across the sidewalk, nearly plowing into Courtney, and the mother follows with an apology.

Courtney leans over, cupping her hands around my ear. "Children: the most effective form of birth control."

"I agree." I look over at her. "Do you know that I have never even babysat?"

"Me neither."

"Wow, Court," I begin with enthusiasm, "we actually have something in common."

"Yeah, and it only took us five years to figure that out."

I lean closer to her. "I'm afraid to have kids."

"I'm not afraid. I just don't want them...unless my husband wants to be a stay-at¬-home dad."

"And you'll work?"

"No, he'll have to have some trust fund," she corrects. "But do you know what else this means?" I shake my head. "If we don't have kids, when Chloe and Caitlyn are busy being baby factories, you and I can spend our days going to yoga and hanging out in coffee shops. We can be hot trophy wives while they cultivate cellulite and change poopy diapers."

"Do you think we should tell them?"

"No, let them be happy—while they still can!"

We giggle as we come to the end of the sidewalk, and then I plop down onto the bench by the basketball court. Courtney launches toward Ian and joins the group of guys chatting by the fence. I lean over and retie my shoes, trying not to get anxious about being the only girl at this pick-up game. Hadn't I grown up with the pressure of playing hoops with guys? Was I just nervous about playing with mere strangers or over the silly bet that Courtney made? Or did it have to do with—

A pair of pricey high tops parks in front of my worn-out pair. "So you're the sub, huh?"

I tug at the laces one last time and then stand up with an intended "Yeah" and a possible "What's it to you?" But I say nothing—nothing at all. Instead I stare into a pair of light emerald eyes for far too long while this hot guy just smiles back at me. His dark hair and high cheekbones give him a classically handsome look, yet something about his warm smile presents a boyish charm.

"So—I hear you play forward." His eyes narrow as he delivers his question with mock solemnity. "You any good?" Then he holds the serious look for a moment before the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. "But— you can't answer that without sounding conceited, can you?"

Well, I don't have to worry about sounding conceited or anything because I have lost all ability to talk: I just continue to stare at him. This guy, who keeps smiling, belongs on the front cover of a magazine, something like Esquire or GQ. But the catch is, I'm not in the check-out line at Publix, gawking at a digitally enhanced photo of some high-paid model. No, I'm staring at a real guy—one who happens to be breathing and talking, which are things I'm finding difficult to do at the moment.

He steps closer. "You know how to talk, right?"

I nod, which really proves nothing.

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah," I respond in a mouse-voice.

He flicks his head at the court. "You wanna' warm up?"

I nod.

"You don't say much, do you?"

I shrug.

He pushes out a breath. "That's okay. As long as you can play, girl. That's what matters." He glances over at the competition and then leans in closer to me. "'Cause I don't like to lose."

"Me neither," I return, my voice approaching normalcy.

"See, isn't this nice?" He gestures between us. "I talk, then you talk." He suppresses a grin. "It's much better than me talking and you just staring."

I shake my head. "Um, I wasn't staring," I scoff. "I-I-I was just—"

"It's okay." He steps closer, and my heart starts racing, and with his mouth inches from my ear, his words roll out softly, "I don't mind...really, I don't." I catch a whiff of cinnamon before he steps back again.

I swallow down the nervous knot. "It's, um, just that you..." I search for an appropriate excuse—a quick cover. I'm usually fast on my feet. "You look like someone I know—or m-m-maybe we've met before?"

"Hmm." His eyes narrow. "Isn't that some kind of pick-up line?"

"What?" I shake my head. "No."

"Well." He dismisses my objection. "It's not very original, girl." He glances over at the other guys, still leaning on the fence, chatting easily. He returns his attention on me, green eyes smiling. "Well, let's hope your pick-up game is better than your pick-up lines."

"I-I-I wasn't..." I shake my head, exasperated, wishing we could just play—and not talk. His presence has a disastrous effect on my communicative abilities. Right now, I'd rather be giving a speech in front of the entire student body at Riverside High than converse with this green-eyed specimen of hotness.

Yet no matter how badly I fail at the art of conversation, he continues to grill me with questions: "You're friends with Courtney, huh?"

"Yeah...why?"

"Nothing, really." He shrugs. "You just don't seem much like her."

"Thank you for noticing." I return, almost sounding like myself.

"I meant that in a good way."

"And that's how I took it." I grab the ball from his hands and slide onto the court, trying to get away from the green-eyed hottie. With my mind still stuck in the previous conversational disasters, I try to figure out what I should have said differently. I pass the mid-court line and head toward the basket. I drop the ball, dribble a few times, and then slide the ball onto my hip. Really, I don't know why I'm acting like this. I should have been more convincing with that you-remind-me-of-someone line. That's where I went wrong. I should have—

Mr. Green Eyes saunters over and snatches the ball from my hands. "Since you're not using this..." He slides back and steps outside the arc. "I will show you how it is done." He aims for the net. Flawlessly, his body springs into the air, and the ball falls right into the net.

Ian and the two guys from the movies last night slide onto the court. "Suh-woosh!"

Then he glances at me with a grin and jabs a finger into his chest. "By the way, that's what they call me."

Swoosh, I repeat in my head, wondering what his mother calls him. I figure one of the guys will call him by his Christian name—or I can ask Ian about it later. Then I realize it doesn't really matter. This guy, with the perfect shot and gorgeous green eyes, doesn't need to have a name. I should just forget him, just like he will forget me in an hour. My mind needs to be on the game and what I do best.

"Hey, let's start warming up," Swoosh announces, and Mark, who rebounded the ball, returns it to Swoosh. He catches it and passes it over to me. "Now show us what you got, girl?"

"'Kay." I bounce the ball a couple times and aim at the net. My mind is not on the shot, though, but on this green-eyed guy and his cocky attitude. Why would he say that stuff to me? The ball leaves my hands. Did he really think I was hitting on him? The ball banks the backboard, circles the rim, and then goes out. Crap. I push out a breath as Ian retrieves the ball. He starts dribbling toward us, and Tommy, the Duke fan from the movies last night, starts cracking up.

"What?" Swoosh baits. "You never miss a shot?"

"Not from where she's standing."

"Really?" Swoosh curls his finger and points to the ground where I had been moments before. Then Ian passes the ball to Tommy, and Tommy advances to the spot and—this is the absolute best part!—he misses the basket completely. I shake my head and smile.

Then Swoosh rebounds the ball and passes it over to me. "C'mon, girl, try again."

"Awright," I say and line up at the free-throw line. Okay, Callie, stop thinking about him. He's just a guy—and a very conceited one at that. You would never have a chance with him, but you do have a chance at making this shot. Just think: eighty-nine percent free-throw percentage. What's one more? I lift the ball and let confidence take the next shot—nothing but net! Swoosh retrieves the ball and tosses it back to me. I make six more shots and then glance over my shoulder at Tommy. "You worried?"

"Not at all."

I slide back, stepping outside the arc, and make a quick jumper. Swoosh retrieves it and passes me the ball. I catch it, pivot quickly, and toss it to Tommy. "Well, you should be." Then I saunter across the court, needing some water. Copping an attitude makes me thirsty.

*****

With the game underway, I learn the skill level of each guy. Ian is real team player, often rebounding and passing the ball rather than making the shot himself. Tommy earns ball-hog status; he tends to shoot even when he doesn't have an open shot. This may be his nature or the fact he doesn't want to lose the bet to Courtney. Mark, the mute guy from the movies last night, plays a decent game of defense, keeping the other team's lead scorer outside the lane. Swoosh is not only the best player but he also runs the team, shouting calls all over the court.

We break at half, and I slide over to the bench, taking a seat next to Courtney, who is actually painting her nails at the game. I nudge her. "You watching the game at all?"

"Nope." Then she lifts up a hand, curling her bright pink nails and blows on each digit. "You beating Tommy?"

"Only because someone," Tommy enters our conversation, flicking his head at Swoosh, "won't give me the ball."

"'Cause you don't know what to do with it," Swoosh counters.

"You think you're so damn good."

"Not think...I know."

"Yeah, then what about last season?"

Ian puts a hand on Tommy's shoulder. "Don't start."

"No, go ahead," Swoosh encourages. "Say it, Tommy."

"I don't have to, man. Papers said it all. It's all right there in black and white. Stats don't lie." Tommy slides back onto the court and starts popping a few lay-ups.

I pretend not to be listening, not wanting to get in the middle of something that has nothing to do with me. I check my laces, still tight, then I grab my water bottle and chug it down, nearly draining it. I place it back into my duffle bag. Then Swoosh walks over, crouching down in front of me. "Good first half, girl."

"Not good enough. We're still down by eleven."

"I'll get you the ball more."

"You don't have to," I return. "I can get it myself."

"Yeah, I don't doubt that," he begins with a low chuckle, "but Ian told me 'bout the bet, and I wanna' make sure you win." He taps the outside of my thigh. "C'mon, let's do this." Then he stands up, and I follow him onto the court, feeling the sensation of where his hand actually touched my skin.

I crouch down as the second half begins. Swoosh gets the tip-off and passes me the ball. I rush the net for an easy deuce. We dominate the opening minutes of the second half, and the other team loses their double-digit lead. True to his word, Swoosh passes me the ball more. He sets me up for a great shot, just outside the three-point line. I eye the basket and let it go. The ball soars into the air, perfect arc, and falls right into the net. He rushes over with a smile and a hand in the air. I high-five him back. With energy flowing, we start working the court. He either finds me, or I find him. The other guys stand around like extras on a movie set as we commandeer an impressive comeback. We end up losing by two, but at least it's not a total disgrace.

After the game, I slide back to the bench and plop next to Courtney. I lift my water bottle and drain the last few drops. Then Swoosh strolls over and hands me a full bottle of water. "Here you go." He smiles warmly. "I always pack extras."

"Thanks." I chug down some cool water, feeling refreshed after a tough second half.

"So—" He steps in closer, eyeing my school's practice jersey. "You play for Riverside?"

"Yep." I lean over and start untying my laces. "Where do you go to school?"

"Spruce Creek."

"You guys had a rough season, huh?"

"Yeah," he begins, his voice weakening, "did you read about it?"

"No." I shrug innocently. "I just overheard you and Tommy talking about it."

"Then you don't know what happened," he pauses, like he has to choose his words carefully, "to our team last year?"

"Nah." I shake my head, admitting, "I don't read about local sports unless it's an article about my team."

"That's a good policy as long as you're having a decent season." He pauses. "Didn't your guys' team go to state two years in a row? You had the Williams brothers, right? You know either of 'em?"

I smile at the ground. "Yeah, I know 'em."

Courtney giggles. "Very, very, very well."

"Oh, I get it. You date one of them or something?"

"No, that would be gross." I look up. "And probably illegal in most states."

"Huh?"

"They're my brothers."

"No wonder," he starts with a deep laugh. "And don't let this go to your head, Miss Williams, but I've never seen a girl hit threes like you."

Mark places a hand on Swoosh's shoulder. "You ready to go, man?"

"Yeah, I'll be right there," he tells Mark and then faces me again. "It was nice to meet you," he pauses to smile, "Miss Williams."

I bite down on my lip. "You can call me Callie...by the way."

"Okay." He juts a hand in my direction, and I stand to receive his warm handshake. "It was nice to meet you, Miss Callie Williams."

I pump his hand, unable to tame the smile plastered across my face. "And it was nice to meet you, uh...?"

"Ryan."

"Ryan...uh?"

He leans in a little, chuckling softly. "Hmm, I don't think we know each other well enough to be on a last-name basis."

I roll my eyes and shake my head.

"So—I'll see you around, Miss Williams," he says as heads down the sidewalk.

"If you're lucky," I retort.

He offers a quick smile over his shoulder and then jogs down the sidewalk, catching up to Mark and leaving me alone with Courtney and Ian.

"Good game," Ian says. "Tommy only sunk a few, but you scored a ton of points!"

"I knew you could do it." Courtney smiles at me. "Which means the party will be at Tommy's house tomorrow night!" She raises her arms in victory; her sparkly pink nails catch the sunlight and glisten.

I drop my shoes into my duffle bag and slip into some flip flops. "Yeah, well, you're welcome, Courtney."

"Thanks, buddy." Courtney nudges me; then remembering something, she adds, "Oh, and guess what?"

"What?"

"I know somebody who likes you," she taunts in a sing-songy voice.

"Who?"

"Guess?"

"Um..." I narrow my eyes at her. "You?"

"C'mon, be serious." She leans in closer to me, playfully shoulder-nudging me. "He was asking Ian all about you."

"Really?"

Ian confirms it with a nod, and I turn toward the parking lot and watch Ryan slip into Mark's pick-up truck. Yesterday marked the low point of my life, but today, with meeting Ryan, things are looking up. Well, not too far, I decide. Ryan is barely over six-feet tall, but every inch of him is gor-geous.

"Yeah, and he wants to take you out," Courtney adds.

"When?" My heart races with the thought of going on a date with him. Conceited or not, I could get lost in those green eyes...and wavy hair...and warm smile...

"Tonight."

My heart begins to race. "Okay, but I barely know him. I mean, I barely said anything to him." All I did was stare at him. Apparently he didn't mind, but then I start to wonder and the pieces don't fit together. How could he ask Ian about me when I was standing right there the whole time?

"Didn't you talk to him for a while last night?" Courtney's question answers my query, draining the excitement and filling me with disappointment.

"Oh, you're talking about Doug," I say.

"Yeah," Ian answers. "Why? Who'd you think we were talking about?"

"Tommy," I cover with a laugh and sling my duffle bag over my shoulder. We head toward the parking lot, and I trail behind Courtney and Ian. They hold hands and chat about their plans for the day. I slip into the convertible and hear him say, "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. You know that, babe?" They tongue a little, and he groans with delight and recharges her ego. Then she opens the car door, and he tosses a quick "love you." It goes unreturned, and then I am back at prom night.

I see a flash of Mike and me, and tears prick my eyes. I turn toward the window as the penultimate segment of life's regret reel plays in my mind. It was four months ago, and we had the after-prom party at Courtney's beach house—complete with copious amounts of liquor and no adult supervision. Mike snuck into the front room, the one I'm staying in now, and I figured we would do it, and maybe I wanted to have sex with him, but I also wanted him to say something—something about how much he loved me. Those words, after all, could justify our actions, but he said nothing, not even after he finished. He never said anything. He just rolled over and pulled the covers with him and fell right asleep. But I stayed awake, shivering with the chill of realization, and still, at night, I cuddle with deep regret until I fall asleep.

"Are you going to answer me?" Courtney asks.

"Uh...what was the question again?"

She doesn't repeat it; she just asks another one. "Having a Mikey moment?"

"Yeah," I admit softly.

"He's going to haunt you until you move on."

"It's not that easy, you know?"

But she doesn't. "Doug likes you. Go out with him."

"No, he's a total loser. I mean, seriously, Court. The guy is old, probably in his twenties, and he's still trolling parties for high school girls."

She exhales loudly. "You don't have to like him, Cal. Just let him take you out and get your mind off Mike. Off everything."

I fold my arms across my chest. "I'd rather be alone."

"No, you wouldn't, Cal." Courtney says, pulling up the driveway. We climb out of the car and then she sidles up next to me. "Being alone gives you time to think, and really, you need to stop thinking about everything. You're at the beach. It's the last week of summer vacation before our senior year, and we are supposed to be having fun!"

I mock her. "Woo-hoo! Yippee, skippy!"

She hits me in the head with her purse. "Go shower. You and your attitude stink!"

*****

After taking a marathon shower, I find some wrinkled clothes in the bottom of my duffle bag: a basketball camp T-shirt and some gym shorts. I collapse on the bed and shut my eyes, drifting off to sleep for a few minutes. Hunger wakes me, and I emerge into the family room, finding Courtney and Ian on the couch doing what Courtney does best with guys. I cough, obnoxiously loud, and head into the kitchen for something to eat.

Courtney meets me in the kitchen with concern. "You can't wear that to the beach."

"It's all I have with me, Court."

"You didn't pack a bathing suit?"

"Nope," I reply and grab a granola bar. "I was at basketball camp, remember?"

"Then we need to go shopping."

"But I don't have..." I don't finish because money is something I used to have. I never wanted for anything, and my parents used to give me an allowance just for living under the same roof as them.

"You know," she starts quietly, "money is the one thing my bio dad has always given me." She frowns momentarily and then recovers with a smile. "So—let's go shopping. There are plenty of shops along A1A. Plus..." She flicks her head at Ian. "He's probably tired of seeing me in the same old bikinis."

I shake my head. "But I don't expect you to—"

"You would do the same thing for me," she says softly and then gets Ian's attention. "Yoo-hoo, sexy boy." Ian turns his attention from the TV. "You want to go shopping with us?"

"Uh, probably not."

"We'll be trying on skimpy bikinis," she adds with a zealous grin.

"Then, hell yeah!"

*****

A couple hours later, Ian drops off our loot at his truck, and then we walk down A1A in our new sundresses—Courtney in red, and me in pale yellow. Ian walks between us, and then drapes his arms over our shoulders. "You know what?"

"What?" Courtney asks.

"I'm one hellava' lucky guy."

"Yeah, you got that right!"

Courtney turns toward him, taking all of his attention, and then I am alone, walking on the edge of the sidewalk. Cars whiz by me—like everyone's in a rush to get to the next place, coming and going, never stopping for that long. And that was me. I kept going to basketball practice, parties, and out with Mike, never thinking about what was happening around me. I kept going, and going, until Friday night. Then everything stopped, and I couldn't do anything but face the truth. Well, I faced it alright; then I ran from it and landed at the beach.

"Hey, let's grab some lunch," Ian says, thumbing at a burger joint. "I'm starving."

We duck into the restaurant—one that does not enforce the standard rule: "No shirt. No shoes. No service." Shirtless guys and bikini-clad girls mill around the place, and the floor, covered with sticky soda and sand, glues my flip-flops into place. When we reach the counter, Ian buys our lunch; then we find a booth near the back.

"Thanks for the food," I say before I sink my teeth into a grease-dripping burger.

"No problem."

As Courtney leans in and kisses his cheek, a girl, dressed in a silver bikini top and frayed jean shorts, walks up to our table. "What's up, Ian?"

"Not much, Vicki. What's up with you?"

"Just on my way down to the jetty." She rests a hand at the end of our table. "Haven't seen you 'round much this summer."

"Been busy."

Vicki eyes Courtney. "Yeah, I can see." Then she tucks a strand of bleached blonde hair behind her ear. "So—where's Ryan?"

My heart alights at the mention of his name, but I pretend not to care. Instead I focus on eating, one catsup-drenched fry at a time.

"I dunno," Ian returns.

"Oh, c'mon. I know you talk to him."

"So?"

"So—" she begins with a whine, "tell him to call me."

"If I see him, I'll tell him." Ian returns, and I eye Vicki—blonde and voluptuous—and wonder if Ryan likes girls like her. Or girls like me. I dip a fry in my ketchup and swirl it around, thinking she would probably win that contest. Sluts always do.

I pop the fry into my mouth and look back up at her. "Chris Hendrick's parents left on vacation this morning, you know? So—that'll be the place to party all week."

"Yeah? Where does he live?" Ian wonders.

Vicki starts lining up an empty fry box and the salt and pepper shaker. "He lives at the other end of Ponce—right between the pink house and that huge one that just went up for sale." She lifts the fry box, which represents the huge house, and I feel like I'm listening to a toddler tell a story.

Ian nods. "Yeah, I know which one it is." He flicks his head at Courtney. "Her place is just up the road from there."

"You live on the beach?" Vicki asks.

"Yeah, we have a place here," Courtney pauses, loving to expose her family's net worth, "but we live in Riverside."

"Yeah, I dated a guy from Richside once." Her eyes float upward. "Total jerk." She tells us his name, but it doesn't register with either of us. "So—I'll see you at Chris's house then." Vicki looks at Ian. "But don't come without Ryan, and tell him I'll make sure he has a really, really good time." She turns and bounces off, and then Ian shakes his head. "I don't know what girls see in that boy." Then he eyes me. "Do you?"

My eyes widen. "Um, what...who?"

"Ryan...that guy you met this morning?"

"W-w-what about him?"

Ian's broad smile cuts into his cheeks.

"What?" I ask.

Ian just leans back, his hands behind his head, resting in the satisfaction pose. "Callie likes Ryan."

"No, I don't," I reply.

"Okay." He leans in with a smile. "I'll tell him."

"No, don't tell him that."

Ian rests his elbows on the table. "Why not?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Because I don't even know the guy."

"But it only takes a few seconds to make a first impression. What was your first impression?"

"Of you? I thought you were nice. Of course first impressions can be very wrong."

"You're changing the subject." He smirks. "Don't worry. I won't tell him, but I'm sure he can figure it out for himself."

"There's nothing to figure out."

"Yeah...uh-huh." He leans back, teasing.

I toss a fry at him, one, then another, until he crosses his arms in self-defense. He begins to laugh and Courtney answers her cell.

Ian leans in. "If you like him..." My mouth pops open, ready to dismiss his statement, but Ian just holds up a hand. "You'll have to get him to open up." Ian pauses, like he has to select his words carefully. "He's been through a lot." He leans back. "But that's all I should say."

I nod, wondering if someone could say the same thing about me, or any of us. Being a teenager only looks fun on those ridiculous Disney shows. Reality is this: Having fun is just temporary relief from the incessant pain.

We finish up lunch, and then we waste an hour down on the strip and out on the boardwalk, mingling with the tourists. We stop to take some candids on our phones before heading back to the beach house. Ian leaves for work, but Courtney and I change into our new swimsuits and take up residence on the beach, lying out until the ocean swallows the sun.

*****

With tender, sun-kissed skin and a belly full of Chinese food, Courtney and I relax on the couch, waiting for Ian to get off work. Courtney has on a white tank and a jean skirt, but I'm wearing a grey basketball camp T-shirt and a pair of plaid boxer shorts. The clock nudges toward ten, and I produce an obnoxiously loud yawn. "Where you heading tonight?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Not sure, but Doug always knows where to find a party."

"Well...have fun." I say, grabbing the remote off the coffee table.

"You sure you won't come?"

"Positive." I pause. "I need to stay home and do laundry."

"Doug's not that bad, you know?"

"I'm not interested."

"'Cause of Ryan?"

"No," I return evenly.

"Ryan's good friends with Ian." She inches closer. "So I could find out if he likes you." She swings an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into her.

My eyes narrow into a dire warning. "Don't."

"I'll be subtle."

"You don't know the meaning of subtle."

Her eyes shift left. "Yeah, I do. It means obvious, blunt..."

The doorbell chimes, and she rushes to answer the door. I trail her with "Don't say anything, okay? I'm not interested in Ryan. He's so full of himself. I couldn't stand being around him for more than five minutes."

She ignores me as she swings opens the door.

Doug and Ian step inside the tiled foyer, and Ian eyes me. "Aren't you coming with us?"

I shake my head as Doug slides next to me, his cologne filling the space. "Why not?"

"I'm too tired," I return with another yawn. "I just want to go to bed." The words slip out before I can retract them, and Doug slides closer like he's magnetized by my ill-placed, sexual euphemism. "I meant that I just want to go to sleep...alone," I correct quickly.

"You can sleep all you want," he pauses to grin, "tomorrow. Because you'll need to rest after what I'm gonna' do to you tonight."

My face contorts with disbelief. Horny high school guys don't even talk like this. How does this guy function in society? My hand forms a fist, and I raise it up to show him my utter dislike for his unwelcomed advances.

"Well, Doug," Courtney begins with a wink at me, "you're just so subtle." She kindly pulls Doug out the door and away from punching radius. "Oh, and don't wait up, Mom."

"I won't." I shut the door and head into the kitchen. I fill a glass with water, still trying to get hydrated after the morning's game, and then I stroll into the bedroom. I climb under the cool, cotton sheets and turn on my right side, facing the wall. My phone rings on the night stand. I pick it up, noting the caller. "What do you want?"

"Is that any way to talk to your favorite brother?"

"Wait, is this Grant. I'm sorry I thought it was Landon."

"You're mad at me, huh?"

"Don't take offense, Lan. I'm mad at everyone."

He waits a moment. "Mom's worried about you."

"So?"

"So." He tosses back. "You and mom get into it, and then you rush off to the beach. And now you're staying with Courtney Valentine. She's a cool girl and all, but come on, she's not exactly the best influence on you."

"Oh, but Mike was."

"Listen, I don't condone what Mike did, but it's not like he—"

"So you're on his side?" I ask incredulously. "And you're on Mom's side. But you're not on my side." I keep going. "Big brothers are supposed to watch out for their little sisters, but you're too busy kissing up to everyone else."

"Cal, I—"

"Save it, Landon."

"So you're just gonna' stay there and party all week?"

"Yep."

"If I didn't have practice in the morning, I'd come and get you myself."

"Well, that's just too bad, isn't?"

He pauses. "Are you at least getting out on the court? Are you practicing at all?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" He scoffs. "It isn't some joke, Callie. You got scholarships to think of—you got your future on the line. Don't screw this up, sis."

"I don't need you lecturing me."

"Well, too bad. Somebody has to do it. Dad checked out years ago, and you left Mom frantic with an apartment to pack all by herself."

"Like I wanna' pack up all our stuff, so we can move to Tennessee right before my senior year."

"It's for the best, Cal."

"Not for me, Landon," my voice quivers. "Not for me."

"You'll be up here in another year anyway."

"Says who? I haven't given a verbal, you know?"

"It'd be easier on Mom to have us all together."

"I don't really care if it'd be easier on Mom. She hasn't made my life easy."

"She's your mother, and she's really the only parent you have left."

"Dad still calls."

"What? To tell you how great his new life is?"

"He's not that bad, you know?"

"You'll defend him—the guy that left Mom with a huge mortgage payment and three kids to raise?"

"Well, at least he taught us how to play ball?" I gather up some anger. "What did Mom ever teach us, huh?"

"Everything else." He pauses. "Everything else, Cal."

His truth gets to me, but I ignore it. "I don't care. She's ruining my life. And I'm so upset about it. I haven't told anyone. Not Courtney. Not Chloe. No one. You hear me! No one!" I swallow the impulse to cry.

"Your friends will get over it."

"No, they won't," I defend.

"Everything changes after high school," his voice softens. "You'll see."

"You got to finish your senior year here. It's only fair that I get to do the same!"

"Mom already took the job, Cal."

"So? She can un-take it."

"Yeah, right. Just grow up and go home."

"No!"

"Don't be a spoiled brat!"

"Then don't be such a—" I swallow the words, knowing it'll get us nowhere. Landon and I have been down this road many times. Before the divorce, our parents showed us how to shout hatred at the top of our lungs. It was their lasting legacy.

"What?" he chides.

"Nothing, Landon."

"Go home," he urges again.

"I will," I pause, "when I'm good and ready."

"That's not fair to Mom, Cal."

"Well, life's not fair," I say, collapsing on the bed. "And I'm looking out for myself right now. I don't care about any of you anymore."

"Really, Cal? You're acting like a selfish little bi—"

I click the "end" button, thinking he'll get the message, and then my phone buzzes with a text:

Mike Erickson: u there

I stare at his name, remembering how I used to feel every time he called or texted me. Now I am annoyed, and hurt, and angry. I decide to edit his profile, and therefore, will feel much better the next time he messages me.

Big Fat Colossal Jerk: pick up cal

Big Fat Colossal Jerk: miss u

Big Fat Colossal Jerk: luv u

Now I know when a guy thinks about "luv": in a moment of desperation. I turn my phone to mute and place it on the end table, knowing a wonderful way to get my mind off Mike, off of everything. And in the same room where I lost my virginity, I shut my eyes and flip over onto my side. I conjure up a gorgeous face with soft green eyes. I imagine him, not talking, just standing shirtless on the beach...

### 3. Sunday

Knock. Knock. Ding-dong. Knock. Knock. Knock. Ding-dong. The cacophonous "Front Door Overture" ends my night of sleep, and after a few melodious movements, I give up on Courtney answering it. I shuffle into the foyer, grumble-mumbling, but my attitude changes when I see the smiling face pressed against the glass.

I swing open the door. "Wow, this is a surprise!"

"I know. Isn't it great?" My good friend Chloe enters, smiling, and pauses to hug me. Her blonde curls thrive in the humidity, and even without a trace of make-up, she exudes natural beauty. Her boyfriend Rob follows behind her; he skips the hug and just grins at me, his dimples sinking into his cheeks.

"Shouldn't you guys be at church?" I ask.

"We went to the early service," Rob answers, and Chloe adds, "Yeah, the very, very early service. We were, like, the only people there who were not alive during the Hoover administration."

"Yeah, I get it," I say with a smirk, trying to run through the president song in my head.

Rob glances at his watch. "But we have to get back for youth group—which means we'll leave in five hours and about twenty-five minutes."

"And how many seconds, Rob?" Chloe gibes.

Rob just frowns, yet I produce a soft laugh.

Rob and Chloe have this strange dynamic. It must come from growing up together, almost as close as siblings, which means they know the best ways to annoy one another.

"I wish you guys could stay longer," I say.

Chloe echoes my sentiments. "Me too." She thumbs at Rob. "But Mr. Responsibility says we have to go to youth group tonight."

Rob runs his fingers through his dark auburn hair. "Since when is responsibility a bad thing?"

"When," Chloe begins, narrowing her pale blue eyes at him, "it interferes with girl time."

"Fine, Chlo." He sighs. "Then we'll just skip it tonight."

"No, no, Rob," Chloe begins, "that wouldn't be right either."

He shakes his head. "See, Callie, I can't win, can I?"

"No, you can't," I remind him—as if he already didn't know.

Rob heads over to the couch and gets acquainted with the remote control; Chloe and I move into the kitchen, leaning on opposite counters.

"How are you doing?" Chloe asks.

"Better...now that you're here."

"Sorry about Mike," she offers with sweet sincerity.

"Yeah, well, I'm over it."

"Hmm," she begins, "sometimes it helps to get away from everything." Chloe smiles slightly, and I know she understands. After the rape, she ran off to her grandmother's house in Kentucky. She left everything—including Rob—for nearly a month.

I move closer to her. "And how are you doing?"

"The truth?" She glances over her shoulder at her ESPN-watching boyfriend. "We had a rough morning."

"Why? What happened?"

Her eyes drift toward Rob again.

"You wanna' talk outside?" I ask quietly.

We slip through the family room and head out the sliding glass door. I sit down on a chaise lounge on the patio and pat the other side of the chair. Chloe takes the seat next to me.

"So what's going on?" I ask.

"Rob and I fought the whole way here."

"About?"

"About something our pastor said."

"Really?"

She nods. "Pastor Mark was preaching on forgiveness and letting go of the past. And Rob took it as a cue to discuss everything." She turns and looks at me with sad eyes. "So for the entire ride here, we had the same wonderful conversation we used to have—the one we always had before I left for Kentucky." She pauses and turns completely toward me. "Cal, he still wants to talk about what happened, and I just want to forget it. And he won't let it go. He says he feels like he can't love me, all of me, if there is a part of me that he doesn't know. And I keep telling him: I want him to love me for the things I have chosen, not for the things I have not." She looks down, twisting the Claddagh ring. Rob gave her the family heirloom for her seventeenth birthday. "I know we'll be okay. It's just so hard right now. I don't want to fight with him, but I'm not ready to talk about it either."

I put my arm around her and draw her closer to me. Her head falls to my shoulder, and I know Rob is behind the sliding glass door. He is the audience of one, watching the silent movie. "He means well, Chlo."

"I know, but..." She pauses and glances back at her boyfriend. "It's just that..."

"It would be easier to talk if he weren't right behind us," I finish.

She taps the glass and waves goodbye to Rob, and we take the short walkway down to the beach, finding a wide expanse of sand where birds outnumber the people. We amble along the water's fluctuating edge, chatting about nothing for a few moments, until I broach the topic again. "Have you tried to tell him how you feel?"

"No," she pauses, "I just say, 'I don't want to talk about it.'"

"You know what? We should create a T-shirt that says that." I gesture across my chest. "I don't want to talk about it!"

"Yeah," Chloe agrees. "We could get it in lots of different styles and colors because I could wear it every day."

"My mom is the worst."

"Yeah, mine too," Chloe agrees. "Just this morning, my mom fixed me a bowl of cereal with 'Is everything okay, dear? Is there anything you want to talk about?'"

"That's why I avoid my mom at all costs," I blurt out. "She's going to therapy, like, ten times a week, and then she tries to use it all on me."

"I hate therapy."

"But you still go, right?"

Chloe sighs. "Yeah."

"Does it help?"

"A little," she admits softly, "but I just hate how they dig inside you and pull it all out of you. Therapists are like pirates searching for buried treasure. Arrgh, matey." She steps forward, winks, and wavers a fist in the air.

I start to laugh.

"Yeah, it's total torture," she begins, "like Chinese water torture. Just put someone in a room with a therapist, asking 'And how does that make you feel?' over and over and over again." She steps in front of me, her blue eyes like saucers. "I want to get into my therapist's face and ask her, 'And how does that make you feel?'"

"I dare you to do it," I tease since our friendship has always contained a truth-or-dare element to it.

"Nah," she begins. "I just give the therapist exactly what she wants to hear, so she'll tell my parents what they want to hear. I don't want to badmouth therapy, but all I need is time, which is something I don't have," she pauses, exhaling deeply, "especially with Rob."

I press, "Have you asked him to stay—to go to school around here rather than Georgetown?"

She shakes her head, sadly. "I can't. If he stayed, then he would probably resent me for giving up his dream. If he didn't stay, then I would feel..."

"Rejected?" I fill in.

"Bingo," she says, turning toward me. "It's so easy to talk to you, you know that?" She pauses, spreading her hand across the air. "A true friend is better than therapy."

"That would go nicely on a coffee cup."

"With a T-shirt and a cup, we're in business, my friend," she adds with an adorable laugh. We stroll on, the sun climbing in the morning sky on a ladder of wispy clouds, and I am so glad she is here. She is the most sincere of all my friends—like a little slice of genuine in a pie of fakeness.

I walk closer to her. "Seriously, Chlo, you and Rob will be okay."

"I hope so."

I drape an arm around her shoulders. "I know so, and it's because of what you have."

She lifts her hand, the golden band glinting in the sun. "His family's ring?"

"Yeah, but more than that," I pause. "You two have an amazing love story."

"But even amazing love stories can have bad endings."

"In English class," I return, speaking her language and thinking about Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter or Wharton's House of Mirth from Am Lit last year.

"Yeah, and literature is a reflection of reality. How many books, beyond the fairy tales and formulaic romance novels, end in happily ever after? That's because the great novels of the literary canon paint a truer, albeit more tragic, depiction of love."

"You lost me at 'Yeah, and...,'" I tease.

She slides over for a shoulder shove. "Thanks so much, Cal."

"For the insult?"

"No, for the talk."

"Hey, any time," I begin. "It's cheaper than therapy, right?"

"Oh, yeah." Chloe turns toward me, dipping into the serious zone. "So, uh, how are you doing?"

"Um," I begin with a broad smile. "I don't want to talk about it."

We giggle at our newest inside joke and pivot in the sand, stepping intermittently in our own footsteps as we head back to Courtney's house. We switch to superfluous subjects like music, movies, and the friends who are not here with us, and even though Chloe deserves the truth, I really don't want to talk about my life right now—especially the part about moving to another state, miles from my closest friends. I don't want to tell her because tears—and not laughter—would fill the rest of our day together.

When we enter the beach house, we find Rob in front of the TV, still, and Courtney rising from the couch with a plan. "Okay," she starts, "I was thinking—"

"Ooh, that can't be good," I say, waiting for the gory details.

"We should do a photo shoot." Courtney grabs her phone off the coffee table and drops it in Rob's lap. "You take the pictures while we pose like models. Fun, right?"

"Huh?" comes from the appointed photographer.

"C'mon, Rob." Chloe peels off her sundress, revealing a white bikini, and like magic, Rob Callahan bolts for the door.

We act sexy on the sand.

We act silly in the water.

We waste a half hour before Rob walks up to me, handing me his phone. "Our turn."

Rob slips off his shirt, revealing all his hotness, and we "ooh" obnoxiously at him. "C'mon, Chlo." He takes her hand and guides her into the shallow water. He turns toward her and holds her face. Click. He says something with a soft smile, and she rests her hands on his shoulders. Click. He waits, and she leans in, placing a kiss on his cheek. Click. Slowly, they decrease the distance and settle into a longer embrace. Click. A moment passes, she tilts her head toward him and he meets her with an amazing kiss. Click. I turn the camera and get a vertical shot. Click. I zoom in, taking a close-up. Click.

The moment is beautiful.

I imagine it in black and white, then sepia, and my heart tingles with warmth, and I decide the picture would make a fine cover for a romance novel—one with an exceedingly happy ending. Like the ones you don't read—but dream about—in English class.

*****

Rob and Chloe head down the beach together, and after a few steps, they turn back to wave. I watch them fade into the crowd of sun-worshippers, and then I straighten out my towel and succumb to tanning. I turn toward Courtney. "You think they'll be okay?"

"Yeah...probably."

"Well, you know the situation better than anyone. I mean, you're kinda' besties with both of them."

"Kinda'." She sighs and draws a swirl in the sand between the beach towels. "But I feel like I'm always trying to make things up to her, because when she left, I took his side."

"Yeah, but none of us knew what happened to her. And we all felt bad for him."

"I know, and I was so angry at her. I saw Rob every day. He was a complete mess. But with her gone, it was weird, you know? It was the only time I ever came in first with him. It sorta' felt nice." She pauses. "And I used to be so jealous of her growing up. Always having his attention and all..." She draws a heart in the sand, then erases it quickly. "He was my first crush, but...he always liked her better. It totally sucked."

"Really? I never knew that."

"Because I never told anyone before." She glances at me. "So with her gone, Rob and I got closer. It was kind of like getting a chance to play the part of Chloe for a while." She flips onto her stomach, acting like the conversation should end there.

Uneasiness swells in my stomach. "How close?"

"Forget I said anything," she dismisses and tosses me a bottle of sunscreen. "If you lay out on your back, don't forget to spf your ghostly white abs."

I don't fall for her quick change-of-subject since I can put the pieces together and draw my own conclusion: "You hooked up with Rob, didn't you?"

"Shush, don't be so loud!"

"And that's what worries you? How loud I'm being?"

"No! I'm worried about her finding out!"

I shake my head. "You're unbelievable, Courtney! You know that?" I stand up and then yank my towel off the ground, shaking it, and purposely spraying her with white sand.

Courtney cowers. "Stop it! You're getting sand all over me."

"Oops," I deadpan. "I am so sorry." I slide my foot across the rippled sand and spray her again, getting sand all over her freshly-lathered-with-tanning-lotion legs.

I turn to find Rob and a giggling Chloe ambling toward us. "I can't leave you two alone for ten minutes, can I?" Rob says with a broad smile.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Apparently, no one should be left alone with her."

Rob tilts his head, questioning me, but Courtney rushes to Chloe and then uses her as a human shield.

"Hey," Chloe asks, her eyes widening, "what is going on?"

I narrow my eyes at Courtney. "Slut!"

"You don't know everything."

I step toward her. "I know enough—because I know you!"

Rob slides between us, holding a palm in my direction. "Why don't you go up to the house and calm down, Callie?"

I glare at him for a solid minute before I stomp across the soundless sand.

*****

I march into the front bedroom and start picking up clothes off the floor, and the chair, and the bed, and shove them into my duffle bag. "What a jerk," I mumble, thinking of Rob, but really aiming my words at Mike. Seriously, do all guys cheat? Are they incapable of fidelity? What is the point of being in a relationship if they cannot control their little, uh, urges? I shake my head and rush into the bathroom and slide all my toiletries from the counter into the unzipped bag. I head into the shower and grab my shampoo, conditioner, and razor. When I turn around, I find Courtney, sans sand and wrapped in a fresh towel. "We need to talk."

"I'm not the one you need to talk to."

She steps toward me. "I can't tell her and you know it." She swallows a knot and her eyes fall to the ground. "Because she would never forgive me."

"I wouldn't forgive you either. Heck, he's not even my boyfriend, and look how pissed off I am!" I shove her aside and grab my phone and car keys off the night stand.

"Don't go," she manages.

"I can't stay, Courtney." I cross the room and head toward the door. "And I won't be the one to tell her either." I swallow a horrific flashback before it pervades my mind. "I'll leave that to you and Rob." I put my hand on the door knob. "And I hope to God, you two aren't still..." I turn and face her, realization swelling inside of me. "Or maybe that's what you were doing while she and I were taking a walk, huh?"

"No, we weren't." She walks toward me, pleading. "You have to listen to me, Callie. You have to." I pause, considering her pleas, but I have no desire to hear the details. Sickness swirls in my stomach. "Please," she begs, the word catching in a choppy breath. "I can't tell anyone else...and I sorta' already told you."

"Fine." I drop my duffle bag on the floor. "You have five minutes, but then I'm leaving." We cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed, and she swipes a tear from her face. "It all happened a week after Chloe left for her Grandma's house. Mrs. Callahan called me and asked me to come over to hang out with Rob. She needed to take Riley to an audition and was going to be out of the house for the day." I see where this is headed, but I sit in silence, wanting the confession to be over. "So—when I get there, he was still in bed, sleeping¸ so I crawled under the covers and joined him."

I push out a breath and glare at her. "Do I really need to hear the rest?"

"Yes, you have to understand why this happened."

"I don't see why I have to know anything."

"Who else am I going to tell? Plus, you're good at keeping secrets."

Yeah, I am sort of a vault. After all, I am moving to Tennessee in a week, and I haven't told anyone about it. Who would be able to keep that kind of secret?

"So Chloe had been gone for a week, and I was the only one he would talk to. He thought she may not come back, and if she did, he figured it was over between them." She wrings her hands. "We both thought it was over, but I never knew why she left. He still protected her secret, so I had no idea about the rape yet."

"I can see," I begin, "why you thought it was okay to..."

"Kiss," she finishes. "That's all we did." She sighs. "Because when he woke up and realized it was me in his bed, he freaked out."

"So, let me get this straight, you kissed him while he was sleeping, and when he woke up, he stopped you."

She nods and then drops her face into her palms.

"Oh my goodness! He's a saint!"

"Yeah, tell me something I didn't already know," she mumbles.

I eye her, watching her get up and cross the room. She tilts the blinds and lets the light spill into the room. "Tell me, Courtney, what hurts you more: rejection from one friend or betraying another?"

She stares back at me, her lips pressed into a straight line. A tear slides down her cheek. "I just want what they have. Is that so wrong?"

"Yes." I pause, giving her the disapproval stare. "And you could have had it with Josh. He and Rob are cousins and cut from the same mold. My god, what guy is better than Josh Callahan? His family owns five car dealerships and a ranch that sprawls down the river. Not to mention, he's hot, smart, and genuinely nice."

"Well, I screwed that up."

"You have Ian," I offer.

"Until I mess that up."

"Who knew you could be so self-loathing?"

She shakes her head. "I've had a rough summer."

"Haven't we all?"

"Not Caitlyn," she suggests.

"She dates Brandon Edwards. That's got to be painful."

Courtney imitates Caitlyn's perfect smile. "Not that way she describes it."

I stand up, sigh deeply, and place my hands across my heart. "Brandon is the best boyfriend in the world. Today he let me rub his dry, calloused feet for an hour."

"That is so hilarious, but I can't even laugh right now," Courtney replies evenly. "You think I should talk to Chloe?"

"I don't know." I glance over at her. "What does Rob think?"

"He thinks it would hurt her."

"Then you should wait to tell her¬—wait to apologize, but until then, it'll just be another secret of the Seven Cs, waiting for the right moment to be revealed."

"Hmm," we say in unison, separately thinking of all the secrets we keep in the name of friendship.

*****

We leave the secret behind in the bedroom, enter the kitchen, and encounter two pairs of curious eyes. Chloe remains at the sink, filling a glass full of water, while Rob parks himself at the kitchen bar. Chloe breaks the silence: "What the hell was that all about?"

"Oh." Courtney waves her hand dismissively like swatting at a pesky fly. "It was one of those simple misunderstandings," she begins. "Callie thought I liked some guy that she likes, but I totally don't."

Rob offers a perplexed glance in Courtney's direction while Chloe eyes me. "But why were you angry at Rob?"

"Um," I stall.

Courtney, who excels at the art of deception, steps forward with a quick reply: "Because he got in the middle of our argument."

Chloe nods, slowly, considering all the pieces and putting it together. "Hmm," she says like something doesn't fit.

I take the seat next to Rob at the kitchen bar and offer some truth to the web of lies. "I'm not necessarily mad at him." I thumb at Rob. "But at all guys. Mike has sorta' turned me into a...?

"Misandrist," Chloe offers.

"Sure, Chloe, I don't even know what that word means, but maybe if I did, then I would have scored higher on the verbal part of the SAT."

"But you don't need the SAT, superstar," Courtney reminds me, and then she turns to Chloe. "Are you retaking yours?"

Our conversation splits as Rob leans toward me, whispering, "Did she tell you everything?"

I nod. "Enough to know that it was not your fault."

He pushes out a breath. "What if I," he hesitates, "encouraged her?"

"She doesn't need encouragement. She just needs some integrity."

Rob tries to quell the laughter. "You got that right."

"How do you stand being around her—after what she tried with you?"

"I want things to be as normal as possible for Chloe. I love her," he says, his voice shaking with sincerity, "so I can't hold a grudge against one of her best friends."

I offer him a warm smile, "You're a great guy, Rob."

"If you think that I'm a great guy, then you can't possibly be a misandrist."

I spread my hands to the sides and raise my shoulders. "I don't even know what that word means."

"Sure, you do," he encourages.

"A man-hater?" I query.

Rob nods.

"Maybe I'm more of a skeptic then."

"C'mon, Cal, don't let Mike change you."

I exhale. "It's more than just Mike." I press down the rising truth, almost forgetting myself. I now understand why Chloe has always been so close to him. With his capacity to listen, he encourages the truth.

"Hey," Courtney pipes over our quiet conversation. "I'm starving."

"We could order a pizza," Rob suggests and turns his attention to his phone.

"Nah, I'm sure we can find something to eat here," Chloe counters as she examines the contents of the refrigerator, holding up a bag of wilted lettuce. "Um, just not salad." Chloe shuts the door to the fridge and starts opening the cabinet doors. "Where do you keep food in this place?"

"Food?" Courtney echoes. "Why eat in when you can eat out?"

"Because it saves money," Chloe responds. "Do you realize that eating out costs two to three times as much as eating at home?"

"Oh, my goodness," Courtney begins, "you sound like your dad."

"Yeah, well," Chloe returns, "my dad knows what he's talking about." Chloe's father published a series of books on fiscal responsibility.

"But your dad forgot to include a chapter on connections." She smirks. "When you know people, you get things for free."

*****

The four of us climb into a corner booth at a local pizzeria. Decorated with sports paraphernalia on every wall, I scan the restaurant for high school basketball photos—especially one with a certain green-eyed player. But no such luck. Ryan, whom I just met yesterday, will serve as a perfect diversion from Mike and the move. I do not even need him to like me. I would appreciate a few more encounters, so I can memorize his sexy grin and those gorgeous eyes.

Sure, I could tell Courtney that I'm crushing on him, but I would never admit my real feelings to her. Put it this way, Courtney might have the body of a twenty-something-year-old, but she has the mentality of a child and tends to spread who-likes-who like an evangelical Christian shares the good news of the gospel.

I glance up at my friends, each holding a menu and debating over which pizza to order. I, however, cannot think about food while the earlier conversation replays in my mind. Every detail of Courtney's confession consumes my thoughts, and I cannot imagine any guy turning down her offer. I look over at Rob, his arm gently draped around Chloe's shoulders. He must really love her, I decide. I wish I could tell Chloe—and let her know how lucky she really is.

A white dish tub lands at the end of our table. "I didn't know you were coming in." I look up and find Ian, wearing a hearty smile.

Courtney stands up and greets him with a hug and a kiss. "That's 'cause I wanted to surprise you, baby."

He smiles back at her. "I'll tell the waitress to comp your meal. She's new and might not know you."

"Thanks," Courtney responds and makes quick introductions, telling Ian how Rob and Chloe have to get back for youth group. She says "youth group" with disdain, making it clear that their commitment to church does not please her.

Ian looks at Rob and Chloe. "Too bad you're leaving. We're having a party in Callie's honor tonight."

"And why's that?" Chloe asks, and then Ian fills Rob and Chloe in on the details of how I outscored Tommy in the game. I ignore Ian's retelling, and instead, I think about Ryan and a flutter of excitement crosses my stomach. The thought of seeing him tonight makes me eager for the party. I receive round of high-fives from the table before Ian scoots off with a half-hearted "I better get back to work." Apparently, some family friends own the pizza place, so he works out of a sense of obligation—and for the free pizza.

Courtney's eyes follow Ian back into the kitchen. Then she slides back into the booth and leans across the table. "So Rob, how's Joshua these days?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering," she returns. Since Courtney has dated Josh Callahan, Rob's cousin, off and on for almost five years, she likes to stay current on him and all her men, for that matter.

"He's good. Still the same." He offers a sly smirk. "And apparently so are you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He shakes his head. "Oh, nothing. Nothing at all."

"Whatever," she huffs. "So I like to keep my options open."

"Yeah, 'open' is right," I sneer. "Open for business. 24 hours a day. 7 days a week. Like the 24-hour Walmart...and just as classy."

Courtney shoves me, and I retaliate a little harder. "Hey, don't start with me, Valentine." Then I eye Chloe, twirling a curl around her finger, laughing. As much as I want to tell Chloe how her boyfriend earned saint status earlier in the summer, I know the four of us wouldn't be in this booth if she knew what Courtney offered him. Sure, I hated keeping secrets, but like so many of them, they're kept for a reason.

Soon the waitress shows up, placing a basket of hot garlic rolls in the center, and takes our order. We order a large half-and-half pizza, letting Rob and Courtney name the toppings.

After the waitress leaves, Chloe leans in. "Are you and Ian exclusive?"

"No, I'm still seeing Ricky and—"

"Yeah," I interrupt, "a little here, there, and everywhere."

"Callie, stop it," Courtney returns with a pout. "Can't you pick on someone else—like Caitlyn?"

"No, that's not nearly as much fun," I return.

"Why?" Courtney asks.

Rob leans in, smirking. "Because she's not here...and you're so, uh, easy." He pauses, "Double meaning intended, of course."

Courtney slides down the seat and kicks Rob under the table.

"Ow," he yelps. "That really hurt."

Courtney stirs ice with her straw. "So did your choice of words."

*****

While Courtney remains inside with Ian, I stroll through the afternoon warmth with Rob and Chloe, stopping by a bright yellow jeep. I thank them for coming over for the day, and as Rob opens the car door, I say, "See you on Friday, Rob." Rob's family will be hosting their annual "Goodbye to Summer" party on Friday afternoon.

"I'm so glad you're coming." Chloe smiles, then she nods her head at the restaurant. "I wonder if she'll be there."

"I don't know. She and Ian spend every waking moment together."

"Hmm," Chloe begins, "I think she really likes this guy."

I shake my head. "Who knows?"

"Yeah, probably not even her." Chloe turns and looks at the jeep. "We better get going. One last hug?" I stretch out my arms, accepting the offer. "Callie, I'm sorry I haven't been there for you lately," she admits with a sigh.

"It's okay." I give her a tight squeeze. "I have Courtney."

"I know, but..." She steps back, her expression dipping into the serious zone. "Just remember that she means well and don't take what she says—or does— personally."

"Yeah," I say, wondering how personally Chloe would have taken what Courtney tried with Rob earlier this summer. She climbs into the jeep, and even though I don't pray often, I do so for her. It's what she would want, what she needs. Dear God, I begin, please make things okay for them. They deserve a happy ending. Amen. I don't even think about praying for me or my family because we are all beyond hope—only a miracle would undo all the years of damage.

*****

"I'm going to take a nap," I tell Courtney and head for the front bedroom. While I remain in bed, wide awake, thoughts about the upcoming school year plague me—not even fantasies about a shirtless Ryan can distract me now. Mostly, I worry about the coach and the team and whether I will get any playing time at my new school. This transfer could affect my scholarships and my future.

Didn't my mom consider that?

Or is she just that selfish?

Fuming, I flip over and face the wall. "I hate her," I murmur to myself. "I hate her so much." Hot tears spill down my cheeks and soak into the pillow. I pull up the sheet, cover my head, and curl into a ball. The light leaves the room as the afternoon fades into night, and amidst the anger and sadness, I drift off to sleep.

*****

"Are you ready?" Courtney asks with a series of knocks. "They'll be here any minute."

"Huh?" I say as the pieces slowly fit together. The where and why I'm here starts to come to me, and it reminds me of the first few nights I spent in the apartment. In the morning, I would look up at a yellowed popcorn ceiling and wonder what happened to the whirring fan of my former bedroom—the one I'd had since I was six.

"Hello...anyone there?"

"Yeah, yeah." I flip the covers to the side. "I'm just getting up."

"Seriously!"

"Don't worry." I grab the yellow sundress off a pile of clothes. "It only takes me a few minutes to get ready."

"It better."

"Whatever," I mumble as I reach the bathroom.

I shower quickly and slip into the sundress. I grab my make-up bag and pull out moisturizer, mascara, and bright pink lip gloss. Next, I start on my hair and sweep it into a clip.

Courtney pounds on the door. "They're here. Hurry up!"

"Just a minute!"

I remove the clip and let it hang around my face again. I swivel in front of the mirror, checking out my look. Normally, I wouldn't be that concerned, but Ryan might be here in this house right now, or maybe he plans to meet us at the party. Either way, I want to look my best. I grab the clip off the bathroom counter, wondering if he would prefer my hair up or down. As soon as my hand touches the door knob, she knocks again. I put a snarl on my face and open the door. "Seriously!" I begin, but as I look up, I see Ian instead.

"Um, I was, uh..." he stammers as he leans against the door frame.

"Sorry, I thought you were..."

"Yeah, I know." He smiles warmly. "I was just comin' to tell you to take your time. After all, you're the guest-of-honor."

"I'm done anyway." I step forward, and he slides deftly out of the way.

He follows behind me, but before we reach the bedroom door, he offers a soft "You look very nice."

I turn my head, slightly. "Thanks, Ian."

We enter the hall and find a folded-arm Courtney next to Muted Mark. I guess Ryan will drive himself then. I step toward her. "What?"

"You took long enough."

"You've got to be kidding me."

She heaves a sigh. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

"No, you look like a spoiled little princess. Is that the look you're going for tonight?"

Ian and Mark stifle a laugh as Courtney heads out the front door.

*****

"Tommy's house sits pretty far inland," Ian announces as we climb into Mark's mom's car: a white Volvo station wagon¬. I take the passenger seat, leaving the backseat for Courtney, Ian, and their raging hormones. Mark cranks up the music, and we ride many miles with loud techno and no conversation. The music takes me back to parties earlier in the summer: I see Mike holding my hand through the crowd, Mike smiling at me out by a pool, and Mike (after many drinks) dancing with me. The memories flood my mind, but each happy moment dissolves, slipping into a spiral of sadness.

Eventually, we pull into the driveway, finding a black Jetta parked there. That should be Ryan's car, I decide, and I follow the others to the front door with anticipation gripping at my insides.

We knock several times before Tommy answers, and then we follow him into the family room, large with a wall of windows looking out at the pool. I glance outside; then I peer into the kitchen. No one else appears to be at his house. Then I hear a door creak open. Before anyone emerges, I imagine Ryan waltzing into the room. Unfortunately, a girl emerges and kills my hopes. "Hi," she says with a giggle. "I'm Brittany."

Before we manage a "hello" to her, Tommy asks, "Could ya' get me a beer, babe?"

"'Kay." Brittany smiles like she is happy to do it. "Anyone else need one?"

Ian and Courtney accept the offer, but I am glad our driver does not. Brittany returns with drinks, and then she and Courtney head out to the pool area. I, however, sit with the guys in the family room and discuss sports.

Tommy turns toward me. "Sorry I gave you a hard time yesterday."

"No problem. I can handle it."

He nods and takes a sip of his beer and then returns his attention to the television.

Mark glances over at me. "You played really well." Then his attention goes back to the game.

"Thank you," I return, grateful for the compliment and for the chance to hear Mark's voice.

"And so did Ryan," Ian adds and the mention of his name releases the butterflies in my stomach. "He had game yesterday."

"Too bad he didn't play like that last year," Tommy says and leans back against the couch, taking a long swig of beer.

"Let it go, man," Ian says.

"How can I? It cost us our season—one that looked so promising." Tommy put his beer on the coffee table. "His head wasn't in the game, but coach kept playing him. He should have benched him."

"Benching him would have made it worse," Ian counters.

"Made what worse?" I ask.

The guys exchange glances, and then Ian turns toward me. "I'm sorry, Callie. We shouldn't have brought it up in front of you."

"Why not?"

"Because," Ian starts, "it's up to him to tell you—not us."

I press my lips together and nod, wanting to know more about Ryan. I want to know why he did not show tonight. I want to know what happened last season. Most of all, I want to know when I will see him again, so I will get answers to all of my questions.

Ian rejoins the guys' conversations, yet I sit back, wondering why the guys will not talk about last season, and then I realize that girls are not the only ones who keep secrets in the name of friendship.

### 4. Monday

"Good Morning! Rise and shine!"

I roll over and face Courtney with a lack of enthusiasm. "Go away."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she waves a cup of coffee in front of me. "Look what I have for you."

I prop myself up on an elbow, reach for the cup, and take a sip, letting the warmth sink into an empty stomach. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me...thank Ian."

"He's here?"

"He was. He's down at the beach now. Surf report's calling for the best waves of the summer." She yanks the sheets off the bed. "So get dressed, girlie. We have some waves to catch."

"I don't surf."

"But you could learn."

I mumble something, unintelligible—even to myself—and get out of bed. I brush my teeth, trade PJs for a bright blue bikini, and pull my chestnut brown hair into a ponytail. I step out into the kitchen. Courtney hands me a beach towel and a protein bar, and we head to the beach.

It isn't even nine yet, but the ocean is already full of boards. Courtney races toward the water with her bright pink long board, and I set out my towel and prepare to fall back asleep. I have a talent for napping, and I mean talent. I can fall asleep anywhere and anytime. I don't have narcolepsy or a sleep disorder; I just have a propensity for shutting off my brain and relaxing. For years, Mike diverted my thoughts, but now I will borrow Ryan's gorgeous face to distract me from reality. So I close my eyes and test my skill, conjuring up a pair of green eyes, and within minutes...

*****

"You awake?"

I do not recognize the guy's voice, yet it sounds vaguely familiar. It's not Ryan or Ian, so I ignore it. The voice, however, is persistent. "Come on, wake up."

I search to put a name with the voice, and then it hits me about the same time the hands grasp my shoulders. I sit up and shove him in the chest. "Stop that!"

"So...you're not a morning person." Doug plops down in the sand next to me. "You mind if I sit here?"

What if I had said yes?

I lean forward and search the waves for Courtney. The tide carried her down a bit, but her bright board is easy to spot. She catches a wave and rides it gracefully toward the shore.

"You surf?" Doug asks.

"Nope."

"That's okay. I'm not that into it either. I mean, I can and all, but I don't live for it like these barneys." He inches closer to me. "What do you like to do?"

I shrug. "Play basketball."

"Yeah, that's cool. I still try to get out on the courts every now and then. I hurt my knee a few years back and..."

"Uh-huh," I say in a disinterested tone, totally not into the guy or his conversation, but Doug does not read signals well.

"...I used to play center in middle school..."

In my head, I start singing the lyrics of my favorite song, trying to drown out the most annoying person in human history. Yes, more annoying than Courtney Valentine.

"...but then in eighth grade, I started playing football...."

I consider the possible categories in The Guinness Book of World Records for Doug: "Man Who Holds the Longest One-sided Conversation" or "Man Who Bores Woman to Death." I cannot help but smile at my own musing—and then worry a little about my impending demise.

"Aw," he says, "I got you to smile, didn't I?"

Crap, I say to myself.

"Douglas," a voice comes from behind us.

Doug greets the newcomer with a lifeless greeting: "What's up, man?"

"Not much, Parker," says the newcomer. I turn, wanting to confirm my suspicious hopes, and yes, it is Ryan—also known as Swoosh, Mr. Green Eyes, and the star of my dreams. He steps closer to me, his bare feet inches from my towel. "What? You're not going to say hello to me, Miss Williams?"

"Hi," I say softly and glance up at him, stealing a peek at him and wondering if my memory has deceived me. Nope, he is really that gorgeous.

He smiles down at me and his grin sends warmth into my heart, and my pulse accelerates. My throat turns dry, and I swallow down the expanding knot of nervousness. While I suffer the classic symptoms of infatuation, I wish our encounter could play out differently—like in my fabulous daydreams. Of course, in my mind, Ryan never wears a shirt, and our conversations always remain brief and end the same way—with a big, juicy kiss. Mind romances are much easier.

"Doug, you been out on the water yet?" Ryan asks, and I welcome a few more moments to concentrate on breathing before Ryan speaks to me again.

"Nope, just been sitting here...talking nice, but she won't speak my language."

"Your language?"

"Yeah, man, tell her I'm one of the good guys."

"You want me to lie to her?" Ryan returns, and I suppress my laughter.

"No," Doug begins, "what I want is for you to leave us alone."

"Well, Dougie, what really matters is what Miss Williams wants." Ryan pauses. "Callie would you like me to leave?"

I twirl a tendril of hair on the nape of my neck and shake my head.

"Hmm," he pauses. "Do you want Doug to leave?"

I nod, barely, still working on the whole inhale-exhale routine since Ryan's presence causes some serious malfunctions in my involuntary systems.

"All right, Dougie, you heard the lady. Well...," Ryan begins with a low chuckle, "she didn't exactly say anything, but you can read signals, right?"

Doug gets up, brushes off the sand, and then plants a palm in Ryan's shoulder, shoving him back a few steps. "Read that, punk!"

Ryan recovers his footing. "Don't start, man!"

"Why not?" Doug closes in on Ryan. "You too afraid?"

Ryan just shakes his head, and then they start to circle like wild dogs about to attack on one another.

"Hey!" I rise up and wedge myself between them, aiming my angry words at Doug. "What are you eight? C'mon, Doug. This isn't the elementary school playground. No one needs to start some stupid fight."

"Don't worry, sugar." A sultry grin transforms his lips. "I'm a lover—not a fighter."

"C'mon." I roll my eyes. "Get lost, Doug. How many ways do I need to say, 'I'm not interested' before you hear me?"

"Ooh," Ryan encourages from behind me. "That's it, girl. You tell him."

"And furthermore, I'm tired of you and your...," I search for an appropriate word, "pathetic, stupid, cheesy come-ons." Apparently, I had plenty of synonyms.

Doug leans in. "Your little tirade only makes you hotter."

I shake my head. "Mission unaccomplished."

Doug just smiles as he strolls backward a few steps. "See you soon, sweetheart." Then he turns and relocates to a group of unsuspecting girls down the beach.

I plop down on my beach towel, shaking my head. Ryan sits down in the sand, leans forward, and rests his forearms on bended knees. "You okay?"

I push out a breath, anger at Doug replacing my nervousness for being with Ryan. "Yeah. Sorry you had to witness that."

"No need to apologize, and I have to agree with Doug on one thing." My curious eyes drift toward Ryan as his grin reaches his eyes. "His last line was pretty damn accurate." I replay Doug's words in my mind as Ryan continues, "I hope that doesn't offend you, Callie."

I bite down on my lip. "No, not when it comes from you." Abashed at my honesty, I turn toward the ocean, finding Courtney's board among the throng of surfers.

"By the way, he's not a good guy."

"Yeah, I know." I turn toward him and offer a soft smile. "He's a jerk, but he does have one thing going for him."

"Yeah, what's that?"

"He has determination, and until meeting Doug, I never thought that was a bad thing."

Ryan laughs. "You know what? You're kinda' funny, Callie Williams."

"Well, thank you, Ryan...uh..."

He holds up a hand. "Nope, not yet."

"Listen, I'm just going to think that your last name is something terrible—like one of those names with lots of consonants and no vowels. And you cannot say it without spitting on someone."

He chuckles a little. "Great. I'm trying to create mystery and—"

"Yeah, it's not working for you. Maybe you should hang out with Doug and pick up some of his smooth lines."

"You like those, huh?"

"Oh yeah, doesn't every girl?" I flick my head at Doug, who has now moved on to another group of girls.

We both laugh for a moment, and then Ryan offers, "Maybe we should stop picking on the guy."

"Yeah, you're right. It's just too easy. I prefer a challenge."

"So..." The word slides out flirtatiously. "You like a challenge, huh?"

"Don't even go there."

"You can dish it, but you can't take it, girl."

"Whatever, boy with no last name."

He laughs again and then lifts his sunglasses. "So, uh, how long you been out here?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Why?"

"Because you're getting burned."

I press a finger into my stomach, watching the skin lighten and then color again. My white stomach had not seen much sun with a summer at basketball camp.

"Maybe we should get you out of the sun for a while." He flicks his head at the houses along the shore. "My house is right up there. You wanna' come over for a bit?"

"Sure," I return, trying not to sound too eager, but this is going so well. I don't even feel that nervous around him anymore. I grab my towel and stand up. My excitement squashes all thoughts, so I don't dwell on how little I know about him and that I'm heading toward his house with no one knowing where I'm going. I pretty much would follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked me.

As we stroll toward the row of private piers, I walk closer to Ryan. He pauses at the bottom step and places a hand on the railing. His other hand bids me entrance, and I slide in front of him, fully aware that he is now behind me. I consider everything about my walk. I try to move like a girl, with one foot right in front of the other, and not like a basketball player sauntering off the court. My eyes remain on my feet, but as we reach the edge of his flagstone patio, I glance up and notice his house. I feel like a fairy tale princess beholding her prince's castle for the first time. It's huge with countless windows and an actual rounded turret on the back.

"Uh, nice," I turn and say.

"Thanks." He smiles and gestures at the patio table. "Have a seat." I drape my towel over the back of the chair and sit down under a massive umbrella. "Can I get you something to drink?" Ryan asks.

"Don't you have servants for that?" I tease.

He laughs. And I really like his laugh. It's a deep laugh, not sinister, but playful, and I decide to make him laugh even more.

"Yes, water, please."

He retreats into the house, and I gaze at the waves, seeing life from Ryan's perspective. I soak in the view for a few minutes, enjoying the cool breeze.

He returns with two tall glasses of water and sets them on the table between us. "Hmm, you look familiar." His voice dips lower, and he offers a goofy grin like a guy picking up a girl in a bar. "Have we met before?"

"Oh c'mon, it was not a pick-up line, and I was not hitting on you."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Because why?" He narrows his eyes at me and a devious smile takes over his lips. "Because you don't like guys?"

My jaw drops. "No, I'm not a...you know?" I try to recover with a reason. "Listen, I'm just not that forward, okay?"

"Yeah, I get it. You wait for guys to hit on you." He pauses. "You're more, uh, old-fashioned?"

"I guess." I take a sip of water, feeling the heat rise into my cheeks.

"But," he begins, "what if you really liked a guy? Would you let him know?"

"Why do you ask?"

He leans across the table. "Um, because I have this friend..."

I point at him. "Now that's a lame pick-up line!"

"C'mon." He starts to laugh. "I do know this guy who likes you." I start to frown. "And his name is Doug. Doug Parker." He pauses and shakes his head. "But he's not my friend."

"Yeah, I can tell. So what's that all about?"

His eyes narrow. "Let's just say we did not meet under the best circumstances."

"Huh...?" I want to know more, but I decide to let it go for now.

"Well, he should leave you alone now."

"And why's that?"

"Because he'll think you're with me." He leans forward with an adorable grin.

"Am I?"

"You are at the moment."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I don't like to give answers."

"Just questions, huh?"

"Yep," he leans back, content. "You know me so well, girl."

"No, I don't. I barely know you at all."

"Hmm," he pauses as his lips curl into a smile of pure, unadulterated sexiness. "How well do you want to know me?"

My mouth drops open. "You're such a flirt! You know that, Ryan Whatever-Your-Last-Name-Is? You are a total flirt."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Depends," I pause. "How does your girlfriend feel about it?"

"I don't have a girlfriend."

"Yeah, 'a' being the operative word."

"Hey, I'm not some player."

"Then what are you?"

"I'm just a typical guy. I try to do the right thing, but I mess up every once in a while." He shrugs, then takes a sip of his water. His eyes drift toward the ocean as his thoughts travel many leagues away. Then he turns, suddenly. "But enough about me, girl. Let's talk about you." He leans forward, placing his glass back on the table. "What's your story?"

"My story?"

"Yeah, your story."

I shrug. "Well, my story was pretty awesome until...I don't know..." I grab the glass of water and take a few sips. "Until Friday." I shake my head, struck by a memory flash. My mom's in my face, crying. "That had to be the worst day of my life."

"Why? What happened?"

I shake my head. "Nothing. Just a bad day."

"Callie," he starts gently, his green eyes softening, "if you want to talk about it..."

"I don't."

"You do, but," he pauses, "you're afraid of what I'll think?"

Of course I am, but I shake my head. "No, that's not it."

He smiles. "But if you don't tell me, then I'll just think the worst of you."

"Yeah, and what's that?"

"I dunno...that you're some psychotic serial killer."

"Yes," I hiss and smile darkly. "And you are my next victim."

His eyes widen, then narrow as he looks me over. "Then where are you hiding that murder weapon?"

"Weapon?" I lift my hands and rub them together. "I'm highly skilled in martial arts."

He shirks back in mock fear. Then we both start laughing. Our conversation downshifts to basketball, and we start swapping big-game stories.

"...And there were two seconds on the clock, you know?" he pauses and looks at me, his eyes widening with each word. "I aim. I shoot. And I..."

"Score!" I fill in.

"Nope, I missed. We lost the game and did not make it to Regionals my sophomore year. But if I had made the shot, then it would have made a good story, huh?"

"Well, I like the story." I pause, searching for the words. "It shows you have a humble side. It's nice." I want to add comforting since he seems less intimidating with a few mistakes marring his perfect veneer.

"Yeah, well," he begins, sitting back. "I've had lots of lessons in humility—and everything else—this past year."

I nod, not knowing what to say next, hoping he will divulge more. He does not and starts drilling me instead. "Does your boyfriend play basketball?"

"I don't have a boyfriend."

"But you had one?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"It ended badly."

He nods. "I figured that." He pauses, putting the pieces together. "And that's why you came here for the week...to get away from him."

"That's part of it."

"The rest of it?"

"It's a really long story—one with a crappy ending."

He nods, his silence shows understanding. "Then why don't we talk about something else—like what happened with you and your ex."

"You don't want to hear about that!"

"Yeah, I do."

"Why?"

"Because I'm considering a degree in psychology, and I need to practice on someone." He rests his elbows on the table, letting a smile slip across his lips. Then he leans back in his chair and folds his hands on his lap. "So...where should we begin today, Miss Williams?"

I smile, thinking he would make a good therapist and how I would have gone back to Mr. G, the bald man with death breath, if he looked more like Ryan. "I don't know, Mr. No Last Name," I tease, wondering how we got here so quickly—from strangers to two people who share inside jokes. I also wonder how we got to be so comfortable around each other. This kind of comfort takes time, and rather than going forward and letting the conversation flow naturally, doubt stops me. "Hey, can we just talk about basketball—and not my personal life?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm not normally like this."

"Like what? Real? Genuine? Honest?"

"You have a way with words, Ryan. Maybe you should consider being a lawyer instead," I mumble.

He laughs.

"I told you." I let out a sigh and fall back into the chair. "I broke up with my boyfriend."

"Yeah, how long were you together?" He asks, reeling me in with an easy question.

"A little over four months—we started dating right before prom."

"How'd you meet him?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I've known him for years, because he used to be my brother's best friend."

"Used to be?"

"Yeah, used to be." I press my lips together.

"What happened?"

"Well, my ex—that's Mike—used to date this..." I pause, not wanting to call Amber what she really is—a two-timing whore. "...this girl named Amber. But after they broke up, Amber started hooking up with my brother Landon. It got a little complicated—made for some awkward double dates, but we all acted like it was okay."

"Sounds like a soap opera if you ask me."

"Yeah, it was and to make matters worse, I was off at basketball camp for most of the summer. My session is first, but then I coach the younger kids in August. At the beginning, I would come home on the weekends, but then my mom and I..."

"What?"

"Started fighting all the time." I shake my head, wishing I had a conversational backspace button: I would retract that last statement—and probably a dozen others. His words, on the other hand, I would never omit. "So...can we please talk about something else?" I say and then I take a sip of water, getting nothing but ice.

He reaches across the table for my glass, "Let me refill that for you."

After he walks off with my glass, my eyes drift out to the ocean. I spot Courtney and wonder if she notices my absence. But really, does Courtney ever notice anything—and does she really care about anything or anyone? I mean, will she care when I move to Tennessee?

And why can't I tell anyone about the move? People move all the time. One of our good friends, Christina, moved away our sophomore year. She now lives in Virginia and has this new life and new friends. But I don't want a new life: I just want my old one back. I want my house and my family all back together again. And I don't want to leave Riverside—the one place where happiness once lived.

Ryan returns, setting the glass down on the table, and starts in with a question. "You said you and your mom fight a lot, but what about your dad? You get along with him okay?"

I shrug. "I don't see him much."

"Oh, are your parents...?"

"Divorced...yep." I push out a breath. "But it's probably for the best."

"For them? Maybe. But not for you, right?"

"Yeah, for me, it sucks." I gesture at his house. "I used to live in a house like this." I look at him. "Don't take it for granted, okay?"

"Okay," he sighs. "But I think we all take things—and people—for granted. Sometimes we don't appreciate what we have until it's gone."

"Yeah, I couldn't agree with you more."

He forces a smile. "Talk about light conversation, huh?"

"Yeah, where did we go wrong?" I pretend to consider the answer. "I'll blame you—and all your questions."

He musters a laugh. "Okay, one more question."

In dire protest, I cross my arms over my face. "No!"

"C'mon, this one's important."

I frown.

"Tell me, did Mike hook up with Amber again?"

My eyes fall to the table. "Yeah." I take a sip of water.

"That's what I thought, but listen to me...okay?" He waits for me to look at him, and my eyes shift slowly in his direction. "Not all guys are like that, you know, and what he did probably had nothing to do with you—and everything to do with him. People cheat because they're insecure...that's all. They think they've got something to prove by being with whomever they can get."

"Hmm," I say and conjure up a picture of middle school Mike. Braces, pimples, and gangly—a sharp contrast to the guy he became his senior year. Maybe that little insecure boy was still inside him, and maybe Ryan was right. I take a sip of water. "Well, in the end, it didn't really matter, because we were going to break up anyway."

"Why's that?"

"He's going to Florida State in the fall."

"And what? You don't date outside your zip code?"

"I didn't say that," I retort. "I'm not against long-distance relationships, but what's the point if you don't have what it takes?"

"And what does it take?"

"You know."

"No, I don't know. I've never been in one..." He winks. "Yet."

I smile, feeling hopeful, but my hopes gets squashed when I consider the impending distance between us.

"So tell me, girl, what does it take?"

"It takes a future."

"Ah, c'mon," he says, shaking his head. "How are you supposed to know that? Most relationships seem promising in the beginning, right?"

"Yeah, but..." I stop and think in terms of Rob and Chloe. "Some relationships are different. If it's meant to be, then you can look at the life you want to have, and the person you want to become, and you can imagine that other person with you—every step of the way."

"Yeah, I get it. So...what do you see in your future?"

"More questions from you." I smile at him, and he gives me a huge grin. "Why don't you answer a few for a change?"

He falls back in his chair. "Okay."

"What's your last name, Ryan?"

"Why is that so important?"

"It's more annoying than important."

He glances at his watch. "Ooh, look at the time."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, I hate to cut this Q & A short, but I have to mow the lawn."

"Oh, I get it. You don't live here. You're just the yard boy."

"Yeah, you got me, girl. Tomorrow I'll be a few houses up. Perhaps you can set your towel farther down. All kidding aside, I really need to let you go." He stands up. "I promised my mom I'd get this done before she got back."

I stand up and remove my towel off the back of the chair, forcing a smile, not really wanting to leave. "Thanks for the water."

"You're welcome." He curls a finger at me. "Come here."

I stroll toward him. "Yeah?"

"Any time you need to talk," he begins, resting a hand on my shoulder. His eyes connect with mine. "You know where to find me." My insides twist with warmth, and more than anything, I want to step into his arms and let him hold me.

"Thank you, Ryan."

"I mean it, girl."

"Okay..." I turn slowly and start walking down the pier, but soon the insecurity demons launch an all-out attack on my sensibilities. I forget all the smiles and winks as the "demons" point out the things that I should never have said. I should never have told him about my past—about Mike, about my parents. I completely unloaded on him. I barely know him, and now he'll think I'm some emotional freak.

Man, I need a book. No, I don't like to read. I need one of those internet articles—short and to the point, telling me the things never to say to a guy. I am sure that talking about your ex cheating on you tops that list.

"Callie! Hey, wait up!"

I turn and see Ryan jogging toward me. "Yeah?"

As he moves closer, he slows down and starts pulling off his shirt, exposing the ripples of definition. And if there were ever a moment in my life that I'd like to freeze and put in super slo-o-o-ow motion, it would be this exact nanosecond.

"You might need this." He hands me his T-shirt, and I have to force myself to look at his face and not his abs.

"Huh?"

"So you don't get burned out there."

"Oh... thanks," I mutter, since my gratitude is being overshadowed by my disbelief. I mean, he actually took the shirt off his back and gave it to me. Isn't that just a saying—like 'It's raining cats and dogs' or 'Curiosity killed the cat'? Aren't those just quirky little phrases—idioms I think they're called—that mean something else? But what does it mean if a guy actually takes the shirt of his back and gives it to me?

"Or do you want me to get you something else—something clean?" He gestures toward the house.

"No...no, this is great, Ryan." I slip his shirt over my head and catch a quick whiff of him. His cologne—clean, crisp, and absolutely sexy—is completely unfamiliar. He's not one of those guys who bathes in the all-too-popular brands from the department store. No, he finds something unique to define him. I add it to my accumulating list of things I adore about him.

"All right, girl. Take care of yourself, okay?"

"Okay," I offer, standing there with my eyes glued to him.

"And I'll see you later." He offers a quick wink and starts walking backwards a few paces.

Then he turns around, and I watch him stroll down the pier, shirtless. I examine the lines of his body, my eyes dropping from his broad shoulders to his tapering waist.

I turn, slowly, whispering a latent "See you later," and even though I want an exact time for "later," I remember that I still have him with me. His scent covers me, and rather than going back to the beach and Courtney and whoever else might still be there, I hurry back to the beach house.

I enter the house, which is empty except for the warm rays of sunshine splaying across the terracotta tile. I stroll into the front bedroom and climb back into the unmade bed. Ryan's scent awakens my imagination, and soon daydreams about Ryan turn into real dreams. I am sound asleep—again.

*****

A loud knock hits the bedroom door and wakes me. Half asleep, I get out of bed, open the door half-way, and find Courtney, wearing a big smile. "What have you been doing?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know." Courtney peers in. "You alone?"

I shake my head in disbelief. "Shut. Up."

"Well," Courtney begins with a saucy expression, "you never know."

I swing open the door the rest of the way, shove her aside, and saunter into the kitchen. Feeling parched and a little groggy, I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator. I take a drink, turn, and then spit it out all over the floor because two guys, now laughing, are sitting on the couch: One of them has a volleyball, and the other one has my heart...and my breath...and more than I expected after a morning of honest conversation.

Ian stands up. "You wanna' play volleyball?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"If I have to be on Courtney's team or not."

She sticks out her tongue, but I just shrug and enter the family room. I grew up with her, watched her in gym class all through middle school, only to witness her complete inability to play any sport—even the sissy country club varieties like tennis and golf.

Ian puts an arm around her. "Courtney will play with me. And you can play with Ryan."

I scrutinize him. "You any good?"

Ryan wanders over to me with a warm smile. "It's supposed to be fun."

"Losing is never fun."

"You're not over Saturday, are you?"

"We should have won that."

Courtney and Ian slip through the sliding glass door as Ryan and I finish our conversation. "Not when our best player was a girl," he admits with a grin.

"Hmm, I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should." He winks at me. Then we head down the pier, trailing behind Courtney and Ian. Ryan turns toward me. "Hey, nice shirt."

I look down since I had forgotten about my wardrobe choice. "Yeah, some guy gave it to me."

"Some guy, huh?"

"Yeah, some very random guy." I smile as I head down the steps, my bare feet sinking into hot sand. I turn and look at him. "Hmm, I think it was Ryan something, but I don't know his last name."

Ian turns back and hands Ryan the ball. "You can serve first."

"Yeah, yeah, fine," he tells Ian and then turns toward me as we near the volleyball net. "So—

you're wearing some guy's shirt and you don't even know his last name. What kind of girl are you?"

"I don't know, but the real question is this: What kind of guy gives a girl—who he just met—the shirt off his back?"

"I don't know. What kind of girl accepts it?"

Ian moves up to the net. "I don't know what the hell you two are talking about. But could one of you serve that damn ball?"

Ryan hands me volleyball. "Ladies first."

I slide back to serve, aim for Courtney, and laugh as she shirks out of the way.

She marches up to the net. "This isn't dodge ball, you know?"

"Okay, thanks for the clarification."

I serve again, aiming right for that big, blonde head. Courtney covers her face and squeals. "You're so mean!"

"Aw, come on," I toss back. "You're not even trying."

"Do you have to be so competitive?"

"Do you have to be so whiny?" I snap, sliding back to the serving line. "This one is for Ian." The ball soars right toward him. He sets it up for Courtney, and she puts her hands in front of her face and shrieks. Ryan turns, with an expression of mock horror, and I move back to serve again.

Ian calls a timeout, and a minute later, some random guy from the beach is playing in Courtney's stead. They get three points off us in the first game, and a total of five in the next two. After the match, Ryan heads over to me. "We make a good team," he says with a fist bump, "too bad you don't live 'round here."

"Yeah," I say, not wanting to think about the distance between us—the hour now, or the many hours that will separate us after the move to Tennessee.

"But you'll be back, right?"

"Si." I flick my head at Courtney. "Su casa es me casa."

"Bueno."

"You speak Spanish?"

"Nope, French."

"Really?"

"Yup, I thought it might impress the girls." He winks.

"Love-ly."

"No, actually, my mom is French Canadian. We go back to Montreal every summer. So it comes in handy, you know?"

"Okay, say something in French, then."

"Like?"

I shrug. "Anything."

"Tu es la fille de mes rêves!"

My stomach tingles. "What does that mean?" I ask, even though it doesn't matter. He could have said, 'Your farts smell very bad,' but his words, with that rich accent, sound beautiful.

"What does it mean?" He repeats with an enormous grin. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Grr," I say.

Then he turns and rushes toward the water, yelling "Race you to the sandbar!" over his shoulder.

I run toward the water, but it is no race, really. Ryan moves like a fish, and even though I can swim, I do so without much efficiency—or grace. When I finally reach Ryan on the sandbar, I discover him leaning back on his elbows, sunning himself, and waiting.

"Hi," I say, trying to conceal my choppy breaths.

"Hey," he responds with his eyes closed and his head tilted back. "Great day, huh?"

"Yeah, it is," I say. But I'm not referring to the rays of sunshine, just the hours I have spent with Ryan. I get cozy in the shallow water, only a foot deep, and watch the rippling waves roll up and down his tanned torso. I cannot believe I am this close to him, close enough to touch. And close enough to—I bring my arm way back and scoop up the water, splashing him in the face.

He sits up and wipes the water from his face. "Ooh, you're gonna' regret that!"

I flip over and start running down the sandbar, laughing all the way. The splashing of our feet is even louder than the laughter, and this is one race I want to lose. Soon he tackles me around the waist, lifts me out of the water, and drops me on my butt.

I rise up and kick water up at him, yet he reaches out and grabs a hold of my leg. I wobble, arms flailing, and fall down again. Landing in the soft sand, I laugh uncontrollably, and Ryan plops down next to me. I reach back to splash him, but he grabs my wrist. His body glides across mine, and his bare chest rests on top of me. With a playful smirk, he takes hold of my other wrist, and then manages to hold both of my wrists in one hand while he splashes up water into my face.

"Hey, stop it!"

"C'mon, you love it!" He splashes me again.

"Ry-an!"

"Cal-lie!" He intonates my scream and then laughs. "Payback is hell, isn't?"

I wriggle free, roll over, and crawl forward. Ryan catches me and wraps his arms around my waist. He maneuvers me through the air with some WWF move, and I plummet back into the water, my laughter mingling with a loud splash. I roll up on my side and prop myself up an elbow.

Ryan moves closer and mirrors my position. "Having fun yet?" He splashes a little more water up into my face.

"Hey," I begin, wiping the water from my face, "I call a truce. No more splashing!"

He arches an eyebrow. "You wouldn't give in that easy, would you?" He licks his lips, redirecting my thoughts from the splashing to his kissable mouth.

"Yeah, I would," I answer softly, wanting him to kiss my salted lips. I look into his eyes, soft and green, and study his face as he smiles back at me. I notice the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose, giving him a childlike quality to his chiseled face.

He slides even closer to me, his eyes staying connected. He traces the length of my nose and rests a finger gently on my lips. "Don't give up easily."

"Why?" I answer softly.

"Because," he begins, his lips trying to hold back a grin, "I prefer a challenge."

I shake my head, cracking up at how he brought up my joke about Doug from earlier today.

He glances at the shore. "So—I think we should get back before our friends send out a search-and-rescue." He curls up into a sitting position and then glances in my direction. "I also think..."

"Uh-huh?"

"That we should race back."

"Oh, come on," I groan.

He ignores my protest and stands up. "Ready? Set? Go!" He dives into the water.

"Seriously," I mutter to myself and stand up. I wade into the water and then swim the short distance to the shore. As I emerge from the ocean, he grins at me. "Well, girlie, now I know something you don't do well."

"Uh...thanks," I return and realize how far the race along the sandbar (and the tide) has taken us. We amble back, slowly, along the water's edge, our shoulders occasionally brushing each other. I want him to reach over and hold my hand since I miss the feel of his warm skin against mine.

Ryan glances in my direction. "Do you play volleyball?"

"Yep."

"What do you play in the spring?"

"Softball," I return. "What about you?"

"Swim team in the fall..."

"Yeah, big surprise there."

He offers a smile. "And baseball in the spring."

"Which is your favorite?"

"Basketball."

"Yeah, me too," I say. "You got any schools lined up for next fall?"

"Nah." He shakes his head. "Not after last season."

"Yeah, the guys were talking about it at Tommy's house."

He turns, his face frozen. "Really?" He begins coolly. "What did they say?"

"Nothing—except that it was up to you to tell me."

He nods. "That's good."

"So...tell me," I say casually.

The corner of his mouth retreats in his cheek, momentarily. "No offense, but I don't want to discuss it right now, okay?"

I turn toward the ocean, thinking how can I not take offense? I shared my "story" with him this morning.

He reads the silence. "Listen, I'm much better at asking questions...than giving answers."

"Yeah, I can tell."

"And it's a proven fact that most people like to talk about themselves."

"I guess so."

"You don't agree?"

"No, I do. And it might not be a proven fact, but I've always found people who only talk about themselves to be very annoying."

"Fair enough," he pauses. "Then let's just say this: It takes me a while to open up to people, okay?"

"Well, I don't have a while...I leave in a few days."

"But you said you'd be back."

"Maybe." I shove him and yell, "Race you back!" I sprint the short distance toward Courtney and Ian, who are sharing a green plaid blanket. I win the race—barely.

Ryan sidles up next to me. "Just so you know, I let you win."

"Uh-huh, just like I let you beat me to the sandbar."

"Oh, that wasn't even close."

"You are so competitive," I tease.

Courtney stands up. "I don't know you that well, Ryan, but I doubt you are more competitive than Callie. She turns everything into a competition—like who can get to the school parking lot first? Finish lunch first? Make it to class first?"

"Oh, poor Courtney," I begin. "But you always won when it came to, uh—" I grin. "Those other firsts."

She giggles.

"What are you talking about?" Ian asks with an enormous grin.

I arch an eyebrow. "Like you don't know."

"Okay, whatever," Courtney settles. "Let's get some food. I'm star-ving."

"Yeah, sounds good to me," Ian agrees and turns toward Ryan. "You coming with us, bro?"

"Sorry, I can't. I have to be home for dinner. My grandma is coming over."

"All right, man, see you around." They bump fists, and Ian and Courtney head up to her house. I smile a goodbye and turn to follow them.

"Wait a second, girl" Ryan starts. "Aren't you going say goodbye to me?"

"I smiled."

"Oh, is that what that meant? I just thought you were happy to get rid of me."

"Seriously, Ryan?"

He shakes his head. "No." He steps toward me. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

I shrug. "I dunno...why?"

"You want to see the sights?"

"Sights?" I echo incredulously.

"Yeah, we have the lighthouse," he gestures behind us, "and the—did I mention the lighthouse?"

I cannot help but smile when I am in his presence. "What time do you want to go?"

"Around lunch. Maybe grab a bite to eat and then head over to the lighthouse."

"Sounds good."

"And, uh, tell Ian he's driving. I can only fit two in my car."

I want to tell him that his two-seater will work just fine since I would prefer not to include Courtney and Ian in our plans. Instead, I say, "Okay."

"And..."

"Yeah?" I ask.

"I had a great time today, Callie."

"So did I, Ryan." I press my lips together, suppressing a smile, since I am fully aware of what will happen next. It's the epilogue to any good date—the script uttered at the front door or in the car before the big kiss. Ryan steps closer, and my heart races. He rests a hand on my shoulder, and I take a deep breath. Then he leans closer to me, and I close my eyes, waiting. His lips find my ear. "But tomorrow will be even better."

### 5. Tuesday

"This," Ian begins, licking his fingers, "is the best food in the world." The four of us crowd around a picnic table, eating piles of fried fish. Behind us, the birds rest on the railing, and the boats drift along the river.

"Best food, ha! Nothing beats my mom's cooking—and you know it, man," Ryan counters.

"Yeah, that's true, bro," Ian admits. Then speaking to Courtney and me, he adds, "His mom makes this huge Italian feast for our team at the end of every season. It's so good: It's better than Thanksgiving dinner."

"That's cool," I say. "My parents used to have a barbecue at the end of every season. My dad would grill all afternoon." I savor the memory for a brief moment—until the sadness creeps in.

Then Courtney adds, almost bragging, "Well, my mom barely knows how to use the microwave, so when we have people over, it's always catered."

"Tell me about it," Ian says. "My mom has all the numbers for carry-out memorized." He gestures at his food. "But this is my all-time favorite place."

"No offense, babe." Courtney touches his arm. "But I'd rather have a salad."

"Salad is for rabbits, silly kid," Ian retorts.

Ryan leans in across the picnic table, and our conversation splits in two. "So what's your favorite food, Callie?"

"Steak."

"Really, I've never heard a girl say that."

"Well, what can I say?"

"A lot." He chuckles.

"Hey..." I drag out the word. "What are you saying?"

"Not much of anything." He winks. "Not with you around."

I pantomime locking my mouth with a key, and then I toss the "key" in the river. Now mute, I turn my attention toward Courtney and Ian, but they are not talking. Instead they are playing a game of footsies under the table, but in their match, Courtney remains on the offense and Ian enjoys being on the receiving end. I mean, really enjoys being on the receiving end; therefore, I turn back to Ryan and raise my eyebrows to their fullest extent.

He leans in and whispers, "I wish they weren't here."

I nod in agreement; then Courtney nudges me. "We're going to, uh, walk around. Text me when you're done."

I offer her a nod-and-shrug combo.

Then Ryan, leaning forward across the table, adds, "I wish you could talk again."

"Hmm, you used two wishes, so now you have one more left."

"Maybe I'll save that."

"For what?"

He winks. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"That," I begin, pointing at him, "is a total Ryanism."

"A Ryanism?"

"Yeah, it's one of your little sayings."

"Well, what's one of yours?"

"I don't have any." I smirk. "I'm very original."

His smile opens, letting out a soft breath of laughter. I smile back at him and bite down on my lip. We settle into another quiet moment, no words, just soft smiles, and then he winks at me. I roll my eyes and shake my head. And then we find laughter again.

As I laugh, I consider how Landon is the only person who makes me laugh like this—like over nothing. Back when Landon and I were in elementary school, we spent an entire summer coming up with ways to make it into the Guinness Book of World Records. We started off with how many baskets we could make in a minute or how many consecutive hours we could play basketball. But soon we realized we had to think outside the box—or the court—and come up with something unique. We had several lame ideas, and years later, we continue to recite letters of the alphabet in the "World's Longest Alphabet Recitation." Just a few months ago, I was sitting in English class when I got a text with a single letter: M. I had to think for a minute, but then I got it, and nearly fell out of my chair.

I look across at Ryan. "Do you—?"

"What's your—?" He starts simultaneously. "Sorry...go ahead."

"No, it's okay. You go."

"All right," he pauses, swiping his mouth with a napkin. "What's your favorite basketball movie?"

"For Love or Basketball."

"Yeah? Which one would you choose?"

"Well, I have always chosen basketball," I pause, "What about you—which one would you choose"

"Basketball will only last so long, but love," he pauses, his voice softening, "always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."

"That sounds familiar. Is it a poem?"

"It's from the 1Corinthians 13. It's the Bible passage that people read at weddings, but we also have it on a wall in our family room. My mom makes us read it when we are not being kind to one another, so let's just say, I have the whole passage down by now."

"Will you say the rest...please?"

"I suppose." He leans in closer, his voice a deep whisper, "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud." He takes a deep breath, his eyes averting mine. "It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices in the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes," he glances up with a slight smile, "always perseveres."

"Well, if love were all that, then yeah, I would choose it over basketball." I shake my head. "But it's not those things—not for my family, at least."

"It's probably not that love was never there; it was just being overshadowed by other emotions."

I cradle my chin in my hand and stare back at him. "I've never known anyone like you."

"Of course not. No two people are alike."

"You know what I mean."

"It's not that I'm much different than most guys." He pauses. "I'm just different around you."

"And why is that?"

He shrugs. "Because you were honest with me....so I'm going to be honest with you."

"Like a mirror?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Or Newtown's third law of motion."

"You get straight A's in school, don't you?"

"Is that like a bad thing?"

"No, but my parents have always cared more about my basketball than my grades."

"Well, you are old enough to decide what matters to you. In the end, it's your life, Callie."

"You mind imparting that wisdom on my parents?"

"Um," he pauses to smile, "do you want them to like me or not?"

"Who wouldn't like you?"

"Doug."

"But who cares what Doug thinks?"

"Well, I heard from Ian that Doug thinks you're hot," Ryan grins. "Should we care about that?"

"So—" I change the subject. "What's your favorite basketball movie?"

"Hoosiers. It's a classic."

I nod, taking a sip of soda and remember watching Hoosiers with my dad and my brothers years ago— just the four of us sitting on the couch, eating popcorn and my dad commenting on every scene of the film.

Ryan interrupts my memory with another question: "What's your favorite NBA team?"

"Magic," I pause, "because my dad played for them."

His eyes light up. "Really? I didn't know that, Callie."

"Yeah, it wasn't for that long. He had a career-ending injury after three years." I shrug. "He has some great stories about his playing days, though."

"Yeah, I'll bet."

"Anyway," I say, not wanting to delve into my dad's life—since it went from awesome to awful over the years. "What's your favorite team?"

"Magic."

"Good. Otherwise I wouldn't talk to you anymore."

He raises an eyebrow. "Well, that might not be a bad thing."

"Seriously? Are we back to that again?"

"Yes, and the conversation comes full circle."

"What? Are you still eating?" I glance up and find Courtney, hovering over us with her hands on her hips.

"Nah." I look down at my basket, nearly full of fish and fries. "I'm done."

Ian eyes my basket of food. "Mind, if I—?"

"Not at all." I push it toward him.

"You need to stop eating, man," Ryan says as he stands up. "You're gonna' get all soft and doughy."

"Soft?" Ian gestures at his abs. "Feel this, bro."

"How about I feel it with my fist?" Ryan punches Ian in the stomach, and they play fight all the way toward the truck.

Courtney leans over. "Men."

"Men?" I rebuke. "Boys."

"Yeah, and boys will be boys."

Yes, and girls will be girls, forever rolling their eyes at male bravado and their stupid fart jokes but secretly drawn to the complexities of the opposite sex.

*****

After lunch, we climb into Ian's silver pick-up truck. Courtney slides in next to Ian, and I take the only empty seat: Ryan's lap. He wraps his arms around me, and I lean back against him. Courtney and Ian do all the talking, but I just sit there, listening to every breath Ryan takes, feeling his chest rise and fall against my back. Then he adjusts me, turns me slightly, and soon his mouth hovers near my ear. I wait for him to say something. A simple word? A soft whisper? But nothing—except warm cinnamon breaths—escape his lips. His arms tighten around me and bring me closer to him, and I respond with short breaths, uneven and shaky. And I wonder if he hears me—if he understands what he does to me. Yet he says nothing, does nothing, as he continues to breathe, gently, calmly, warmly into my ear. And we remain like this—absorbed in a wordless conversation until we reach the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse. As Ian cuts the engine, Ryan places a solitary a solitary kiss on my shoulder. I turn slightly and smile back at him.

We get out of the truck, and the four of us stop and gaze at the red brick structure climbing majestically against a graying sky.

Ian states the obvious. "That's the lighthouse."

"And now that Callie's seen it," Courtney begins, "can we go?"

I shrug, but Ryan grabs my hand and pulls me into the small gift shop. We stroll around for a few minutes, his warm fingers laced through mine, looking at books and beachy souvenirs, and then enter the park where several museums and the light station encircle a grassy courtyard.

Ian turns to Courtney. "Wanna' see the movie?"

"Why? What's it about?"

He smiles devilishly and shrugs. "Who cares?"

She giggles and follows him into the little building, and I flick my head toward the movie house. "That movie's rating just went from 'G' to um..."

Ryan just shakes his head. "So, uh, where do you want to go first?"

"Anywhere but the movie." I look around at all the old buildings and then glance at the lighthouse. "How about the main attraction?"

"Sounds good." I stroll beside him, his warm hand still in mine. Once inside, he lets go of my hand, and I glance up at the spiraling staircase—endless white steps with a black railing.

Ryan is many steps ahead of me when he yells, "Race you to the top!"

"Hey, that's not fair!"

"Life's not fair," he yells down.

I grab the rail and propel myself up the stairs. As I near the top, my thighs begin to burn— like during a stadium workout. I step out into the fresh air, but Ryan is not there. I turn and walk around the top of the lighthouse. Passing by an older couple, I call out, "Ryan?"

No answer.

I keep going, passing a family with two small children, before making a complete circle. "Ryan?" I call out again. Then I go for a second lap, and the older gentleman smiles at me. "Looking for someone?"

I nod.

He points. "He went that way."

I change direction and run right into a smirking Ryan. "Did you hear me calling you?"

"Yeah, that was very helpful."

I punch him lightly in the arm. "Ry-an!"

"What?" He laughs and finds a spot against the railing. I move closer to him. Our shoulders touch, and we gaze out at the ocean, standing together, but we remain in silence.

Soon I feel his eyes on me. I turn and look at him, and we exchange warm smiles.

"This is my favorite place," he begins. "On a clear day, you can see for almost twenty miles."

"Yeah, it's nice up here," I add, brushing the hair out of my face. "A little windy, but nice." All my "nice" is more about the way I feel about him and how he warms my heart with his sexy smile.

"Yeah," he continues softly, "and everything seems so small up here." His eyes drift back toward the ocean, and he folds his hands on the railing. "People, cars, buildings—even problems."

"Problems?" I ask tenaciously. "What problems?"

"Nothing." He shrugs. "Just the usual stuff."

"That's not fair."

"What's not fair?"

"You never tell me anything, Ryan. All I know about you is that you play three sports and speak French."

He turns toward me with a grin. "Well, I...also like long walks on the beach and good conversation."

"Can you ever be serious?"

His smile fades, and his voice softens. "What do you want to know, girl?"

"Everything."

"How about ten things?"

"Okay."

"Let's see," he rubs his chin and begins, "I've lived in Florida my whole life, but I want to attend an out-of-state college. I like the beach, but I love the mountains. My favorite places are up high—like this lighthouse. And someday I want to be a pilot. How many is that?"

"I wasn't counting." I shrug. "I was just listening."

"Well...here are a few more: I am allergic to bees; I was afraid of the dark when I was a kid; and I like to hang out in bookstores. Okay, your turn."

"My turn? You already know enough about me."

"Yeah, you're right."

"I am?"

"Yep." He laughs.

I feel like Ryan just told some joke, but I didn't get the punch line. "What's so funny?" I scrutinize him. "And how come—all of a sudden—you know enough about me?"

"You were the one that said it—not me."

"Yeah, but..."

He leans over and whispers. "Ah, the power of reverse psychology."

My eyes narrow at him. "I know something you should add to your ten-things-about-me list: 'I'm a manipulator.'"

"And you should start with 'I'm gullible.'"

"I'm not gullible; I'm just trusting."

"Okay, nine more."

I shrug, tossing my hands to the side. "I don't know where to begin."

"How about with your family?"

"Okay...my family is a mess right now, and my grandma would probably say it's because we have nothing guiding us. We never go to church—not even on Easter or Christmas. But we used to have the picture-perfect life—all except there was no dog in the picture. Just cats—black cats with lame names like Midnight, Pepper, and Shadow. Oh, and Callie is really short for Callista. My middle name is Olivia, so my initials spell COW. Yeah, I know. What were my parents thinking, right?" He smiles back at me. "Okay, what else? My favorite candy is Twizzlers, and I like to bite off the ends and use them as straws. My favorite music is techno, but I secretly listen to country when no one is around. I want to be a basketball player when I grow up, but if that doesn't pan out, I want to be a P.E. teacher—anything so I can be around the game. And I'm not allergic to anything—that I know of. Is that enough?"

"Nope, that's only nine," he tells me with a grin. "You have to tell me one more—like how you feel about...?"

"What?"

"Not what, whom?"

"You?"

"Yeah, me."

"Well, Ryan...I like..." I begin, then my eyes catch a glimpse of his braided bracelet. I play with it and rotate it on his wrist. "I like this," I say and look over at him with a big smirk.

"Talk about avoiding the subject."

I laugh. "So...did you make this?"

"No, but my dad did."

"Your dad, huh? I hope you don't mind me asking...but what does he do for a living?" I figure he is a CEO of some big company, or a surgeon, or a trial lawyer, or some other very lucrative profession.

"My dad?" His gaze returns to the ocean. "My dad lives on his dreams."

"Huh?"

"My biological parents aren't together."

"Really? Why didn't you tell me yesterday—like when I was talking about my parents?"

He shrugs. "Because you needed someone to listen to you—not talk about himself."

"I'm a good listener, Ryan."

"I know that, Callie," He says gently, lacing his fingers through mine.

I wait for him to say something more, but he turns and faces the ocean, letting silence slip between us.

"Ryan?" I place my other hand on top of his. "When did your parents get divorced?"

"They didn't."

I offer a perplexed look. "What?"

"My mom got pregnant in high school."

"Oh," I say. "And your dad...?"

"Didn't stick around for long."

"That must have been tough for your mom."

"It was, but my grandma was there. She practically raised me and took care of me while my mom was out looking for someone new." He pauses, "Of course, she ended up finding someone old."

I conjure up this image of Albert Einstein hobbling around with a young super model on his arm. "Really? How much older?"

"No," he chuckles, "not older—they've just known each other for a long time."

"Oh, I get it." Then I consider his monstrous house. "Well, I guess she did okay, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess so." His tone isn't very convincing, and I want to ask him a ton of questions. I want to know him better. I want to uncover all those little imperfections that make him seem real. But before I can ask anything else, a familiar giggle wafts up the stairs. It is Courtney; thus, the most annoying person in human history ends my alone time with Ryan.

"How was the movie?" Ryan gibes.

"Oh." Courtney's eyes widen. "It was very educational."

"So..." Ryan begins, "what was the original name of Ponce Inlet?"

Courtney shrugs.

"C'mon, that's an easy one. It was called Mosquito Inlet, but they changed the name to Ponce Inlet after they built the light station."

Courtney takes a quick look around, like she's a tourist trying to check off 'view from the top of the lighthouse' from the travel to-do list. Then she pulls Ian back down the stairs. We follow, and Ryan has another question for her: "So how many steps on the lighthouse stairs?"

"A million?" Courtney replies and then she and Ian rush back down the stairs, leaving Ryan and me alone again.

I turn. "Three hundred?"

"Close. 203."

"Isn't that how many bones there are in the human body?"

"No, there are 206 bones."

"You're like a walking encyclopedia."

"Well," he begins, "my parents play Trivial Pursuit for fun. My mom always takes a box of cards for long car rides and then asks us questions the whole way."

"We just put in ear buds and tune each other out."

"We're not allowed to have technology in the car."

"Then what are you supposed to do?" I wonder.

His smile retreats into his cheek. "Take in our surroundings."

"You're parents sound really strict."

We reach the bottom of the stairs. "Yep, I live in a house of rules."

"Yeah, we used to have a lot more rules before the divorce." I switch the conversation back to him. "So what does your step dad do for a living?"

"He's a cardiac surgeon."

"Wow. And your mom?"

"She runs a foundation for the arts."

"Impressive," I say and pray he does not inquire about my parents. My dad: unemployed. My mom: a real estate agent—and with the recent turn in the housing market, that's pretty much like being unemployed. That's why she spent the last few months looking into a job transfer. I thought she would wait until after I graduated, but 'this deal was too good to pass up.' Then my phone rings, and for some reason, I answer it without looking at the screen. "Hello."

"Oh, thank God, you're okay." It's my mother, and it always bothers me when she inserts God into her maternal paranoia.

"I'm fine."

"Why aren't you answering my calls?"

"I texted you."

"Well, I've been worried sick about you, Callie."

I offer a lifeless "Sorry."

"You know what? On top of everything else that I'm dealing with, I don't need this right now. I don't need my daughter off at the beach doing God-knows-what while I'm trying to pack up an entire apartment and go through a huge storage unit."

I turn and head up a few steps, trying to distance my anger from Ryan. "You don't need this? This whole thing, this whole divorce is always about you—and what Dad did to you. Well, guess what, Mom? He did it to all of us."

She is quiet for a moment. "Just come home, and we'll talk about it then."

"Don't you get it, Mom? I don't want to talk about it!"

"But you need to talk about it. You're so angry."

"Only because you make me angry. And if you really cared about me—"

"Of course I—"

"Then you'd leave me alone."

"Callie, I—"

"Mom, it's not always about you."

She gets quiet, but I can hear those swallows which will manifest into tears.

"I gotta' go," I tell her. I cannot listen to her sobbing—especially with Ryan a few steps away from me. I shove the phone back into my pocket and descend the stairs.

"Everything okay?" Ryan asks.

I erase the anger from my face. "Yep."

"Don't lie to me, girl."

"I'm not lying," I sigh. "I just don't want to deal with it right now. I left because I wanted to get away from everyone, but they won't leave me alone." My emotions are rising to the surface, and anger is the victor. "I'm just so tired of all their crap."

"It's okay...come here."

I shake my head and turn away, walking into the little alcove at the bottom of the stairs. I face the wall, not wanting to be in front of anyone right now.

"Hey," he says gently.

I close my eyes, swallowing the knot of sadness.

His hands rest on my other shoulder, and he gives me a gentle squeeze, massaging his thumbs into my neck. Then his hands drift down my arms and he wraps me up, pulling me close to his chest. He never says another word, but his actions tell me everything that I need to know.

Ryan, who I have known for only a few days, cares more about me than the people I have known my whole life. I need him: his warmth, his closeness, and the feeling that someone really understands me. That is what I have been missing lately. I thought I had Mike. I thought Mike was looking out for me, but when he cheated on me, I felt so alone. Now in Ryan's arms, I feel like I am a part of something—something wonderful.

I turn and face him. "Thank you."

"Any time." He places a kiss on my forehead and then slides back. "But maybe we should go find them. They might leave us here, and it's a long walk back to Courtney's place."

"But," I begin with a smile, "I thought you liked long walks on the beach."

He shakes his head and laughs. "You know what, girl? You have a great sense of humor."

You know what, boy? I look over at him and retort silently, You have a great everything. I let him get a few steps ahead of me, so I can admire some of his finer qualities.

"Look, there they are," Ryan says.

I lift my eyes from Ryan's butt and spot Courtney and Ian, chatting with a bunch of kids, yet as we move closer, I remain on the fringe of the conversation. I just stand there, milling over the conversation with my mom as the drops of rain assemble on my bare arms. Then the drips turn into drizzle, and Ryan grabs my hand. "Let's head inside!"

Ryan and I rush toward a nearby museum, crowded with patrons, so we remain outside, under the overhang, and lean against the wall, watching the afternoon storm which characterizes Florida in the summer.

Ryan slides closer to me. "You cold?"

"Yes," I say, and he rolls me into his chest. I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent as he rubs circles, slow and soothing, on my back. I close my eyes and relax against him, listening to the rain drumming the roof. His hands slide across my back, pulling me tighter, and he continues to hold me as the rain slows to a soft patter. As the crowd begins to emerge from the museum, I turn and face the courtyard, leaning against Ryan's chest while his arms circle my waist.

His lips find my ear. "What do you want to do next?"

"I don't know." I turn my head slightly, eyeing him. "You live here. Not me. You decide."

"How 'bout the jetty?"

"I didn't wear a swimsuit."

"That's okay. We'll just walk around."

Soon Courtney and Ian sift through the crowd and walk up to us. "You ready to go?" Ian asks, and I step, slowly, out of Ryan's arms. We begin walking, crossing the soggy courtyard, and step out into the parking lot. We pause at Ian's truck. "What next?" Courtney asks.

"The jetty," Ryan answers.

"Sounds good," Ian replies, and we climb back into the truck, traveling the winding roads to the entrance of Lighthouse Point Park. Ian stops at the gatehouse, flashes his pass, and parks near the back of a crowded parking lot.

"I've never been here," I tell Ryan as we cross the parking lot and step onto the soft, warm sand.

"Really? Some poll ranked this as one of the top ten beaches in the U.S."

I survey the beach and my eyes travel down the rock-lined jetty. "Yeah, I can see why. It's really nice. Much better than Daytona."

"Daytona is for tourists. This is for locals." His hand reaches over, his fingers lacing through mine. "Come on. I'll show you around."

Ryan leads me to the observation deck, which reaches into the inlet, and we pass the fishermen, photographers, and little kids. We head to the end of the boardwalk, pausing at the railing, and take in the three-sixty view of the ocean. We watch the surfers ride the soft swells as the birds soar overheard. I slide closer to him and rest my forearms on the railing. I look over at him. "So...do you get along with your step dad?"

"Yeah, but we have our moments." He turns toward me. "He really loves my mom—so that's what really matters."

"You have step brothers and sisters?"

"No, he didn't have any kids when he married my mom." He pauses. "But they have four together."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I was ten when the twins were born." He shakes his head. "And by the time, Allie, the youngest came, I was thirteen—and the built-in babysitter."

"Wow, four kids."

"Tell me about it."

"But it wasn't so bad. My girlfriend used to come over and help." He starts to smile. "Of course I didn't tell my parents that she was my girlfriend. I just made it sound like she was this friend who liked being around kids." His smile slips into a devilish grin. "You like kids, right?"

"Um..."

"Because I wanted to go catch a movie tonight, but I have to babysit."

I bump him with my shoulder. "Very funny, Ryan."

"But seriously, Cal, I want you to come over for dinner—some night before you leave."

"Okay," I say with a smile. "I'd really like that."

He slides an arm around my waist, and I drop my head onto his shoulder. I scan the shore, spotting Courtney and Ian. They are standing in the shallow water, hugging. I am happy for her—but I am especially happy for me, and I can remain in this state of elation if I don't consider that it will all change in a week.

Ryan grabs my hand. "You ready to see the boardwalk?"

"Sure," I say, but what I really want is to stay in the moment—one that would never take me begrudgingly to Tennessee.

Ryan weaves us back through the crowd. We step off the observation deck and travel across the beach, letting warm sand sift through our toes. The afternoon grows darker, turns cooler, as the sun plays hide-and-seek with the clouds on an unpredictable afternoon.

We head toward the boardwalk, located behind the narrow beach, and I spot the lighthouse in the distance. We walk past people he knows, but he never stops. He just offers a quick hello and moves along the boardwalk. Stepping up a few steps and down another one, turning right and then left, we weave through a jungle of low palms. The birds hover over us, intermittently squawking, and the longer we walk, the quieter the path becomes. Ryan and I stroll down the boardwalk, one slow step at a time, barely speaking as the afternoon whispers her secrets—like gentle words floating on salted breezes. Ryan moves closer to me, his arm sliding around my waist. He glances in my direction and smiles, and I return the expression.

"You head back on Sunday?" He asks.

"No," I pause, not wanting to think about leaving the beach, and leaving Ryan. "I head back on Friday morning."

"Can't you leave on Saturday afternoon?"

"No, I have this party on—oh, wait a minute!" I slide in front of him and put my hands on my hips. "You want me to stay because of the game, right? So is that what I am to you?"

"C'mon, you know that's not true."

I shrug. "I dunno." I step over and lean up against the railing.

"What?" He steps forward with a grin. "You need some proof?"

"Maybe?"

He licks his lips and rests his hands on the railing, trapping me inside his muscular arms. "Like some physical proof?" He steps closer, only inches separate us. "I like hanging out with you, girl," he begins, his voice a shade deeper than usual. "A lot."

I smile, yet say nothing, eager for the taste of our first kiss.

He sighs. "It's too bad you don't live closer."

"I know," I say, wincing at the impending distance.

"And Riverside? It's not that far. It's what—less than an hour?"

"Yes, it is, but..."

"But what?"

"What if it were more than an hour?" I begin.

"Then it would it suck even more than it already does."

"B-b-but would it be okay?"

His eyes narrow. "Why are you asking me this?"

I shake my head. "Just wondering...that's all."

Ryan tilts his head, smiling. "Stop wondering." His mouth opens, and his lips advances toward mine.

"Wait," I say, touching his warm lips with a fingertip. "Then are you saying it would be okay?"

"I'm not saying anything. I'm just trying to kiss you."

"I know, and I'm sorry for stopping you. I just need an answer."

He looks confused. "To what?"

I push out a breath and wonder if I need of a psych eval. The hottest guy I have ever met, ever touched, wants to kiss me, and I stop forward progress. What am I thinking? Clearly, that's the problem: I am thinking—when I should be kissing his succulent lips. And never in any of my Ryan-kisses-me mind romances would I ever do that. But then again, Dream Ryan has an unfair advantage: Being a figment of my imagination means he lives in my mind and we never have to be apart. Distance never becomes an issue in fantasyland.

I sigh and shake my head. "I'm sorry, Ryan."

"For what?"

I offer a slight frown. "I just need to talk to you...about something. It's really important."

"Then talk." He takes a step back, folds his arms across his chest, and settles into the listening pose.

"Remember what I said yesterday?"

"You said a lot of things yesterday."

"I know that, but—" I stop because he looks a little annoyed with me.

"Go on."

"Well," I pause, taking a deep breath. I have a tendency to explain things quickly—like in one breathless sentence. "When I was talking about Friday being the 'worst day of my life,' I left out the reason why." I stop, push out another breath, and continue, "It wasn't really about Mike. It was about..."

"What?"

"About my mom taking another job."

"Another job?"

"Yeah."

His eyes narrow. "Where?"

My eyes drop to the ground. "Tennessee."

I wait for him to come closer. I wait for his arms to wrap around me and for his reassuring words to fill the silence. But I wait in vain, and I lift my eyes, slowly. I see Ryan, still standing several feet in front of me, his hands shoved into his pockets.

"Say something...please?" I ask

"What do you want me to say?" His voice does not mask his anger.

"I don't know."

"Listen." He steps closer to me. "You should have told me"

"I know that, Ryan."

"Do you?" He snaps back.

"I'm sorry...okay?"

"No, it's not okay." He shakes his head. "And you wait until now to tell me."

I look down. "I'm sorry about the timing."

"No, it's great, Callie. It makes for a wonderful story: 'Yeah, I was about to kiss her and then she tells me she's moving to Tennessee.'"

"I'm sorry."

His eyes narrow. "Is that all you can say?"

"I don't know what else to say, Ryan."

"Neither do I," he replies coolly and looks down the path. "Listen, I'm just going to head back now." He steps backward a few paces, then turns, and walks down the boardwalk.

"Ryan...wait."

He turns back slightly. "What?"

I stand there, wanting words, yet I say nothing.

He shakes his head and continues down the boardwalk, and I watch his silhouette shrink into the distance. Why am I standing here—and why couldn't I come up with any words to say to him? Why am I letting him go?

Unfortunately, I don't know the answers to any of these questions. All I know is that I will be replaying this scene over and over again in my mind—like a coach analyzing an important game film. The only problem is, even if I figure out my error, will I have another chance with Ryan?

Soon I decide to follow him down the path—in hopes of meeting back up with him. Maybe he just needs a few minutes to calm down. Maybe he has to count to ten. Or one hundred. Then I remember the expression on his face. Or maybe one million.

Back at the truck, I find Ian and Courtney. Ian steps forward. "Where's Ryan?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I thought he was with you," I say.

"Wasn't he with you?"

"Yeah, but..."

"Forget it." Ian grabs his phone from his pocket. "I'll just call him." Ian turns and walks away from us. I watch his conversation, wondering what Ryan is telling Ian, wondering if Ryan has forgiven me, wondering if I still have a chance with him. Ian puts his phone in his pocket and starts back toward us. "Ryan got a ride home from a friend." Then he steps closer to me, his eyes narrowing. "And he doesn't sound that happy."

I have my answer, and all hope drains from my body.

The three of us climb into the truck, riding back to the beach house in silence. I start replaying the clips from my time with Ryan. The highlight reel. I should have told him about Tennessee yesterday—before we got so close, close enough to kiss.

*****

I enter the house, plop onto the bed, and waste some time looking at stuff on my phone. I stare up at the ceiling and the whirring fan. Then I close my eyes, and the silly tears slip down my face. I cannot conjure up any happy thoughts.

I flip over and face the wall. Prom night surfaces again. I turn and face the clock, watching until the red lights blink another passing minute.

I sit up. I cannot do this anymore—I don't want to feel caged in by my thoughts.

I need air.

And space.

I open the door slowly. No trace of Courtney. I slip through the family room and take short walk to the beach. I turn left, not wanting to pass by a certain house.

The clouds open again, releasing a spray of rain. The soft rain feels refreshing on a hot August afternoon. I walk slowly, alone in my thoughts. Sad moments play in my head, starting with Ryan then stopping on the worst scene of my life—on that one afternoon that changed everything.

My thoughts remain there, that terrible day at the end of my sophomore year. Yes, even worse than Friday.

*****

It was late May, and I was heading to Spanish class when Rob Callahan stopped me in the hall. "You feeling okay, Cal?"

"No, not really."

Rob stepped forward, feeling my forehead. "You're burning up. You should head to the clinic."

"But I have a game tonight."

He smiled, understandingly. "It's only one game."

I nodded, descended the stairs, and went to the school nurse. She tried the numbers on my call list, but nobody felt like answering the phone. My mom probably had appointments and would call back, but while the nurse was on the phone, I made a chunky deposit into one of those kidney-shaped pans.

With that kind of evidence stinking up her office, she let me go. I drove home quickly, arriving at the seven-bedroom monstrosity with a "For Sale" sign in the front yard. When my parents told us, 'We're putting the house on the market. We don't need something so big,' it was only a partial truth.

The rest of the truth was they hadn't paid the mortgage for months, and the house just sat there, waiting for someone to buy it. Every month people walked through it, but no takers. They had their reasons: The yard is too big; we need a bigger kitchen; we don't like the tile; we want more bedrooms; we want fewer bedrooms. The list went on, and the price kept dropping—until it listed for the last time as a short sale. The asking price was a full 250K less than my parents built the house ten years prior.

It was a sign of the times, and even though I knew my life was going to change, I was not ready to accept it. I refused to see what my life had become. Inside, I was still seven, spending the first night in my brand new bedroom, gazing up at the vaulted ceiling, and thinking we had it all.

And we did have it all.

But that day, the day I got sick, really ended it.

I parked in the garage—the last of the four stalls, and noticed that my dad was home. Nothing unusual about that: For two years, his job was finding another job. He lived on his computer, exhausting every connection on his social networks. He went on interview after interview, traveling all over in hopes of new employment. Nothing panned out, and my mom just started working harder, longer hours. And he became a stay-at-home dad but the kind that didn't cook or do housework, just the kind that lounged around the house during the quiet hours of the day.

I rushed in and found the nearest toilet, and then, with legs like lead, I trudged over to my bathroom. I brushed my teeth, and then I heard the faint sound of laughter, a woman's laugh, and I figured my mom was home now. I followed the sound, leading me across the house toward the guest suite. I couldn't hear the laughter anymore, just music, soft jazzy music.

"Mom?" I said as I swung open the door.

But it wasn't my mom. It was another woman—one who lived two houses down and who had been my mother's closest friend for ten years—and she lay in bed with my dad. I turned, covered my mouth, but never made it to the bathroom. I felt sick, physically and mentally, and rushed into my bedroom. I didn't even think twice about what to do next: I called my mom and told her everything.

After that day, I morphed—from a daughter to a confidante, but I wasn't ready to give up the first role and take on the other. I was grieving too, and I was hurt, but I had to be there for her—and not think about myself. I turned into a vault and kept my emotions inside, not telling anyone how I felt.

My mother asked my father to move out, and then she filed for divorce. Apparently, this wasn't his first affair, but with me finding out this time, my mom ran out of forgiveness. My mom, however, increased her visits to the therapist and began working on herself. I began a new life of independence, fending for myself, and needing my friends even more. Eventually, I needed more than just my friends. I started dating more and found comfort in Mike's arms.

My childhood home sold at the close of my junior year, and my mom found a crappy apartment, a temporary housing solution, for us. Landon headed to Tennessee, taking a summer job, and moved in with our older brother, Grant. All of us tried to continue on, but our family never felt the same. We never felt that close again.

*****

I walk on now, along the damp sand, leaving a path of solitary footprints. The raindrops keep me company until the sky forgets the rain and reveals a new countenance, a softer grey with a promise of clarity. Soon a ray breaks through, then another, and I witness the inevitable light after the storm. The sun shines, inching toward the ocean, and casts a warm glow on the close of day.

Then I turn, stepping in my fresh footprints, heading back to Courtney's house. Even though I'm not ready to accept the changes in my life, I need to face them. In a little over a week, I'll have a new address, so this is not the time to walk slowly in the past, but a chance to turn toward the future...and run.

*****

I slip through the sliding glass door, breathless.

"What did you do? Go for a run?" Courtney asks, her face buried in the latest gossip magazine.

"Yeah." I pace across the family room, trying to catch my breath; then I open the fridge and grab a bottle of water.

"Chloe runs when she's upset," she muses.

"I know."

"Are you upset?" She puts down the magazine and glances up at me.

I narrow my eyes at her. "No, I'm the happiest person in the world." Then I force a smile. "See the big smile on my face."

"Sorry for asking?" Courtney shrinks back into the couch. "There's some pizza on the counter. I could heat it up for you."

"I'm not hungry," I say, continuing to pace between the family room and the kitchen, sipping water. "Where's Ian?"

"He went home."

I stop pacing. "Why?"

"So I could talk to you."

"About?"

"Ryan."

"What about him?"

"Ian said Ryan won't tell him what happened, so we thought you'd tell us."

"Well." I narrow my eyes at her. "You thought wrong."

"Seriously!" She stands up, offended. "Why are you so mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at you, I'm just..."

"What?"

"Disappointed."

She bites down on her lip and sits back down. "Because of Rob?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"I don't know if I can make you understand, Cal, but with Chloe out of the picture, I just wanted a chance with him."

I step closer and look down at her. "But she wasn't out of the picture: She was just visiting her grandmother."

"Yeah, but she thought about staying up there—going to school there and everything."

"But you didn't know that! You didn't know anything, Courtney." I pause. "None of us knew anything—and she had only been gone for a week!"

She looks at me, studies me. "Just like none us knew what was going on with you and your family."

I head into the kitchen and grab a cold slice of pizza. I take a bite and return back to the earlier conversation. "You shouldn't have done it, Courtney. You shouldn't have gone after him...seriously, Rob Callahan?"

"But Chloe left him."

"So! He's still off limits!"

"Because of the rule?" Courtney was referring to the rules we wrote in eighth grade, back when there were seven of us. In an effort to solidify the friendship, we all came up with rules. It was Caitlyn's idea, and the one rule that made sense was 'No guy swapping!' The rule had a row of endless exclamation points reaching the far end of the page.

"No, because of common decency, Courtney," I sneer. "Listen, I still can't believe you did it. Seriously, what were you thinking?"

"Maybe I wasn't."

"You think?" I toss scathingly. "Sometimes you're like a guy, making decisions with your you-know-what instead of your—" I stroll over and tap the top of her head.

She shakes her head. "I just had a lapse in judgment, okay? It's in the past. Let's talk about something more important—like you and Ryan. I thought you were into him."

"I was," I pause, "but it turns out that he wasn't into me." I don't tell her why...yet.

My answer silences her. "It's not a big deal," I say and enter the kitchen and grab another slice of pizza.

She gets up and joins me in the kitchen. "What do you want to do tonight?"

"Nothing."

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"Don't you have plans with Ian?"

"I canceled them."

"Why?"

"Because you needed a friend."

"Yeah, I really do," I say, wishing Chloe were here, but I have to give props to Courtney for putting a friend before a guy. That has to be a first. I may have lost all respect for her on Sunday afternoon, but I am gaining some of it back tonight.

### 6. Wednesday

"You're up early," Courtney says as I enter the kitchen. She has on a pink bikini and black board shorts and starts dumping ice into a red cooler. I cross the kitchen, grab an apple, and then take a bite.

"You sleep okay?" she asks as she puts bottles of water into the cooler.

"No, not really." I reply, taking a seat at the kitchen bar. I kept thinking about Ryan, vacillating between being upset and being angry. Finally, anger won as the clock neared three. He should not have walked off last night. If he had really cared about me, he would have stayed and comforted me. "So, uh, where are you going today?"

"We're going to Daytona."

"No, I'm not. I'm going home today."

"But you can't."

"And why not?"

"Because Caitlyn's on her way here."

"Great. If I left, I would never hear the end of it." Caitlyn, the final member of our friendship foursome, has a very unforgiving spirit for a professed Christian, but I won't judge. I'll leave that to God.

"Yes, you would never hear the end of it from her or me."

I shake my head and drift back into the bedroom, rethinking my plans, while I don a bright blue bikini for the fifth consecutive day.

*****

"How is Caitlyn going to find us?" I ask, turning to look at Courtney. Our towels, inches apart, staking our spot on Daytona's crowded beach.

"She'll text when they get close."

"Oh...okay," I say and fall asleep, which proves to be a colossal mistake. Put it this way, falling asleep on the beach ranks up there with being the first one to fall asleep at a slumber party—especially with my circle of "friends."

I awake to a low chuckle and look up, finding Ricky Sampson and Brandon Edwards grinning down at me. Brandon, Caitlyn's forever boyfriend, has a bag of fast food. "Callie, come here. I got something for you." I start to push off the towel.

"Don't—don't get up!" A familiar voice warns.

"W-w-what?" I stammer, realizing that the voice belongs to Mike, my ex-boyfriend. I do not look at up him. Hurt squeezes my heart at the thought of seeing him again.

"Dude, you suck!" Brandon chastises.

Mike walks over with an explanation. "Your top is untied."

"Oh, that's real nice," I growl.

"I can tie it for you." Mike crouches down by my towel and ties it in a knot, maybe two or three times, and then tugs. "That should do it."

I push up, straightening my arms, and look to my right at an empty towel, and then in the direction of Mike, avoiding eye contact. "Where's Courtney? And Caitlyn?"

"They went for a walk."

"Great, and they left me alone with you losers?"

He doesn't say anything, and I collapse back on my towel, hoping it is going to be a short walk. I don't want to be here with these three jerks, and I'm mad at Courtney for setting this up and mad at Mike for showing up. I want him out of my life, forever.

"Cal?"

"Don't talk to me!"

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

Yep, you are sorry—a sorry excuse for a boyfriend.

"Callie?" He places a hand on my back.

"Don't!" I turn and glare at him. "Don't ever touch me again!" I push off the ground and stand up. My hands hit my hips.

"Ooh, man, she told you," Brandon scoffs and then turns to Ricky. "Let's go before the fireworks begin." He steps back and pantomimes an explosion with his hands. "Boom!"

"Shut up, Brandon!" I yell.

Ricky starts to guffaw.

I eye Ricky. "You too!"

Ricky and Brandon saunter off with a football.

"But you just let me tie your—" Mike defends.

"I was half asleep." I step in closer to him, forcing my eyes open, wide. "But I'm wide awake now."

"Listen," he begins, "I'm sorry."

"Is that all you can say, Mike?"

"What do you want me to say?"

I start to simmer, "Ooh, I hate it when guys say that!" I flick my head at Brandon and Ricky, who are down the beach, tossing the football now. "Go hang out with your friends. And leave me the hell alone."

"Can't we—""

"No!" I stomp my foot into the sand, and my fists drop to my sides. I resemble a defiant toddler.

Mike doesn't leave. "You should know what happened, Cal. You're jumping to conclusions. It wasn't like I—"

"Wasn't like you what?" I toss back.

"We didn't have sex; we just—"

I shove the palm of my hand in his face. "I don't need the details, Mike. I don't need to know what you and that little whore did behind my back."

"I'm just trying to tell you what we didn't do."

"Listen, it doesn't matter." I start walking, quickly, toward the water.

He follows me. "C'mon, Cal. It does matter."

"No, it doesn't, Mike." I stop walking. "You crossed the line with Amber. Think about it..." I glare over at him. "In a game, it doesn't matter how far you step over the line—an inch, a foot, a mile, you're still out." I stand there, my words directed at Mike, but somehow I assume my mother's role. I consider my father's infractions and wonder how many close calls she ruled in his favor. It was impossible for her to think in terms of black and white, residing in the ambiguous shades of grey, always weighing his latest injunction against its effect on her children. As for me and Mike, our relationship bore no contingencies, and I could stay out of the grey area.

Still, he pleads his case. "We were at a party. Everyone was trashed." I huff loudly as he continues, "And as soon as I realized what was happening, I stopped. We both felt terrible." I step toward the ocean. "If I could take it back, Cal, I would."

"But you can't," I say softly. The past is an unchangeable element of our lives, and we waste more time with the "what if's" than with "what is" or "what will be." It's a sad reality, plaguing all of us. All I can manage is the truth: "You hurt me, Mike."

"I know, and I was wrong, Cal. And I—"

"Just stop it." I take another step forward, letting my feet sink into the soft sand. Then the little coquinas, or beach fleas, brought up by the waves, tickle my feet as they find their way back home.

"Cal, I—"

"Don't," I swallow back the hurt. "You're making this harder than it needs to be."

"Listen, Cal, I just wanted you to know—to know that I really miss you."

"Well," I sigh, "I miss you too, but—" I stop myself: I'm not even sure what I was going to say. I pause and ingest the truth, the sad truth that I miss him. I miss the years of liking him, and the months of dating him. I miss the warmth of his presence and his half-grin. I miss playing hoops with him. I miss holding his hand and going out to the movies. I miss him and the role he played in my life—my life that is now completely gone.

"Callie," he says, his voice inching closer to me. And the way he says my name, soft, breathy, warm, alights my heart, and my resolve sinks into the sand like a tiny coquina.

He stands behind me, but soon his hands rest on my arms. He pauses, waits for my reaction, and then wraps me up in his arms, my back against his chest, and it feels so right, so warm and safe, like a favorite blanket on a winter's night.

He finds my ear and whispers, "Callie." He brushes my hair to one side, and then his mouth finds that delightful spot on my neck. I should stop him, but I can't. He has the route memorized, and he knows which direction to take. And sadly, I don't have any reason to stop him. After all, I don't have the possibility of Ryan—not anymore.

Mike walks slowly around me, his hands taking a provocative path across my skin as he moves in front of me. Then he presses up against me, and his lips eagerly find mine. And we kiss, soft and slow, with a gentle familiarity.

He moans softly, his desire against my mouth, my body. He holds my vulnerability in his hands, tightly in his fists. "I love you."

"Don't," I whimper and step back. The words I craved for four months now pierce my heart.

I look up at him. "It's too late, Mike."

"No, it's not, Cal."

I turn from him and swipe a silly tear from the corner of my eye.

"I won't ever do it again. I promise."

"You got that right, Mike." I turn back and look at him, my eyes narrowing as I remember the hurt. "Because I won't ever give you that chance again!"

I walk toward the ocean, watching the waves crawl to the shore, stretching out to reach my feet and engulf my ankles. Then the water rushes back and returns to her original shape.

Similar to a swell of emotions, the water surrounds me, then softly recedes, creating an endless yet predictable pattern. I wade deeper into the ocean, water encircling my legs, my waist. I arc my arms and dive into the water, completely submerged as the memory resurfaces.

*****

With my hand in a bag of chips and music pumping in the background, I was just relaxing in the dorm room after a long day of practice—a day of drills, drills, and more drills. My head, not my body, ached, and coaching ball proved harder than playing it. It was only Monday, and I had until Friday to put some skill into the campers.

"Man, are those girls ever gonna' get it?" Dee asked, her head hanging upside-down from the top bunk in our dorm. Dee Richards played for Central, our rival high school, and we enjoyed a summer off from being enemies.

I shook my head, doubtful, trying to remember the nine-year-old version of myself. "I dunno. Were we ever that bad?"

"Hell, no!" Dee grinned. "We were born to play!"

Then a knock hit the door, and Dee and I shouted in unison, "Come in!"

Katrina Hinson, a sophomore at Riverside, entered. "Uh, hey, Callie."

"What's up?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Then talk," I returned. At camp, we had several girls from Riverside, and they packed their drama in their duffle bags and always came to me with their ridiculous problems.

Her eyes drifted up to Dee. "In private?"

"We got no secrets," Dee scoffed. "Didn't you read the sign on the door?" I joined Dee in laughter since this was our running joke. We always referred to the imaginary sign on the wall or door that would purport any rule we wanted followed.

Katrina shook her head. "I, uh, didn't see any sign."

At this, Dee guffawed and started kicking the bed in a laughter tantrum.

Katrina stepped closer to my bunk. "My sister is good friends with Amber, you know?"

"Yeah...so?" I hated Amber. She dated Mike—then dug her claws into my brother. What's not to hate about a chick like that?

"Well," Katrina stalled, "my sister and Amber were at this party last night and Amber..."

"Yeah?" I asked eagerly, figuring Katrina was about to unload some juicy gossip that would put an end to Amber's relentless pursuit of my brother. He was off in Tennessee at the time, but that didn't stop Amber from sexting him—and doing God-knows-what-else on the phone with him.

"Amber hooked up with Mike."

The truth caught me off guard, and I froze.

"They were out by the pool, Callie." Hurt spiraled into the pit of my stomach. "And everyone saw them together."

Then my pride covered the hurt. "So?" I narrowed my eyes. "I was gonna' break up with him anyway."

Katrina withdrew slowly. "Okay." She reached for the doorknob. "I just wanted to let you know—before you heard it from someone else."

Dee climbed down the ladder, peered in at me, and asked, "You wanna' be alone?"

"Yeah."

Dee put a hand on top of mine. "If you need me, I'm here for you, girlfriend."

"I know, Dee." I choked back the rising tears.

Dee followed Katrina out of the room, and my tears waited until the door shut behind them.

*****

I swim back to the shore and return to Mike. "Why are you still here?"

"You think I'm just gonna' walk away."

"But you didn't even tell me."

"I was gonna' wait until you got home. I wanted to tell you in person."

"You didn't think I'd find out?"

He shook his head. "I wasn't thinking, Cal." He continues, "We were both wasted." He looks down at the ground, drawing a line in the sand with his toe, and then he lifts his eyes again. "I'm really sorry, Callie." It is a genuine, soft apology. "I can't come up with anything else to say. I was wrong, and I'm so sorry. Can't you just," he starts slowly, "find it in your heart to forgive me?"

"No, Mike, I can't."

"Then why'd you let me kiss you?"

"For the same reason you kissed Amber. It felt good, but it didn't mean a damn thing."

He winces at the truth but still fights back. "No, it's different." He steps forward, resting a hand on my shoulder. "This," he says, gesturing between us, "is different because we love each other."

"No, we don't." I fight back—with anger on my side. "Because until today, you never even said it to my face."

"That's because I'm not good at it, okay? I didn't come from this "I love you" family where we said it all the time."

"So?"

"But I meant it—even if I didn't come out and say it."

"Yeah, well, let me come out and say this: You don't mean it now, Mike. Maybe you loved me; maybe you didn't. But it doesn't matter now."

He looks up at me, sadly. "Don't say that, Cal."

"And I don't," I start shaking my head, "love you back. Not anymore, Mike."

He turns his head and pushes out a breath. Slowly, his eyes slide and meet mine again. "I don't want this to be over."

"Only 'cause you don't want to be alone." I step closer, my voice softening. "And 'cause it's hard to say goodbye."

"So is this...goodbye?"

"Yes."

"So what was that earlier?" He tucks a corner of his mouth into his cheek. "A goodbye kiss?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Will I ever...see you again?"

I shrug. "I don't know, Mike." I consider our shared friendships. "Our paths will probably cross again."

His eyes connect with mine. "You, Landon, and Grant. You guys were like my second family growing up."

I look down. "I know."

"Could you tell Landon to call me?"

"Call him yourself."

"He won't answer."

Inwardly, I smile. My brother does care about me.

"Maybe we should just head back," he suggests, and we start walking back with a noticeable distance between us. I realize now that my love for Mike is dead, buried, with so many other aspects of my life. As we amble up toward our friends, splayed out on towels, Brandon hollers, "You two kiss and make up?"

Mike answers when we walk closer. "No, we just talked."

"Sounds like fun, bro." Brandon chuckles and Ricky joins in, echoing the stupidity.

"Stop it, Bran," Caitlyn says to her boyfriend before she rushes me with a hug. "It's so good to see you, Callie. You look great—really, really great. Love your hair." She strokes it with her fingers and holds a strand in her hand. "It's getting lighter." Then she steps back. "And I'm so jealous of how tan you are."

"Thanks...good to see you too." We exchange more pleasantries, indicative of our shallow friendship and then resort to more tanning—and gossiping.

"Tell me—honestly," Caitlyn begins. Her towel is on my left, and I am sandwiched between the gossiping queens of Riverside High. "How were they?"

"I think they had been fighting," Courtney chimes in. "What do you think, Cal?"

"I think it's none of our business," I say.

Caitlyn makes this sound—something like a cat coughing up a small hair ball. "Of course it's our business. He's going off to Georgetown soon, and because of what Austin did to her, she's heading to Central next year, and I don't even want to think about that." She presses her lips together. "But we all know how it's going to end, don't we? And it's not going to be pretty." She gets quiet. "Just between us, I've never liked him." This isn't really news. "And do you want to know why?" She gets closer to me. "He's too good. Too perfect. Like he's hiding something." She goes on. "You ever watch those shows where they interview the neighbors of some serial killer, and the people are all like, 'He was the nicest neighbor in the world. He would do anything for you.'" She gives us a wide-eyed look. "That's Rob. That nice neighbor."

"And you live next door to him," I say to Courtney with mock horror.

Courtney adds, "Well, I've always wanted to be on the news."

Then we both laugh.

Caitlyn defends her position. "Oh, you may think it's funny now, but I can read people."

I turn. "Yeah, well, read me."

She shakes her head. "This is serious."

"Nope that is not what I'm thinking all. I'm thinking you're crazy"

"Whatever."

"Whatever," I mimic.

"I'm glad you are back to your old self again," Caitlyn quips.

I snicker. "Are you really glad?" I turn my head and face Courtney, and we exchange smiles.

Then Ricky Sampson lowers himself on top of Courtney and starts doing things to her that people should not do in public.

"Stop," Courtney shrieks.

"Why?"

"Because I'm seeing someone now."

"Like that's ever stopped us before."

"Well, this is different." Her response surprises everyone, probably even her.

Ricky gets up and looks at Mike, "Dude, this sucks. Let's go."

Maybe he was right. Last summer, we all went to the beach, flirted and partied. But that was before things changed between all of us. Then I thought about school on Monday and the lunch table.

Over the years, it went from seven to four.

But this summer will alter our table even more.

With Chloe's transfer to Central High and my move to Tennessee, the lunch table will be down to two—Courtney and Caitlyn—with only a love for gossip in common.

*****

"Before you go home today," Courtney starts with a huge smile, "I'd like to take you somewhere." Minutes later, Courtney and I enter La Buena Vida Restaurante; she slides through the crowded waiting area and right up to the hostess. "Como estas, Marianna?"

"Muy bien."

"¿Alex aquí?"

"Si." She grins.

"¿Por cuánto tiempo es la espera?"

"Para usted, chica," she replies with a wink, "un momento."

I catch the gist of the conversation—something about a short wait. Obviously, Courtney has some pull here, but then again, Courtney finds her way to the top of every A-list.

"What do you usually order?" I ask as we wait for a table.

She shrugs. "Whatever the waiter recommends." Then her phone chimes and she answers, "Hi...yeah...we just stopped to eat." She looks over at me. "I think tonight...uh-huh...okay, I'll tell her." She lowers her phone and relays the message to me. "Ian says you're not allowed to leave town without saying goodbye to him first."

I lean over and talk into the phone. "Then you better come to La Buena Vida Restaurante right now."

I hear a faint "See you in a few," and then Courtney pushes out a breath.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, you'll see." She pauses, "Yep, you will definitely see."

The hostess returns with our table for two, and she adds a chair to make it three. Soon we have water and a basket of chips, and I'm dipping a warm tortilla chip into salsa, when I hear, "Ooh, if I knew it were you two, then I would've gone home early."

"Mr. Martinez?" I shirk back in my seat. "What are you doing here?"

"My uncle owns this place, so I work here when I'm not teaching."

"Oh," I say, but it is more like a double oh—one for why he works here, and another one for why Courtney is not happy about Ian joining us.

Mr. Martinez is a science teacher at our school, but Courtney met him the summer before he interned at Riverside High. Apparently, she lied about her age, and they dated under a false pretense. Now he's a full-fledged faculty member, but the teacher-dating-student rumor still floats down the halls. Chloe and I know the truth, so we have to lie to protect our friend's "honor."

Mr. Martinez flags down a waiter, says something in Spanish, and then takes a seat in the empty chair. He looks at me. "How are you?"

"Fine." My eyes drop to the menu, embarrassed. He exudes Latin machismo, and it's hard to feel at ease around him. "So what's good here?"

"The food is good," Courtney begins, "but the service is muy excelente." Courtney winks at him.

Mr. Martinez leans back and spreads his hands to the side. "See what I gotta' deal with here?"

"Yeah, but I think you kinda' like it."

"Well, I would like it a whole lot better if someone were a whole lot older." He springs up from the chair. "Listen, girls, I'm gonna' have Manuel fix you up something special. I'll be right back." He pushes the chair under the table.

I lean across the table. "That was so weird."

"Why?"

"Because you were flirting with our teacher."

She smiles. "He won't be in nine months."

"Hmm," I say, "and what do you plan to do until then?"

"Ian," she squeals as he nears the table.

"Sorry it took me so long." Ian sits down. "I was talking to a friend on the phone." He looks over at me, but I ignore his subtlety. "You order?" We nod, and Ian turns and flags down the hostess. "Could you get our waiter?"

Marianna nods, and Ian looks over at me. "Do you want to know who I was talking to?"

"No, because I don't care."

"Yeah, you do." He starts smiling, and I shove him.

Then he asks me about our day with our friends, and I tell him about the bathing suit incident. Ian just shakes his head. "I bet you were pissed."

"Yeah, but that's not the worst of it." I pause. "My ex showed up."

"Ooh," he starts, "how'd that go?"

"Like a segment from the Maury Povich Show."

He laughs, and then I look up. Mr. Martinez is standing next to Courtney, and he has a hand on her shoulder as they talk.

"You the waiter?" Ian asks.

"Si, hombre, what can I get you?"

"How about you start with...removing your hand from mi novia?"

"My apologies." Mr. Martinez presses his lips together and takes a step back. "And what would you like to order?"

Ian orders a combo platter, and Mr. Martinez retreats back to the kitchen.

Then Ian fixes his eyes on Courtney.

"What?" She looks uncomfortable. "He's our teacher, okay?"

"Is he a good teacher?"

She rolls her eyes.

"What does he teach?" He leans in with a scornful scoff. "Chemistry?"

"Actually...yes."

"So...do you have chemistry with him?"

She bites down on her lip. "Yeah, next year...I'll have Advanced Placement Chemistry."

Last year, Courtney tried to convince Mrs. Rivers, Caitlyn's mother and school guidance counselor, to let her add AP Chemistry to her course load. And with Mr. Martinez as the teacher, there were lots of girls who were very interested in that particular class. Mrs. Rivers told her no, but that didn't stop Courtney Valentine. Nope, she got an override—a glowing teacher recommendation.

Ian pushes out a breath. "That's great...just great."

"Ian, you're acting jealous."

"Do I have reason to be?"

"Like I said, he's just my teacher."

"Then he shouldn't be touching you because he's your teacher."

I look at Ian and pantomime a clap, and Courtney gives me a nasty look. I shrug and dip a chip into salsa. Mr. Martinez returns with our food, then again to check on us and clear our plates, and lastly to drop off the check. He morphed from Mr. Personality to an expressionless robot serving us food. I have to think that Ian got his point across—to our teacher, at least.

*****

"I have it all planned out." Courtney is talking to me, but her eyes are on her reflection in the bathroom mirror at La Buena Vida Restaurante. "My graduation party is going to have a guest list of one." She pauses and tucks her blonde hair behind her ear. "Of course, I don't want to wait that long." She glances at me. "I turn eighteen in two months. So that might be when we commit the inevitable."

"But he'll still be your teacher; he's not going to risk his job to mess around with you."

She replies with heavy sarcasm. "He would if he loved me."

"No, he wouldn't. If he really loved you, he wouldn't go sneaking around with you, he'd wait. Lust makes people sneak around." I thought of Mike and countless others. "But love is out in the open."

"After everything that has happened, you still believe in love, don't you?"

"Yeah, of course. Love is what makes life worth living."

"Callie, love is just a fairy tale. It's no more real than Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. And just like when you find out that it's actually your parents putting presents under the tree, it sucks when you realize love doesn't exist either."

"How lovely, Courtney. Don't be surprised if Hallmark puts your sentiments on a card."

"Ooh, you know what kind of card would be fun to write?"

"What?"

"Break up cards."

"Do they even sell those?"

"I don't know," she considers, "but they should." She faces the mirror and swipes some red gloss on her lips. "It was fun. It was great. But now it's time to separate." She turns toward me. "Catchy, huh?" She dusts powder on her face. "And the front of the card could have a big heart broken in two pieces."

"What are you trying to say? Are you going to break up with Ian?"

"No." She pauses. "I like him and all, but it is going to end...eventually."

We exit the restroom and find Ian, leaning against the wall. "I was about to check on you two."

"We were fine—just talking." Courtney smiles.

"I don't get why girls gotta' go to the bathroom to talk."

"Because we can't do it in front of you, silly." She saunters off to say goodbye to Marianna and Mr. Martinez.

I turn toward Ian. "We weren't talking about you."

"Yeah, I know." He flicks his head at Courtney as she gives Mr. Martinez a goodbye hug. "It's pretty obvious who she was talking about."

I bite down on my lip.

He leans in. "And you were probably talking about Ryan."

"No, I wasn't."

"Oh, come on, it's so obvious that you like him."

I shake my head. "No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"Listen, if I liked him, then I wouldn't have—"

"What?"

I answer quietly. "Kissed my ex today."

"You want me to tell Ryan that?"

"Tell him whatever you want—it's not like I'm ever gonna' talk to him again."

"Your loss."

"My loss? He's the one who stormed off."

"You probably did something to upset him."

"I didn't do anything, Ian. I just told him the truth."

"Yeah," he begins, his eyes drifting in Courtney's direction, "sometimes the truth hurts."

*****

"Follow me," Ian shouts, climbing into his silver pick-up. We trail Ian's pick-up truck down A1A, turning into the parking lot of The Scoop. Above the shop, the sign boasts a big ice cream sundae.

Courtney turns to me. "This is where Ian took me on our first date."

"Aw, how sweet."

"I know," she says, biting down on her lip. "He really is."

"And he's good to you, so don't mess it up, Courtney." I give her a glare, which she chooses to ignore, and we hop out of the car and into the shop.

Mark, the quiet guy who drove us to Tommy's house the other night, stands behind the counter and greets us with a grin. Then Ian pushes open the half-door and joins Mark behind the counter. "So—what can I get you, girls?" Ian asks.

"I'm fine," Courtney begins, "I don't need ice cream."

"Nobody needs ice cream," Ian returns, resting his elbows on the counter. "But what do you want?"

She leans in with a kiss. "Just you, baby."

"Bleh," I begin, "I just lost my appetite."

But I find it again, and a few minutes later, I plunge my spoon into a gooey hot fudge sundae, and my thoughts drift to childhood memories. Those good years. The days of amusement parks, camping trips, and ice cream shops.

Several years ago, there used to be an ice cream shop right off the Riverside exit of the highway, and if my parents were in a good mood—and not fighting, my dad would start chanting:

I scream

You scream

We all scream

For ice cream

Then Landon, Grant, and I would chime in, chanting louder and louder, until Dad pulled into the parking lot of Jimmy's Ice Cream Shoppe. When the shop closed, right around my twelfth birthday, it wasn't the half-price sundaes that I remembered. No, it was Jimmy's parting words to my Dad. The gentle, elderly man leaned over the counter, imparting his sad wisdom: "Families don't go out for ice cream anymore. Families don't do much together anymore. It's a sign of the times."

So I glance around The Scoop, seeing teenagers, an older couple, and a mom with a toddler, but no families of five rushing to the counter. I sigh inwardly: Jimmy was right.

"How's your sundae?" Mark asks, taking a seat a next to me.

My mouth is too full of ice cream to express my gratitude, so I respond with "Mmm."

"Yeah, I feel the same way about ice cream." Mark smiles. "So Callie, I heard you got some schools looking at you?"

"Yeah, a few," I answer.

"Like?"

"Tennessee...Duke...Vandy...UNC. I want to stay in the South."

"So..." Mark begins, "we'll be watching you on TV someday."

"Yeah," Ian says, "and I can say I know that girl."

We went on to discuss their post-high school plans, but neither of them had any hopes for playing ball in college. Since middle school, I have had scouts looking at me. It was partly due to my skill, but mostly due to my dad. He was instrumental in getting local coverage at my games.

"When are you heading back to Riverside?" Mark asks.

"Today."

Mark offers his hand. "Well, it was nice to meet you, Callie. I'll see you around."

"Thanks. Nice to meet you, Mark." Then I swipe the napkin across my lips, soaking up any trace of syrup. I drop the napkin into my empty bowl and turn to Courtney. "We better get going."

"But you can't leave," Ian protests.

"Why not?"

"Because, ma'am," Ian intonates a police officer, "you're over the legal limit of ice cream. It's not safe to be on the roads"

I eye him. "That was really lame."

"Would you prefer I beg you to stay?"

"No, I would not."

He grabs my hand. "Oh, Callie, please don't leave." He slides off the chair and gets down on bended knee. "Please don't leave me, Callie. Please don't go. I'm begging you to stay."

He's so ridiculous that I start to laugh. Actually, the only person in the whole ice cream shop not laughing is Courtney. She lets out a loud "ahem."

Ian glances over at her. "What?"

"Quit flirting with my best friend."

He stands up and spreads his hands to the side. "I'm not flirting." He steps toward Courtney. "What you were doing with the waiter—now that was flirting."

Courtney grabs Ian's hands and brings them up to her lips, kissing his fingertips. "Then I'm sorry, and I won't ever do it again." Courtney lies so easily.

*****

"Are you still leaving tonight?" Courtney asks while we lounge on the couch, the television droning on in the background.

"I don't know." I sigh. "I don't feel like driving now."

Her eyes light up. "Really?"

"Yeah," I say, not wanting to admit my fear of driving down the highway, alone, in the dark. The only reason why I drove here on Friday night was because my other emotions overshadowed the fear as I bulleted down I-4.

"Well, what do you feel like doing?"

"Something fun."

"How 'bout dancing?" She raises an eyebrow. "We could go to that party—the one that girl Vicki was talking about."

"Yeah, but..." I fall back against the couch. "I don't want to run into Ryan."

"Well, you won't. He doesn't do the party scene."

"Ever?"

"Neh-ver."

*****

Ian, Courtney, and I dance in the middle of the family room of Chris Somebody's house. Thumping techno encourages me to let loose, and I wave my arms, swirl my hips, and let the music move my body. Ian dances with both of us, keeping unwanted guys from entering our trio. A gyrating jerk tries to hump my backside. Ian shoves him to the side, and I mouth a "thanks."

Ian leans over. "This would be a helluva' lot easier if you had a date to fend off these guys." He smiles broadly. "Someone like—"

"No offense, but I don't want to go out with any of your friends."

Ian shakes his head, but I just close my eyes, lifting my arms into the air, feeling the music, letting it erase the people around me. This will be my last night here, my last night living a lie. Tomorrow will be my day of truth. I will wake up and tell Courtney about Tennessee before I drive back to Riverside to face the packing process. Sadness pulls at my stomach. I dance a few more songs until my bladder signals me to stop.

I slip off the "dance floor" and head down the narrow hall, joining the immobile line of girls. I lean against the wall, wishing I had not waited until the last possible moment. I feel like a little girl, keeping it in, while my father drives along a highway "just a bit longer."

Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn to find Vicki, that slutty chick from the burger joint. "You know Ian, right?"

"Yep," I answer sharply.

"Is Ryan here?"

I shrug, feeling the squeeze of emotions at the mention of his name.

"Do you know Ryan?"

I shake my head, not really lying. What I know about him could fill a 3 x 5 notecard, and my knowledge base will never expand beyond a measly ten facts, his three sports, his favorite basketball movie, and his propensity to speak French fluently.

"Hmm," she weighs. "I heard he was out with some girl last night. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

I turn, annoyed. "Vicki, right?" She nods. "Yeah, I was out with him last night, but it doesn't matter. It's over now."

"Yeah, and why's that?" She twirls a strand of hair around a finger.

I push out a breath. "Because I'm geographically undesirable."

"Huh?"

"And you're intellectually insufficient." Her mouth gapes open as she decodes my insult. "He's really, really smart, did you know that?" She shrugs, and I continue, defending Ryan. "I get that he's hot, but he's much more than that. And unless you can see him for more than a gorgeous face and some killer abs, then you don't belong with him either."

The door opens in front of me. "Thank God." I head in, do my business, and exit, giving Vicki one of those mean-girl glares.

I reenter the family room where it has morphed into couple skate at the roller rink. Slow songs croon from the speakers, and Ian has Courtney wrapped up in his arms. On my way toward the long couch with the other single ladies, some random guy stops me. "Wanna' dance, babe?" He slurs.

"No, thanks."

I decide to exit the scene, maybe get a breath of fresh air, but I take one look back as I near the French doors. The drunk random guy found some random girl, and they are dancing, real close now.

I open a door and walk into a conversation on the patio. "Dude!"

I slip past, unnoticed. "No way, dude."

"Yeah, dude."

I take the stairs down to the beach and remove my shoes when I reach the bottom step. I carry my strappy sandals in my hand as I stroll toward the water. The whirring winds drown out the conversation on the porch. I amble across the cool night sand as the ocean silences the party behind me. I reach the water's edge, lost in quiet thoughts for a few glorious minutes.

*****

"You shouldn't be out here all alone."

I ignore the comment, knowing who it is and hoping he will just go away.

"Some guy might take advantage of the—the situation."

"What?" I turn with a sneer. "Some guy like you?"

"Nah, not me," Doug begins, "I'm here 'cause you want me here—you want me deep...down...inside."

I step toward him. "You disgust me!"

"What? You'd rather be with a pansy like Ryan?"

"No." I brush past Doug and head back toward the party. "I don't think I'll ever see him again." I experience a hollowing in my stomach as the words escape my lips.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that?" He chuckles.

"Why?" I ask, even though I probably know the answer.

"'Cause," Doug says, "he just showed up."

"Great," I announce. "I'm so out of here." I do not need to see Ryan because I do not want to feel the wrenching pang of rejection all over again. As much as I needed him to stay and comfort me last night on the boardwalk, I really do understand why he left. After all, I'm moving to Tennessee in a matter of days.

"You want me to walk with you?"

"Nope." I head down the beach, noting the dark outlines of the high-rise condos in the distance.

"You always walk this fast?"

"Only when I want to get rid of someone."

He laughs and sidles up next to me. "What grade are you in?"

"What grade are you in?"

"High school was a while ago, babe." He pauses. "I bet a pretty girl like you gets tired high school boys." He steps in front of me. "I could show you how it feels to be with a real man." His breath reeks of liquor and stale cigarettes. He moves closer, slips his hands around my waist, and yanks me toward him.

I shove him in the chest. "Get your hands off me!"

I turn and walk faster toward Courtney's beach house. I sense that Doug is still behind me, and I search my brain, trying to figure out what to do now. I start to panic a little, wishing I would have read some of those mass emails or magazine articles about self-defense. Why did I think it wouldn't happen to me? It happened to Chloe. Hadn't her experience changed my view on drinking at parties, but why—up to this point—hadn't I considered my own vulnerability?

I continue walking, wishing the beach wasn't so dark, so empty, with only the stars to watch over me. With every step into the cool night sand, my confidence sinks and makes room for the rising fear.

"Like I said," his voice a few paces behind me, "it's not safe for you to be out here by yourself."

I respond with silence, not looking back.

"It's okay. I'll make sure you get home," he pauses, "eventually."

I increase the pace, my heartbeat accelerating with each step.

"And don't worry. I can keep up with you," he snickers. "I jog several miles every day."

"Great," I return, masking my escalating fear with mock confidence.

He chuckles again.

Is hate a viable weapon of self-defense? Because I hate this guy so much, and all guys like him. Anger grows inside of me, burning in my chest, ready to fire a round of verbal ammunition, and a part of me wants to turn around and kick him where it really hurts.

I look ahead at the long line of houses, and I consider the two destinations: Courtney's house or the party. I turn, not afraid to conquer this problem, or any other problem that comes my way. I'm not weak; I'm not vulnerable. I sprint past him and head back toward the party, running at top speed, my arms pumping in pace with my growing fear, knowing someone will see me, and if it comes to it, hear me.

Out of the darkness, a figure advances toward me, coming from the direction of the party. I try to make out the shape, the gender, the age. Something is familiar about the walk, and as the distance decreases, I realize who it is.

"Callie?" Ryan asks. "What the hell is wrong?"

Breathless, I just point behind me. I lean over, resting my hands on top of my thighs and suck in air. Then I straighten up, slowly, seeing Doug sauntering toward us. I point again. "He won't leave me alone."

"Is that so?" Ryan advances on Doug, and they square off. Ryan keeps his eyes on Doug, but his words are meant for me. "Go back to the party!"

I ignore him and remain, not wanting them to go to blows. "He isn't worth it, Ryan."

Doug closes the gap between them, glancing in my direction. "This isn't really about you, sweetheart." He looks back at Ryan. "Maybe if you would have been there and not been sitting at home that night—"

"Shut your mouth, Parker!" Ryan yells, then turns back to me. "Go inside, Callie. I mean it!"

As Ryan begins to turn toward Doug again, Doug's fist hits Ryan's face while these words leave his wicked lips: "Why, you don't want her to see this?" Doug makes quick contact with Ryan's mouth. Then Ryan retaliates with a sharp blow to Doug's jaw and Doug stumbles back.

"Stop it!" I yell.

Ryan rushes up on him, his palms ramming Doug's chest. Doug stumbles back a few feet but regains footing and confronts Ryan again. Ryan is ready; he offers a sharp punch to Doug's face and then one to the stomach. Doug caves, crumbles, gasps for breath.

"C'mon." I move closer. "That's enough! Stop it! Both of you, stop it right now!" I look back up at the party, but we are still a few houses down. No one notices the fight on the beach, and I consider getting help, but what will happen while I am gone? I decide to stay and put an end to this. "Stop it!" I scream, but my words have no effect on them.

Doug lunges forward and tackles Ryan to the ground. They roll around in the sand, but Ryan proves victorious, dropping punch after punch into Doug's face. Doug blocks a hit and then manages to slide out, crawling forward in the sand. Ryan gets to his feet and hovers over Doug. He breathes heavily, and under the soft moonlight, I notice his crazed expression. The fight could end there. It should end there, but it doesn't. Ryan moves forward and kicks Doug in the side. I rush forward and scream for him to stop, but he doesn't hear me. Then a low moan oozes out of Doug, and Ryan kicks him again, harder. The next sound is muffled agony, a sound I have never heard in real life—only witnessed in movies or on television.

I yell again. "Stop it, Ryan! You have to hear me!" Tears slip down my cheeks. I worry for Ryan's sake and what he could do to Doug. "You have to stop! You could kill him!"

Ryan finally hears me; he takes a step back, stares at Doug's listless body, and then glances in my direction. He breathes heavily but finds the energy to shout, his voice a deep, guttural tone. "Get the hell up, Parker! Now!" Doug rolls up on his side, slowly. "And don't ever go near her again!" Doug army-crawls for a few feet. "And this," Ryan begins, pointing at me, "was about her!" Doug finds the strength to make it onto all fours and eventually staggers back toward the party.

Ryan remains a few feet from me, breathing heavily, while my thoughts remain on his last words to Doug. His defense of me softens my heart, and even if Ryan and I will never see each other after tonight, I will remember him always. No guy, not even one of my brothers, has ever gotten into a fight over me.

I step toward him. "Are you okay?"

He touches his mouth gingerly. "Yeah, but he got me pretty good."

The first punch flashes in my mind. "You should really get some ice on that."

His eyes drift toward the party. "I don't want to go back there...or home yet."

"I'll take you to Courtney's then. You okay to walk?"

"No." He steps closer with a smirk. "You'll have to carry me."

I shake my head. "Apparently, that blow to the face has impaired your judgment, and you have vastly overestimated the power of these pipes." I point at my bicep, and he laughs lightly.

As we start toward Courtney's house, Ryan starts reciting the alphabet backward at a rapid speed to prove his mental clarity. "See my mental faculties are still in order."

"People do that to prove their sobriety." I turn, lowering my voice. "Sir, have you been drinking tonight?"

"No, ma'am, I never drink," he slips in some southern sincerity.

"Neither do I."

"I know. Ian told me...on the night he first met you."

I glance in his direction; my interest piqued. "What else did he say?"

"He said that he had found the perfect girl for me and that I better show up for Saturday's game to meet her." He pushes out a breath. "It was the first game that I made all summer."

I sense the gravity of his statement and how it hints at some deeper truth. "Are you ready to talk about last season yet?"

"No." He turns, anger resurfacing. "What's the point? You're moving to Tennessee now."

I stride closer to him. "And you're still mad at me about that? Like it's my choice, Ryan."

"You should have told me sooner."

"Really?" I press my lips together as tears well in the corners of my eyes. "You were the first person I told." I recapture the hurt from the night on the boardwalk. "And when I told you, Ryan, you stormed off." I pause, gaining momentum. "Do you know how hard this is on me—to move right before my senior year?"

"I get that, but can you understand why I got mad at you?"

"Yeah, you got mad at me for something I couldn't control. Well, Ryan, I'm mad at you for something you could control. Your reaction. You should've reacted differently when I told you." I bare the truth. "It really hurt me when you walked off."

He lowers his voice. "Yeah, I shouldn't have done that to you."

"Well, it's easy to say that now, Ryan." I talk to him, but I'm speaking to a myriad of people: "It's so easy to apologize afterward, but it doesn't erase anything. The damage has already been done."

My words silence him and then we amble down the beach as the night whispers around us. We stroll past his house while an older couple, holding hands, edges along the waves on our other side.

Ryan punctures the silence. "Sentences backwards in conversation a on carry can I."

"I can so."

"Before this done ever you have?"

"No."

"Fun it find you do?"

"Nope."

"Me at mad still you're?"

"Well, I find it hard to focus on being mad at you when I'm trying to decipher your every sentence," I turn in the sand and head up toward Courtney's house.

"I'll keep that in mind for next time."

"Who says there will be a next time?"

"Ouch," he mutters, "that hurt worse than Doug's fist."

I glance over at him, seeing his hurt expression, and try to soften my approach. "Ryan." I push out a breath. "I'm sorry about the fight, and just so you know, I never gave Doug any reason to pursue me." I step on the wooden walkway which cuts through the sea dunes and stroll toward Courtney's house.

"He doesn't need a reason, Callie," Ryan's voice comes from behind me, "and just so you know, this wasn't the first time he and I went to blows over a girl."

"Yeah, I figured that out," I say, turning slightly, "so what happened the last time?"

"I won the fight and the girl."

"Well," I begin, turning to face him, "you definitely won the fight tonight, but I'm not so sure about the other part."

I drop my shoes on the porch and open the sliding glass door, hearing his soft chuckle. Ryan follows me into Courtney's house and sits down at the kitchen bar. I slide ice into a Ziploc bag and then wrap the ice in a blue washcloth from the linen closet. I return to Ryan, yet I remain on the other side of the counter. I hold the ice pack out to him, but he grabs it and my hand, bringing them both to his mouth. Standing at arm's length across the counter, I watch the clock, thinking how he should ice for at least ten minutes. I begin to process the night's events—from Ryan showing up on the beach until now. Instead of making conversation, I let the silence remain between us until my eyes slide slowly from the lethargic clock and in his direction. His eyes connect with mine as he smiles warmly, and he mumbles a soft "hey."

I examine him under the lights, and notice his light brown hair, sandy and tousled. "I'm so sorry, Ryan."

"Why?" He mumbles. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I was talking about last night."

"Yeah, so was I." His other hand slides across the counter and lands on top of mine. "I overreacted, Callie." Ryan places the ice on the counter. "So, uh, how bad does it look?"

I scrutinize his swollen lip. "Well, I think you got the better end of the deal."

"Yeah, I sure did." He smiles, but only one corner of his mouth slides into his cheek. "So...you busy tomorrow?"

I narrow my eyes. "Maybe?"

"C'mon, Cal. I just said I was sorry."

"Did you?"

"Maybe not in so many words."

"Maybe not in any words." I quip back. "I'm the one who apologized, Ryan—not you."

"You want me to apologize?"

"Yes," I return softly with a smile.

He pushes out a breath. "I'm sorry for walking off last night." He hesitates before he speaks again. "And if I didn't care about you, then I wouldn't have gotten so mad."

"You were really mad, Ryan."

"Well..." He smiles gratuitously. "What the hell does that tell you?"

My cheeks redden, and I beam back with a grin. I never considered his reaction to be a litmus test for his feelings, and unfortunately, I read the results incorrectly last night. My anger evaporates completely as we chat under the soft light of the hanging pendants.

"When's your last day in Florida?"

"We leave a week from this Friday. Schools start after Labor Day up there."

He heaves a sigh. "I wish you didn't have to move." He puts the ice back on his lip.

"Me too." I skirt around the kitchen bar, slowly, and slide onto the stool next to him. I find his other hand and hold it, then lift it to my lips. I kiss his knuckles, the ones that defended me against Doug. His fingers find my face, his warm hand cupping my check, and then his thumb traces my lips. I open my mouth slightly and press my lips against his thumb. His fingers glides down my neck, across my bare shoulder, and then land in the small of my back. I slide off the stool and advance toward him. I nestle against his open thighs as my arms encircle him. My head rests on his shoulder, and I absorb the moment, taking in the spicy aroma of his cologne while his hand rubs wide circles on my back. I plant a kiss on the crook of his neck and tighten my arms around him. The ice hits the counter, and then both of his arms wrap around me tightly. Then he slowly slides off the stool, and we readjust into a standing embrace. I like how we line up together—with him just a few inches taller than me. We sway slightly to the melody of our beating hearts.

"Are you still mad at me?"

"No." I kiss his neck again.

"So I can say that I won the fight and the girl?"

"Yes," I reply inside a laugh.

He leaves a soft kiss on my temple and then finds my ear. "I don't want to leave you, but it's getting late."

I look into his green eyes. "Do you have a curfew?"

He steps back and eyes the clock on the stove. "Yep, midnight." Our hands join, holding onto the warmth of the moment. "Can I see you tomorrow?" Ryan asks, with tenderness in his light emerald eyes, and I smile back and nod. "How about I pick you up at six?"

With our hands still joined and our eyes still connected, I ask. "Where do you want to go?

"How about dinner at the country club? It's pretty dressy." He pauses. "So I hope that's okay."

"I did not pack anything nice, so I'll just have to go shopping tomorrow. But I'm not opposed to that!" I smile back at him, suppressing my surfacing anxiety over spending money.

He starts toward the sliding glass door, and it dawns on me: Ryan probably walked to the party.

"Hey," I stop him. "I can drive you home."

"If it's not too much to ask..."

I grab my keys off the entryway table, and Ryan follows me out to my red Toyota Corolla. I start the engine, and George Strait croons from the speakers.

"Country music. My secret pleasure," I admit as I take a quick left onto A1A.

"That's okay. I secretly like opera."

"Really?"

"Not really, but my mom drags us to one every year to, um, as she says, 'broaden our horizons and give us an appreciation of the arts.'"

I smile, remembering the same speech about seeing the Nutrcracker ballet at Christmas every year. Only a minute passes before I'm pulling up his cobblestone driveway and getting a full view of his spectacular home. I cut the engine and turn toward him. "Wow, your house is amazing."

"It's not mine, and chances are, I will never own a house this nice. After all, we are part of a generation that will not surpass our parents in economic wealth."

"Perhaps we'll be better off if we don't let money run our lives."

He suppresses a smile. "Before we go into a discussion of the downfalls of materialism, I should probably warn you that I have a pretty sweet ride."

"Nicer than the Corolla?" I pat the dash affectionately.

He winks. "I'll let you decide tomorrow night, girl." He puts his hand on the door handle. "I'll see you soon." He opens the door, letting the sounds of the night slip in.

"Wait."

He turns. "What?"

"I was hoping for a..."

"A what?"

"A little goodnight kiss?" I point to my cheek, hoping he finds my lips instead.

He leans across the car, his face very close, and his eyes narrow. "Why? You like to see how many guys you can kiss in one day?"

My jaw drops. "Ian told you!"

"Guess what? Guys talk."

"I was mad at you," I defend.

"I know that, but why weren't you mad at him?"

"I was—"

"Then why'd you kiss him?"

I feel like a scolded child. "I don't know."

"Well, you should know."

I close my eyes for a moment and exhale. "But I don't know. He kissed me, and I kissed him back." I lift my eyes up and shake my head. "I never thought...it wasn't like we were..."

He holds up a hand. "You don't owe me an explanation."

"I don't?" I am stunned at his response.

"No, you don't, but after tonight you will. I don't know what this is," he pauses, gesturing between us, "or what it will ever become, but I don't want you kissing other guys while we figure it out."

"But after we figure it out?"

"You're kidding, right?"

I bite down on my lip. "Sorry. I was trying to make you laugh."

"Yeah, I'm not finding much humor in this conversation." He opens the door and steps out. Before he closes the door, he offers one last smile. "Goodnight, girl."

*****

I return to Courtney's house, finding all the lights on but no sign of her, so I walk down the hall toward her bedroom. I place my ear on the door and hear faint murmurs. Then the door opens, and I fall forward, almost crashing into Ian. "What were you doing?" he asks.

"Me? What were you doing?"

"I was tucking in your drunk friend." He walks down the hall, enters the family room, and grabs his keys off the coffee table. "So—where were you?"

"Well, Ian, I'm sure you'll find out. Apparently, guys talk these days."

He chuckles. "So you and Ryan had a nice chat, huh?"

"Well, it would have been nicer if you hadn't told him about...you know."

"You said you didn't care."

"That's because I thought he didn't care."

"Does he care?"

"Do you really care?"

Ian shakes his head and meanders toward the front door.

"Listen, you'll probably hear this from Ryan," I begin, "but just so you know, he and Doug got in a fight tonight."

Ian turns. "Ooh, that would explain everything. Doug sauntered through the party, looking like hell, but he didn't say what happened. Now I know the whole story." He scrutinizes me. "I'm guessing they were fighting over you."

"I don't know." I shrug innocently. "But Ryan won."

Ian slips out the front door, and I head into the bedroom. I get ready for bed and then slide under the thin, cotton sheets. I feel giddy, like a kid trying to fall sleep on Christmas Eve. In a matter of hours, I will be kissing the real Ryan, but for now, I can spend the night, doing whatever I want with my fantasy version.

### 7. Thursday

The morning sun casts warm rays across the room, and I awake, eager to start the day which will turn into a wonderful night with Ryan. I throw off the sheets and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I cross the room, head out to a quiet kitchen, and prop myself up on a bar stool. Grabbing a notepad and pen, I top a sheet with "To-Do List" and feel like Caitlyn Rivers. She is a notorious list maker, and we all make fun of her for making lists for everything.

Well, we don't make fun of her anymore. We learned our lesson two years ago: At a slumber party when Caitlyn wasn't there, Courtney got this not-so-bright idea to create a notebook called My Book of Lists. We pretended it was written by Caitlyn and passed it around, creating lists like "My Favorite Sexual Positions," "An A-Z List of Adorable Things about Brandon Edwards," and "My Friends (In Order of Ranking)."

Courtney accidently took the notebook to school, and since our lockers are like communal property, Caitlyn found it, returned it open to "My Friends (in Order of Ranking)," and had crossed out all of our names.

Caitlyn gave us the silent treatment for about a week, but her mother, the guidance counselor, had plenty to say to us. Mrs. Rivers called all of us into her office and gave us a 30-minute lecture.

"Is it nice to make fun of people in a wheelchair?" she began.

We shook our heads.

"Would you make fun of a friend who had depression?"

Again, we shook our heads.

"But you see no problem in making fun of someone who suffers from a serious clinical condition." That was when we learned all about OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) and also when we vowed not to make fun of Caitlyn anymore. There are, of course, times when we break those vows—especially when Caitlyn is suffering from a serious social condition called snobbery.

My thoughts return to my list and all the things that I need to get done before my date with Ryan. I jot down new dress, new shoes, make-up, nails, whiten my teeth, and protein treatment for hair. Even though I don't have any cash, I have a Visa card from my grandmother in my wallet. She sent it to me to buy new school clothes, but maybe I can get everything on sale and still have enough for some essentials.

I head back to the bedroom, throw on a Vanderbilt T-shirt and shorts, grab my purse, and sans shower, I head toward the front door. But first I stop at Courtney's door. I knock, wait, and then try it again. No answer. I open the door slightly and speak to the lump in the middle of the massive king-size bed.

"Court?"

An unrecognizable murmur is her reply.

"I'm going out shopping."

"Huh?"

"I'll be back later."

"Wha—?"

"Just go back to sleep."

"'Kay."

Obviously, Courtney is suffering from a hangover, meaning I will fill her in on last night's events later. Won't she be surprised when I tell her?

*****

I park by the mall's food court entrance, and the smell of cinnamon gooey goodness greets me as I walk in the door. That's when I regret not making time for breakfast this morning; I try to focus on the shopping and not the warm savory smells. I pass temptation after temptation: fresh brewed coffee; soft bagels; and hot breakfast from a small diner. Somehow I walk through the food court with my wallet still intact.

With my family's fall from financial bliss, I have learned to live without many things in life and to buy only what I absolutely need. As I stroll through the mall, the want-versus-need argument plays in my head. I have so many needs: new basketball shoes, socks, bras, and underwear. But instead of purchasing essentials, I am buying a new dress and shoes. Then I consider the reason: Ryan is rich, and I don't want to be the girl who lives in a crappy, two-bedroom apartment on wrong side of Riverside. I want to be the girl who lives in the seven-bedroom palace. Just one last time, I want to be the rich girl again. And I want to play that part for Ryan.

Then I imagine Ryan walking up to the front door of our old house, ringing the doorbell, and meeting my dad and mom. My father could talk about his playing days, and my mother could serve him some fresh-baked cookies. Then Ryan and I could depart on his white horse for our date in fantasyland.

Back in reality, I have not ventured into a store yet. I am still scanning the mall for sale signs, and then a dress in a window, black and white with shimmery beads, catches my attention. I walk in and go immediately for the price tag. I sigh at the cost; the dress is more than the amount on my Visa card.

"Ooh, great choice. We just got that in," the salesgirl begins. "Would you like me to start a fitting room for you?"

"Um," I stall, "I don't think so."

I turn and look at her; she is full of makeup and smiles and dressed in the latest trends. She flicks her head toward the back of the store. "Just so you know," she eyes me like she's adding up my spending potential, "we have our sale items in the back—with many new markdowns." She tops off her speech with a toothy grin, and I almost expect her teeth to sparkle under the fluorescent lighting.

"Thanks," I say and leave the store, quickly. I stroll in several more shops, old favorites. Swallowing my pride, I make a beeline for the sale racks in the back. Nothing strikes my interest. It's either beach casual or prom-night dressy. I cannot find the right look, the look in my mind, until I reach the last wing of the mall. A tiny boutique is my last chance, and I spot a lady in the window, accessorizing a mannequin. I step in. She welcomes me with a warm smile. "Can I help you with something?"

"Yeah." I stride closer. "I'm looking for a dress."

"For a special occasion?"

"Yes. For a date."

Her eyes light up, grandmother style, as if I told her about making the honor roll or the winning shot in a game. "Ooh, in that case..." She walks around the mannequin and gestures for me to follow her. "Let me show you some dresses over here." She pulls a few from a rack: white, sea blue, pale yellow, black. She holds them up. "Do you like any of these?"

I nod, and we head over to the purple-curtained fitting room.

"My name is Linda," she says as she closes the curtain. "Let me know if you need anything else, dear."

"Okay," I say, and before I try on any of the dresses, I check their price tags. Not too bad. I could still afford shoes and some new makeup and maybe some other back-to-school essentials.

I go in reverse order of preference, saving the white one, the best one, for last. The black one is much too short. The pale yellow has room for me to grow on top. The sea blue dress fits nicely, but the color is not really me. I step into the white one, zip up the back of the dress, and adjust the straps. The white ribbon-like sash hangs down, and I attempt a haphazard knot. I slip past the purple curtain, and Linda meets me with compliments. "With your coloring, that dress looks stunning on you, dear." She steps closer, tying the thin sash into a perfect bow. "So," she pauses with a smile, "what's his name?"

"Ryan."

"Well, I'm sure Ryan will like this." She smiles sweetly, like my mom did when she saw me in my prom dress for the first time, the one I wore for Mike.

I mirror the smile, feeling happy, and then a sudden ache swells inside. Something stirs up the sadness, a melancholy longing, a need to share this moment with my mom. I return to the fitting room and decide to give her a call when I get back to the house. Yes, I will tell her about Ryan and our date, knowing she could use some happy news. For months now, anger, sadness, and tears have ruled our conversations. Maybe that's why I left. I couldn't cry anymore, and I couldn't watch her cry either. I hungered for happiness.

Returning to the fitting room, I dress quickly and exit with the white dress draped over my arm. Linda helps me find some cute flats, a recent markdown, and then we head over to the cash register. She gestures at the jewelry display. "Need any else?"

"Um," I admit. "I'm on a budget." I hand her my Visa card.

"Then it's a good thing these are free," she says, pulling out a box and setting it on the counter. "I just took them off the mannequins this morning. Pick something you like."

"I-I-I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"Won't you get in trouble with the manager?"

"Nope." She grins, looking the part of my fairy godmother. "I own the store."

I pull out a silver chain from the box; a small heart dangles on the end of it. It's simple and sweet, and I think of my conversation with Courtney yesterday. After everything with my parents and Mike, yes, I still believe in love. "Thank you...thank you very much."

"Oh, you're welcome, dear." She wraps each item carefully in soft pink tissue paper and places them in a large white bag. She slides the bag across the counter. "And have a nice time with Ryan tonight."

"I will...and thanks again, Linda." I leave the store and head toward the food court, swinging my bag, and trying to decide what I can get to eat quickly. I grab a muffin, a healthy oat bran variety, lacking in taste but pretty filling, and I am at my car in minutes.

*****

Before I head back to Court's place, I stop at the Publix along A1A. Back when we had a money tree growing in the backyard, I used to buy my make-up from those perky snobs at the department store, but now I get what I need from the supermarket.

I enter the store, refreshed by the cool air conditioning, and survey the layout. I am at the non-food side of the store, right in front of the health and beauty supplies. I pick up a new shade of shimmery lip gloss and a small palette of eye shadows. New make-up always makes the occasion more special. Then I travel along the back of the store, sliding by the deli, the meat counter, the dairy section, and then I land in the produce.

My stomach puts in a request for food, so I head toward the large fruit display, wanting to get something quick for a snack. A mother is there, going through the apples and putting them in a bag. Her toddler, a cute blonde in short pigtails, stands in the back of the cart. The little one is touching a floral arrangement which occupies the front seat of the cart.

"Don't touch that, Emily. That's for Grandma."

"Kay," says Emily, but when her mother turns to select some pears, Emily pulls off a flower. I smile, understandingly. As a little girl, I used to roam our yard and secretly pick flowers. I would make tiny bouquets and sometimes tuck a flower behind my ear.

I eye Emily, smiling, admiring her little bloom, twisting it in her fingertips and smelling it. She looks so pleased with herself.

"Emily," her mother shrieks, "that is not for you! Give me that." Emily's mother grabs the flower from her daughter's hand and tosses it into a trash can.

Emily's little lip starts to quiver, and then tears seep down her cheeks. Feeling sorry for the little girl, I almost buy a flower for Miss Emily. Not a rose. I really hated that story in English class. In American Lit, every story, every book, every poem we read ended unhappily—like the entire American culture only wrote about dreadful things. I mean, there has to be some author out there who does not need antidepressants. Actually, I think my teacher needed them since he showed up every day in shades of black, grey, and dark brown, forever cloaked in fall and winter. Not the best choice for Florida—the land of eternal sunshine and humidity.

I look up at Emily, now bawling, and watch her mother push the cart toward the check-out, and with a turn, I grab an apple and then head toward the floral section, deciding to pick up something for Courtney, a small gift of thanks for letting me stay all week.

As I enter the floral department, I notice a guy at the counter who resembles Ryan. I stop and wait. Then I hear his voice, and I know it's him. I step forward, ready to say "hello," but luckily, stop and consider how I probably look, and even worse smell. I step back slowly as I watch Ryan lift an arrangement of vibrant pink blooms off the counter. I realize the flowers are for me, and I don't want to ruin his wonderful surprise. I pivot quickly and head deep into the produce section, hanging out with the varieties of lettuce. I wait and breathe, one unsteady exhale at a time, and watch as he exits the store.

When I stroll into the floral department, the florist is fixing the front display, rearranging the plants to put the ones with the fullest blooms on the top. She has silver hair, pinned up in a loose grandmotherly bun, and her name badge reads 'Paula.' Paula turns with a smile. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, um, I need a little plant. Like for a window sill or something."

"Sure, hon. Follow me." We walk toward the back display, and she hands me a tiny plant with purple blooms.

"And how much is it?" I feel slightly embarrassed for asking, but I don't have much left on my card. "Because it's just a little something for a friend—just to say thanks."

"Well," she begins with a smile, "nothing says it better than flowers. And lucky for you, the African Violets are on sale this week."

"That's good," I respond and place my basket on the counter. "Can I check out here?"

She nods and I unload the contents on the counter and notice the pink stems on her work table behind her, inwardly smiling at Ryan's thoughtfulness. How many guys buy a girl flowers on the first date?

She notices my stare. "Very pretty, aren't they?"

"Yeah, what are they?"

"Calla Lilies."

"Oh, they're so beautiful."

"Well, people use them in bridal bouquets or other special occasions. Since we don't carry them in stock, I have to special order them."

"Special order? Well, how long does it take?"

"Oh, a week or so."

A week? I haven't even known Ryan that long. Does that mean the flowers are not for me? But who are they for? I try not to jump to conclusions and consider the palpable possibilities. He might be buying them for his grandmother or an aunt in the hospital.

"Do you want me to order you some?"

"Some what?"

"Some Calla Lilies," she eyes me curiously.

"Um...probably not."

"If you decide you want some, it's not a problem at all. I order them for Missy every week. That's my oldest granddaughter." She pauses, spying my Vanderbilt T-shirt. "You don't live 'round here, do you?"

"No," I say, standing there, not yet connecting the dots between Missy, the Calla Lilies, and Ryan.

"Let me show you a picture of my Missy." She turns and pulls her purse from under the counter. She produces a floral patterned album with Grandma's Little Brag Book stitched across the front of it. "I have seventeen grandchildren...and lots and lots of pictures in here." My eyes follow her fingers, nimbly flipping through pages. "I'll show you my favorite one. Here she is." She turns the album, facing me. "This is from Homecoming," she begins. "Don't they look nice?" I look down at the picture and see Ryan next to a pretty blonde girl, but I don't really see Missy at all. My eyes are on him. His smile. His soft green eyes. I see Ryan clearer than I ever have before. He's perfect. An absolutely perfect lie.

Paula closes her album, but the picture of Ryan stains my mind. I never had a picture of Mike with Amber, but I imagined it vividly in my head. Shelved in my thoughts, I have my own album. It's thick and black. And it contains pictures of life's disappointments. Ryan becomes the latest image, and I slip him into a sleeve, facing Mike. I shut my eyes, tight, and wait for the image to blur.

"What's wrong, hon?" Paula asks.

My hand slides across my stomach. "Nothing."

"Something you ate?" She thumbs behind her. "Was it that new Mexican place down the road 'casue I've heard nothing but bad things about their food?"

I shake my head. "No, not that."

"I think the city health department needs to go in there and close that place down. I used to work in the bakery here and I know all about—"

"I gotta' go," I say.

"What about your groceries?"

"I-I-I don't need them."

"You sure?" I leave my basket, full of make-up and a perfectly red apple, in the floral section. I turn, but Paula's concern follows me. "You okay?"

I increase my pace and flee the store, grappling with my newfound realization: Ryan has a girlfriend, and her name is Missy. I refuse to cry. He doesn't deserve my tears any more than Mike did, but I have to wonder why guys keep hurting me. Why me? What the hell is wrong with me?

I step outside, and the unwelcomed heat greets me. I climb into the car and rush to get to Courtney's place, finding an empty house. A note is on the counter: At the beach. I flip over the piece of paper and write on it: Going home. Thanks for everything. Cal.

*****

My car zips down the highway and cuts through an early afternoon rain shower. The raindrops paint the road, turning the worn-out pavement to its original blackness, and I have no way to stop the flood of tears from falling down my cheeks. I consider the events from the last week: breaking up with Mike, finding out about the move to Tennessee, and discovering Ryan has a girlfriend. Each of these would have been more than enough to handle, but all three at once is like hitting the teenage-tragedy trifecta.

As the rain slows its cadence, the highway announces the Riverside exit. I turn off and veer right, not heading toward my apartment but toward the side of town where I used to live. I take another right and head down Riverside Drive. I pick up the phone: "Can you call me through the gate?"

As I enter the Preston's kitchen, I find Rob and Chloe at the kitchen table with a game of Monopoly between them.

"Hey, if you want to play, we could start over," Chloe says hopefully.

"No offense, Cal, but no way! I have all four railroads." Rob points to the board. "And I was about to put some hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place."

"Looks like you're in for a fun afternoon, Chlo."

"Yeah, real fun," she returns and pulls out a chair next to her. "Take a seat. You can be on my team." She glowers at Rob. "I'm sure this is exactly what Callie wants to do all afternoon, right?"

I shake my head. "Don't put me in the middle, Chlo."

Rob pushes out a breath and lays his pile of money on the table. "Fine, I forfeit."

"Yay, we win!" Chloe claps and then wraps on arm around my shoulders. "Callie is my good luck charm!"

"This," Rob begins, "does not go on our lifetime win-loss record of Monopoly games." He gets up. "And the winner gets to clean-up and put the game away. That's something new for you, huh?" Rob smiles, and then strolls toward the French door that leads out to the back patio. "I'll pick you up at six, Chlo." Before he opens the door, he turns back one more time. "And Callie, you should come with us tonight."

"Why? What do you two have planned for this evening?"

"Something that you should attend, so it will be less painful for me," Rob offers.

Chloe suppresses a laugh. "We're going on a double date with Brandon and Caitlyn."

I look over at him. "I'm so sorry, Rob."

"So you'll come, right?" Rob asks hopefully.

"If Chloe doesn't mind..."

Chloe swings an arm around my shoulder. "Not at all." Rob exits the kitchen, and Chloe starts to sort the money into piles, and then she organizes the property cards in the order they appear around the board.

"How often do you play Monopoly?" I wonder as I fold the board into half.

"Too often."

"How many times have you won?"

"Never."

"Maybe you should consider playing another game."

"Maybe you should consider my boyfriend's love for Monopoly, and the fact that I may come in a close second."

I start laughing.

"Yep, I wish I were kidding..." She places the lid on the game and returns the box to the game closet in the hall. I follow her up to her room and plop down on her antique sleigh bed. Chloe disappears into her closet and returns with an armful of sundresses. "Which one should I wear?" she asks as she holds up one at a time.

"The tightest, shortest, sexiest one." Chloe shakes her head, but I offer her my reason: "Listen, he leaves for college soon, so you need to give him what he wants before he goes."

She selects a black dress and drapes it over her desk chair; then she lays the other dresses over the footboard of her bed. "Believe me I would, but he still thinks we should wait. Of course, and don't tell anyone this, we plan to get married next summer."

My jaw drops.

"We had another talk on the way home from the beach." She grins. "A really good one."

"That's great, but you'll only be eighteen."

"I know," she begins and sits down next to me, "but then we can live together at Georgetown."

I glance over at her. "Can I come to your wedding, or is it going to be one of those justice-of-the-peace varieties?"

"It's going to be a normal wedding with our close friends and family, and yes, I want you to be there." She reaches over and puts her hand on top of mine. "After all, you'll be my maid- of-honor."

"I will?" I pause, grappling to process this. "Isn't Courtney your very best friend?"

Chloe rises from the bed, lifts the other dresses off the footboard, and enters her closet. "We're not that close anymore." She continues talking as she hangs her dresses back in the closet. "Something happened while I was in Kentucky." She exits her closet and looks at me. "It's like there's something between us now, but I don't know what it is."

I do, I say inwardly. "Maybe she just feels guilty because it happened at her house." I say this, but I doubt Courtney feels any guilt about the date rape taking place in her guest bedroom.

"I don't know." Chloe walks over to her dresser and opens her jewelry box. "All I know is that she and I are growing apart, and I have just come to accept it." She pulls out a strand of pearls and sets them on top of her dresser.

She sits back down next to me. "Do you want to borrow a dress for tonight?"

"Nope, I went shopping for one this morning."

She scrunches up her face. "You did?"

I nod. "It's a long story, Chloe, and I wasn't even planning on telling you about it." I let out a long exhale, fall back, and plop my head on the pillow. She scoots around me and lays down on the other side of the bed. I flip over to face her.

"Does this long story have a happy ending?" she asks.

I shake my head and then give her a quick recap of my Ryan fiasco.

"So let me get this straight," Chloe begins, "you spotted this guy buying flowers for his girlfriend, and since his girlfriend's grandmother was actually the florist, you found out from her?"

I nod.

Her blue eyes widen. "That's awful!"

"I have an even worse story."

Chloe grabs a little stuffed bear and clutches him to her chest. "Well, I'm ready to hear it."

"My mom decided to take a job in Tennessee, and I'm moving in a week."

Chloe gasps audibly and then covers her mouth. "Don't tell me that," she says, tears seeping out with her words. "Rob's leaving? You're leaving? I'll be all alone. How am I supposed to..."

I reach out and touch her arm. "I'm sorry. I don't want to go." I join her, tears spilling down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry for my...reaction." She looks up at me with those icy blue eyes. "I sound selfish, Callie, but I just don't know what I'll do without you." She wipes a tear from her face.

"You're strong, Chloe," I encourage her. "Stronger than anyone of us." I look at her intently, wiping a few tears from my cheeks. "Just so you know, I haven't told any of our friends yet, so please keep it a secret for now."

"I will," she pauses. "I promise." She extends an open palm, and I tap two fingers in the middle of it. I flip my hand over, and she taps two fingers in mine. Then we both form Cs and bump them on top of each other. We complete the secret handshake of the Seven Cs and seal the secret.

"If we're going to spend our afternoon crying, then we need something to help us through this situation." She sits up and swings her legs over the side of the bed. "I'll be right back!"

If I didn't know her better, I'd expect her to come back with a bottle of Captain or Jack from her parent's liquor cabinet, but this is my sweet friend Chloe. Minutes later, she enters, carrying a tub of Rocky Road ice cream and two spoons. "I keep this for emergencies," she explains with a shrug. "I was expecting to eat this whole half-gallon on the morning Rob left for Georgetown." She lets out a shaky breath. "I wish I could just skip next year."

"Me too," I admit as those scary feelings about a new school surface again.

We sit in the middle of her bed, chatting, sniffling, and eating spoonful after spoonful of chocolate heaven. After a few minutes, she slides off the bed and starts playing Shania Twain's "Any Man of Mine" from the speakers on her desk since she knows my secret obsession with country music. She comes back over and pulls me off the bed. I walk a few steps and bump my hips to the side. I lift my arms up and swirl my hips in a circle. Chloe starts singing louder, and I join in, adding a random "ooh" when it feels right. I love to listen to her sing. Her voice is smooth and soothing, perfectly flawless, like our friendship.

"Oh, I hate this crap!" Chloe and I both turn and find Caitlyn Rivers, dressed in a pale pink dress, in the doorway. "Why aren't you ready yet?" Caitlyn advances toward Chloe and then diverts her attention to me. "And don't take any offense, but what the hell are you doing here?" With her snotty tone, it would be impossible not to take offense.

Chloe answers. "She's coming with us."

"Is Mike coming?"

I step toward her and shoot daggers at her. "No, and don't invite him...again!"

"Oh, yeah, that. It wasn't my idea, okay? He just showed up at Bran's house when he heard you were at the beach."

"Man," Chloe steps toward me. "And you left out the part about running into your ex. You really have had the worst week of your life, haven't you?"

"Why?" Caitlyn wonders. "What else happened?"

"It's a long story," Chloe and I chime in together.

Caitlyn shakes her head. "Listen, we can tell stories later, girlies. Right now you two look like crap, and we have a seven o'clock reservation downtown." She looks at me, annoyed. "I'll call and see if I can add one more to it."

Caitlyn's words send me bolting down the stairs and out to my car to get my duffle bag and a white bag from the trunk. I run back upstairs; Chloe lets me use her bathroom, and she descends the stairs to her brother's. I treat getting ready like an event in some bizarre competition. I wonder how fast I can shampoo, lather the body, shave, and condition my hair. I should have clocked it on my phone to see the results. Within a few minutes, I slip out of the shower and use some lotion and leave-in conditioner from Chloe's counter. I pull the dress out of the bag and put it on, leaving the ends of the sash undone.

A knock hits the door.

"I'm almost ready," I respond.

"Do you want me to do your hair while you put on make-up?" Caitlyn asks from the other side.

I open the door and the steam creeps out, and Caitlyn slides in with a compliment. "You look absolutely gorgeous." She ties the sash neatly in a bow. "You could be a model, you know that?"

"Thanks," I say and search my duffle bag for my make-up case. I start with my eyes, lining them in dark brown.

Caitlyn starts combing through my hair, making small braids. She roots around in Chloe's hair accessory drawer, finding some elastics, bobby pins, and silk white flower clips. She crosses the thin braids in the back, and pins in the flowers. Lastly, she hands me a mirror.

"Wow, it's nicer than my hair looked for prom." I smile at her. "Thanks, Caitlyn."

She raises her shoulders. "Hair is my specialty, you know?"

Chloe rushes into the bathroom. "Whoa, you look hot! What's the special occasion?"

"Well—I just like to look extra nice when I'm crashing a double date." I eye her up and down and smile devilishly. "Rob is gonna' change his mind when he sees you in that."

"That good, huh?" She tugs at the hem of the form-fitting black dress. "I just hope my dad doesn't freak when he sees me in this."

Caitlyn puts a hand on Chloe's shoulder. "You can hope all you want, but you better have a back-up plan because your Dad is going to make you change and you know it. Save this one for when he is out of town."

Chloe drops her shoulders and exits the bathroom.

I finish off by sliding some gloss over my lips and toss my junk in my duffle bag. I pick up the white bag off the floor and scoot into Chloe's bedroom. I find Chloe in a light blue sundress, frowning, and then Caitlyn follows behind me. "They're here. Let's go!"

Chloe rushes over to her dresser and puts the pearl necklace around her neck. It reminds me of the little silver heart, so I reach in the bag, find it wrapped in pink tissue paper, and close the clasp at the back of my neck. I trace the heart with my finger and think of Ryan for a moment, wishing he were not a lying cheat.

We descend the stairs and stroll into the Preston's two-story family room, and I nearly faint when I see an unexpected guy sitting on the couch with Rob, Brandon, and Mr. Preston. He glances in my direction and smiles warmly. I could not be more confused, but he reads this and crosses the room toward me.

"Hey," he begins, opening his arms for a hug. I accept his invitation and fall into his chest. "I hope you don't mind, but Chloe thought it would be more fun if you had a date tonight."

I step out of his arms, still speechless, and smile into the pale green eyes which belong to Josh Callahan.

Caitlyn rushes into our conversation. "Are you coming with us too?"

"If that's what Callie wants," he answers.

I smile, feeling heat in my cheeks. "Yeah, sure."

"Great." She wanders off. "I'll just call the restaurant again. The hostess is going to think I'm a complete lunatic."

Josh shrugs his shoulders. "So how have you been?"

"Great," I lie.

Caitlyn slides through our conversation again. "Bran can only fit five in his car." She looks up at Josh with a raised eyebrow. "Do you plan to sit on Callie's lap?"

"Well, that sounds like quite the offer, but," he starts, pulling keys out of his pocket, "I'll just drive tonight."

We exit through the garage, and my jaw drops at the sight of Josh's ride. I know that his family owns a chain of car dealerships, but how many seventeen-year-old guys drive a silver Range Rover?

Josh pops open the back and puts up the rear seat, so it would accommodate all six of us. Then he guides me toward the passenger door, opens it, and offers me a hand as I slide onto the seat. He walks around the front of the car and climbs into the driver's seat. He starts the engine, and Luke Bryan spills from the speakers. He eyes me. "You like country music?"

"Yessir."

He cranks up the volume and bullets down Chloe's driveway.

I try to breathe and act naturally, but I'm on a date, albeit a pity date set up by my best friend, with Joshua Callahan. When we were young, the seven of us played this game at one slumber party. It was called "Which Callahan Would You Date?" We wrote our choices secretly on slips of paper, but Josh won 5-2. I think Rob must have gotten Chloe and Christina, but the rest of us were infatuated with Rob's cousin. Courtney claimed Josh for herself and monopolized him with her slutty ways. If Josh had been given a choice, he would have pursued Carly Evans. She did not always lurk around corners in layers of black. She used to be popular and perky—just like Caitlyn.

Josh glances in my direction as he passes a semi on the highway. "You're awfully quiet."

"Sorry."

"It's okay. You don't have to talk to me." He peers slightly in my direction. "You may not even be happy about all of this."

"This?" I inquire.

"Being set up on a date."

"But it's not a real date."

He acts offended. "Are you trying to tell me I'm a fake date?"

"No, it's just a pity date."

"You're taking pity on me?"

"No!" I answer with a huff of laughter. "It's the other way around."

"Hey now," he begins, "you're much too pretty to be on a pity date, Callie Williams."

"Then...?"

"It's a real date, little lady."

"Who are you calling little? If I recall correctly, you just passed me up in height."

"All right, big mama."

I start to laugh. "You can just call me Callie, you know?"

"Not Callista?" He extends the final "a" to annoy me.

I place my hands over my face. "How do you remember that?"

"Games of Truth or Dare tend to be quite memorable."

I raise an eyebrow. "Especially for you and Courtney, huh?"

"Don't remind me," he grumbles.

"Speaking of Courtney, she is not going to like this." I gesture between us.

"I couldn't care less what she likes."

"Still bitter about prom, huh?"

"No, I got over that a while ago." He answers and says "while" with a slight drawl, and I try not to let his southern sexiness get to me. He exits the highway, and we land in a lane of slow-moving traffic. "Everyone okay back there?"

"Turn the music down," Caitlyn shouts from the very back.

"You want me to turn it up?" Josh taps the volume buttons on the steering wheel. "Okay!"

He sings along to a vintage country song and drums the steering wheel, and I turn, just to catch a glimpse of Caitlyn. She looks annoyed. Brandon remains occupied with his phone. Rob and Chloe sit in silence in the middle row as their hands remain laced together.

Josh turns down the volume. "Have you committed to a school yet?"

"No, I'm stalling a bit."

"Who's your front runner?"

"Vandy, I guess. It would be nice for my mom to have us all in the same school."

"Yeah, I understand. The three of us will probably end up at Stetson—just to stay close to home."

"Plus, you work for the dealership part time, right?"

"Almost full time now."

"Even during the school year?"

He nods. "I pretty much manage the dealership in Deland."

"All by yourself?"

"Well, I have forty employees to help me out."

I shake my head. "Wow, that's impressive."

"It's not that big of a deal, Callie. My family owns it, and my dad needs help running all the locations, and it's the smallest one. Getting a scholarship to play college ball with a top-rated program is a real accomplishment," he assures me as he enters the parking garage.

"Thank you, but just like you, I feel like I'm just entering the family business, and my dad had a lot to do with my success."

"Well then, we both are very blessed." He cuts the engine and looks over at me. "Let me get the door for you, okay?" His word "blessed" lingers in the air as I wait for him to come around to the passenger side.

We stroll through the streets of downtown and end up at a swanky restaurant with a phenomenal view of Orlando's evolving skyline. The city has grown exponentially over the years, and even at seventeen years of age, I view the city with a tinge of nostalgia, still remembering when certain buildings joined the fellow sky scrapers.

After the hostess shows us our round table in the back, Josh pulls out the chair for me, and I sit between the two Callahan cousins.

"This is almost like prom night," Caitlyn announces after a waiter sets the water glasses on our table.

"Yeah, but their dates," Chloe begins, pointing at Josh and me, "are not here."

"Thank God!" Josh and I say in unison and then break into a hearty laugh.

"We'll have to get a photo," Caitlyn decides.

Rob flags our waiter and hands him his cell. He gets five more phones as we all crowd behind a seated Rob and Chloe. Josh swings an arm around my shoulders, and I smile, hoping to find a few friends like this in Tennessee.

After dinner, we head to a comedy club, and I about explode with laughter when the comedian selects Caitlyn Rivers to go on stage. He puts a sombrero on her head and adds her to an improve skit which takes place in Mexico. She is not a natural actress, which really surprises me since she has acted happy to be Brandon's girlfriend for three years now.

Following the show, Josh drives us back to Chloe's house. Brandon and Caitlyn head home, but the four of us chat easily on the driveway, our conversations moving forward into next year and backward into the past. It's the gentle ebb and flow that accompanies years of friendship, and I know I will miss them tremendously when I live countless miles away.

Josh looks over at me. "How'd you survive a whole week with Courtney?"

I grin, thinking Josh knows her better than any of us, and that closeness infuriates her. She once told me how she could not play games with him, and how she had to be a different person with Josh than with any other guy. She had to be her true self since he can see through her veil of lies. "We got along okay." I pause. "She wasn't the reason why I left the beach early."

"It was because of that guy, right?" Chloe asks.

"Yeah, the cheater." I push out a breath. "Thank God I spotted him."

"With another girl?" Josh inquires.

"No," I clarify, "but buying flowers for her." I offer a brief overview of the Publix encounter and my ensuing conversations with the florist.

Rob rubs his chin. "He buys flowers for her every week?"

"Yes, every week."

"Hmm?" He presses his lips together and looks at me. "I'm a good boyfriend, right?"

I nod and look at Chloe for confirmation. She kisses Rob's cheek lightly; Josh sticks his finger down his throat in a gagging pantomime; and Rob punches Josh in the arm.

"But I don't buy flowers for Chloe every week. I mean, what guy would do that?"

"I don't know, Rob. Apparently, he does."

"Maybe he does it out of guilt," Josh offers. "Especially if he's cheatin' on her all the time."

Rob shakes his head. "It just doesn't make sense to me." He rubs his chin. "Guys buy flowers on special occasions or to apologize, but this weekly ritual isn't normal."

Chloe looks at me. "Don't pay any attention to his line of questioning." She touches Rob's arm gently. "He's always looking for fallacies in every argument because he's practicing to be a lawyer someday."

"Well, Rob, this is one case that doesn't need to be solved. As far as I'm concerned..." I clap my hands together. "It's case closed."

"Hey, it's up to you, Callie. I would just want to know the truth rather than make any false assumptions about someone." Then he and Chloe meander toward the woods that lead to Rob's house for a little kissy face, but I dismiss his parting words. After all, I know enough about men to understand how they act. I can thank my father, Mike, and Ryan for "explaining" it all to me.

I remain in the driveway with Josh, and I'm about to thank him for a great night when he gets a devilish grin on his face. "Watch this." He opens the driver's side door and shines the brights into the woods. Chloe and Rob separate quickly and then yelp back at him before they disappear deeper into the woods.

Josh doubles over with laughter, and I just shake my head. "You two will never change."

"Hell, I hope not." Josh pulls out a buzzing cell phone from his back pocket, and he looks annoyed as he scrolls through his texts. "Seriously?"

"Everything okay?"

He shakes his head. "Apparently, Caitlyn posted a picture of us at the restaurant..."

"And Courtney saw it?"

"Yep." He steps forward and finds my ear. "And if you really want to add fuel to the fire," he begins before his lips land on my cheek, "tell Courtney I gave you a goodnight kiss."

### 8. Friday

I place my plate of quiche, fruit salad, and fresh-baked scones on the patio table next to Chloe. I spent the night at Chloe's house last night, and the Prestons invited the Callahan clan over for brunch before the pool party. Before I sit down, Nancy Callahan, Josh's mom, takes the seat next to me. "I hope my son was a gentleman last night?"

"Yes, a perfect gentleman."

"Oh, good, because boys are like puppies. You train 'em the best you can, but you never know how they'll behave in public."

I cannot help but laugh. "I have two brothers, so I couldn't agree more."

"They both attend Vanderbilt, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She smiles at my reply since she's from the old South. "And Joshua tells me that you will be going there next fall."

"Probably."

"Well, it's very considerate of the three of you—to stay close together for your mom's sake." Nancy Callahan looks up at Rob's mom. "Oh, I'm sorry, Tracy. You know I didn't mean anything by that."

"I know, and really, it's all my fault," Tracy Callahan begins. "I went to Georgetown, and because I got pregnant, I never finished. Rob wants to go there and finish what I started, I guess."

"Well, it's an excellent school, so it's not a bad thing that he'll be going there for college," Mrs. Preston adds.

"And you, I presume," Aunt Nancy eyes Chloe, "will be going there next fall?"

Mrs. Preston raises a hand. "Can we talk about something else besides our children going off to college?"

"I agree," Tracy Callahan adds with sad smile, and Mrs. Preston touches her hand gently.

"Sure," Nancy begins and eyes Chloe's hand. "When's that ring moving to the other hand?" The position of the Claddagh ring offers different meanings, and if it is worn on the left hand, it signifies an engagement or marriage. Right now Chloe's ring remains safely on the right, but I know it won't stay there for very long.

"That is not the subject I was hoping for," Mrs. Preston injects.

Chloe starts with a suppressed smile. "Maybe Aunt Nancy should be banned from starting any more conversations."

Nancy Callahan's jaw drops and her hand hits her chest. "I am so insulted."

The table erupts with laughter.

*****

Following brunch, I stroll into the kitchen, carrying a stack of plates, and I slide next to Chloe at the sink. We have a long history of washing dishes together. With both of us being the only girls in our families, we were delegated the same job, and before we could go out, we would show up early at one another's house and speed up the process. Chloe even came up with dish ditties to pass the time. She leans into my ear. "Soap, soap, soap the dishes, gently in the sink. Wearily, wearily, wearily, wearily, life is full of steam..."

I laugh, scoop up some suds, and toss them at her pale blue tank top.

Her hand slips into the soapy sink for retaliation, but I grab her wrist. We start giggling as we play fight with bubbles.

"Oh, I'm so sorry that I'm late," my mom's voice enters the kitchen. "I got a call from a client and had to take it."

"Oh, no problem," Mrs. Preston assures her, "we have plenty of food left."

"I ate while I was on the call, but," my mom pauses, "I can't pass up one of these delicious scones."

My mom comes up from behind me. "Hello, Callie." She places a hand on my shoulder.

I turn slightly, "Hi, Mom. I didn't realize you were coming."

"The Prestons were kind enough to invite me." She scoops me into a hug, and I stay for a moment, soaking in the familiar wafts of her flowery perfume. I don't push her away with a room full of people surrounding us.

She steps back. "Did you have a nice time at the beach?"

"Yes," I reply tentatively.

"That's good." She smiles weakly. "I'm glad you had fun." Her words would not pass a lie detector test, but I appreciate her attempt at civility in front of my best friend's parents.

"Why don't we head into the living room?" Mr. Preston suggests as he nears us. "Callie, you can let Chloe finish those."

Chloe pouts at her father's words, but I just stick out my tongue at her. I dry my hands on the towel, fully realizing why my mom is here. She is coming to take me home and has elicited the help of Mr. and Mrs. Preston to talk some sense into me. I stroll through the kitchen and the formal dining room. Mr. Preston opens the French door into the living room, and I follow the moms into the spacious room with the high vaulted ceilings. A fan whirs above us, making the only sound at this secluded end of the house. Mr. Preston takes a wing chair, and my mother and Mrs. Preston share a couch. I sit alone on a pale green fainting sofa and expel a loud breath.

Mr. Preston begins, "Callie, we understand how difficult last year has been on you and your mom, and we," he gestures between Mrs. Preston and himself, "would like you to know how much we care about you. You have always been a wonderful friend to Chloe."

"Thank you, but..." I stare at my wringing hands, not wanting to disrespect my best friend's parents who have always opened their home to me, but I sense the beginning of a weighty lecture—one I don't want to hear. "Last year will be nothing compared to what next year will be like," I say, turning toward my mom, tears brimming in my eyes. I'm a small child again, pleading for her understanding. "Mom, I don't want to move and leave my friends behind."

"I understand, hon," my mother soothes.

"Do you? Do you really understand?" More tears fall down my cheeks. "And I don't want to let my team down...not during my senior year. We've worked so hard over the years, and Alexa, Krysta, and I have been playing together since we were in kindergarten."

"I know." I see the tears spilling from her eyes, and she opens her purse and pulls out a tissue, patting the corners of her eyes.

"If you know," I begin, my throat tightening and my voice weakening, "then why, Mom, are you doing this to me?"

She shakes her head and her face collapses into her hands. Mrs. Preston puts a hand on my mom's back, soothing her.

"Callie," Mr. Preston begins, "Your mother, Mrs. Preston, and I have discussed some options for next year."

Puzzlement fills my mind. "What kind of options?"

My mom rises slowly, skirts the glass table in the middle of the room, and sits next to me on the fainting sofa. She rests a hand on top of mine. "The Prestons have invited you to stay here during your senior year."

"What?" Shock fills my chest, and I look at my best friend's parents for confirmation. I receive it in the form of warm smiles.

"As long as you abide by our rules," Mr. Preston adds with a sterner expression.

"Yeah, sure, I know them very well. After all, I've heard Chloe complain about them for years." Maybe that was not the best choice of words.

My mother pats my hand. "I have one condition, though."

I turn toward her. "Yeah?"

"You'll give your verbal to Vandy," she starts to weep again, "so you can be...near me...again."

"One year here?" I clarify. "For four up there?"

She nods and wipes the tears from her eyes.

"Okay," I agree and put my arms around her, hugging her. "Thanks, Mom," I say quietly in her ear.

Mrs. Preston continues, "And Chloe needs you, so this arrangement will be a blessing for both of you."

I turn my head, still hugging my mom. "I know."

"And one more thing," Mr. Preston adds with a grin, "we haven't told her yet. We thought you might like to do that."

"Awesome! I would love to tell Chloe!" I slip out of the hug and look into my mom's watery eyes. "Thank you, Mom, for allowing me to stay. It means so much to me."

She bites down on her lip and nods. "I'd rather you come with me," she starts, her voice cracking, "but I know that's not what you want."

I shake my head. "No, I want to stay here, Mom. I really do, so thank you for understanding."

I rise slowly, exit the room, and leave the sadness behind me. Hope and happiness fills my chest as I enter the kitchen with tremendous news. Chloe is still doing dishes, so I tap her shoulder.

She turns. "What are you so happy about?"

"I have the best news ever!" I grab her soapy hands. "I'm going to live here next year—in your house!" Her eyes light up, and we both start jumping up and down in the middle of the kitchen. We are screaming, and giggling, and smiling.

"Whoa, who won the lottery?" Josh asks as he enters the kitchen.

"I did." I smile at Chloe. "I'm moving in here!"

Chloe mirrors my enthusiasm. "We'll be like sisters!"

"Great." Brad, Chloe's brother, joins the conversation. "I'll be outnumbered."

The rest of the family, and when I say family, I mean the Callahans as well, prove to be more enthusiastic than Brad. I get hugs, high fives, and invites to family gatherings. The sweetest reply comes from Rob. He gives me a big hug. "I'm so glad that you'll be with her while I'm not. You've always been my favorite C—other than Chloe, of course."

*****

After brunch, we head over to Rob's house. The cousins fly into the pool and start a pool game that has never gained popularity outside the Callahan clan. It involves a plastic bat, a Frisbee, and a tennis ball, and it has more rules than professional football.

Chloe and I slip out of our clothes and reveal our bikinis, finding a pair of chaise lounges by the pool. The noonday sun glints through the trees, and the day continues with promise until the screen door swings open and Rob's neighbor storms into the party. "I need to talk to you about last night!"

I hold the sides of the chaise lounge, actually bracing myself for her pissy tirade. "Okay." I am thankful for Chloe at my side and a house full of people around me.

Courtney parks herself on the side of the chair. "Did you forget about something last night—like your date with Ryan?" Since she does not lower her voice, our conversation gathers an audience. Courtney elicits drama at every turn, so she couldn't care less who hears her.

"No," I return icily. "I decided not to go out with him."

"Because you got a better offer?" Her attention drifts toward Josh who has his eyes glued to our conversation.

"No, because I don't want to see him again." I narrow my eyes at her. "Plus, it's really none of your business anyway."

She leans toward me. "It is my business when one guy shows up at my front door, and the other one happens to be my ex." She aims a painted finger right at Josh, and he offers her a little wave right before he dives into the deep end.

Chloe interjects. "Quiet down, Courtney."

"I have every reason to be upset."

"Maybe," Chloe begins, "but Callie's had a rough week." I see that living with Chloe has created an even stronger alliance between us.

"After what she pulled last night, I'm all out of sympathy." She stands up, folds her arms across her chest, and narrows her eyes at me. "You'll be lucky if I ever speak to you again, Callie Williams." I know what it means when parents use the first-and-last-name approach in an argument, so I have to think it means about the same thing when a friend utters it.

"Well, that's fine by me," I huff.

"Fine with me too!" She marches across the patio and curious eyes follow her out the door.

*****

The pool party moves into full gear, consisting mostly of Rob's family and friends. Rob's sister has a small gaggle of soon-to-be sophomores at the other end of the patio, and since Caitlyn did not get an invite, I remain Chloe's only friend at the party—that is, until Courtney makes a reappearance almost two hours after her little tirade. She glides through the crowd and finds me again. This time she wears full make-up, a pair of white shorts, and a bright pink tank top.

"Well, I must be lucky, huh?" I sneer.

"Well." She smiles sweetly. "I just came to apologize."

I am skeptical. "You feeling okay?"

"Yes, and actually, I have a little surprise for you." She outstretches a hand and lifts me off the chaise. We weave through the crowd, across the grassy lawn which separates Courtney's house from Rob's, and over to her circular drive.

She folds her arms across her chest. "Your surprise should here any minute now."

"Listen, nothing happened between me and Josh, and I only kept you in the dark to pay you back for what you did to Rob."

"You're not the judge and jury, Callie."

I push out a breath. "I was just trying to ease your mind. That's all."

"My mind is at ease, Callie. After all, Josh would never date a girl like you. You're not good enough for him."

"That's harsh!"

She glances over at me. "You don't know me very well, do you?" A devious grin crosses her face, and I get a strange sensation, a hollowing in my stomach, especially when an unfamiliar sports car crawls up her driveway. With tinted windows, I cannot tell who might be the driver of the shiny black Porsche. Ian escapes from the passenger side, nods in my direction, and greets Courtney with a hug. The words, I have a pretty sweet ride, echo in my head as Ryan exits the car. He has on a tight-fitting soft grey T-shirt and a black bathing suit. Sunglasses cover his eyes, and he advances toward me, slowly. My bare feet remain, planted to the ground, unsure of what to say.

He speaks first. "Courtney said you wanted to apologize—in person."

"Well, she lied." I turn to find her, but she and Ian have already slipped into the house. "Just like you did."

He looks shocked. "What are you talking about?"

"You," I emphasize, "lied to me. I asked you if you had a girlfriend, and you said no." He steps forward with an explanation, but I hold up a hand. "I know all about Missy, Ryan."

"Um, I was going to tell you."

"Really?" my voice sharpens. "When exactly did you plan on telling me?"

"I don't know, okay? It's not that easy—"

"No, it's not okay, Ryan. None of this is okay."

"Then why the hell am I here?" His hands spread to the sides. "So you can yell at me?"

"No, this was Courtney's idea—not mine. She arranged this little meeting to get back at me."

"For what?" He returns sharply.

"I went out with her ex last night," I offer, seeking revenge for what he did to me.

"So that's why you stood me up. You had another date?"

I put my hands on my hips. "Yep."

"So you didn't think of calling me and letting me know, so I didn't feel like an idiot at your friend's front door?"

"I don't have your number, and I don't know your last name...remember?"

He pushes out a breath. "You could have told Courtney to tell Ian. You could have done something other than humiliate me."

I offer a listless "sorry."

"So did you have a good time last night?" His question slides out angrily.

"Yes," I reply coolly, "thanks for asking."

He shakes his head. "And did this guy kiss you too?"

A flash of the innocent kiss on the cheek plays in my mind. "Yep, he sure did."

"What? Are you trying for some record?"

"Yeah," I answer, thumbing at the pool party, "so I should get going, so I can add to my list."

"You know what? I was wrong about you. You're exactly like Courtney, aren't you?" His voice begins to crack. "You just play the game differently."

I roll my eyes, a pointless gesture since I'm wearing sunglasses.

"Tell Ian I'll pick him up in an hour."

I start walking backward. "Tell him yourself."

He shakes his head. "You are freaking unbelievable." He slides back toward his car, opens the door of his Porsche, and climbs inside.

I keep my eyes fixed on the black Porsche as it rolls into the street. Something doesn't feel right, but I cannot make any sense of it. I turn and sprint across the grassy lawn, feeling my heart thud in my chest. When I return to the party, I find Rob on my chair next to Chloe, so I sit at the end of hers. "You are not going to believe what just happened to me."

Chloe's eyes widen. "What?"

"Do you remember that guy Ryan?"

"No, who's Ryan?"

"The cheater," I answer, realizing that I had never uttered his name in any of our conversations. "Well, Courtney called him and had him come over to her house as some type of revenge for going out with Josh last night." Chloe drops her jaw. "Now this is the really weird part: When I mentioned that I knew about Missy—that's his girlfriend, you know?—he didn't even look surprised. He was all like," I deepen my voice into a manly baritone, "Um, I was going to tell you." I shake my head. "What kind of guy acts so nonchalant when a girl finds out that he already has a girlfriend?"

"Does he play basketball?" Rob asks.

"Yes," I answer, wondering why this matters.

"And he is going to be a senior at Spruce Creek?"

"Uh-huh," I return, growing annoyed with his inane questions.

"Rob," Chloe glowers at him. "Stop pestering her with questions. Can't you tell that she's upset?"

His eyes remain on his phone as he replies to Chloe. "Yeah, I can tell, but I have one more question for her: Is his name Ryan Winters?"

"Um, I don't know his last name," I say, tossing his possible last name in my head and liking the sound of it, though.

Rob holds up a picture of Ryan. "Is this him?"

"Yeah," I answer meekly.

Rob takes a deep breath and exhales. "Didn't you ever read the school newspaper last year?"

"No offense to the two of you," I say this gently because Rob was editor-in-chief and Chloe was a staff writer, "but I only read the articles that talked about me or the team."

"Well, you should have read this one, Callie. Every high school newspaper in Central Florida ran this article." He hands me his phone and next to Ryan's picture are his words. My hand begins to shake as I read Ryan's opening lines:

Parents often tell their children, "I wish you could learn from my mistakes," yet we, as teenagers, quickly dismiss their admonitions. After all, we are young and free, and we have our whole lives in front of us. We have time to make mistakes, and we often take great pleasure in making them. It's a rite of passage, and we dismiss the words of any well-meaning adult.

So if you won't listen to adults, then maybe you'll listen to me. I am seventeen and a junior at Spruce Creek, and due to a recent drinking-and-driving accident, I had to say goodbye to three of my closest friends—all of whom played on our school's basketball teams. The fourth friend, my girlfriend, did not die. Four weeks after the accident, Missy still remains in a coma, hanging on to life with the assistance of modern technology. It's not easy to watch someone you love look so alive but remain trapped in an immobile body.

The truth is, I should have died with them. I should have been in that car. The only reason why I am alive today is because I got grounded that night...

With shaking hands and a pounding heart, I pass the phone back to Rob. "He has a girlfriend, but she's..." I cannot even say the word because it's unthinkable to imagine. The news squeezes my chest, and my voice waivers. "How could I be such a jerk to him?" I wipe a tear from my cheek and shake my head. "Oh, God," I remember my words, "I can't believe how I acted toward him right now."

"Callie, you need to call him," Chloe insists.

"I don't have his number," I say weakly, "but Courtney might."

Rob is already on his phone. "Courtney won't answer her cell or her home phone."

I get up and bolt toward Courtney's house. I pound on the front door, round the house and find the side door, and then fist her bedroom window countless times. No one answers. I try her numbers again and again on my cell, desperate for a way to reach Ryan.

As I cross the lawn, Rob rushes toward me, keys in hand. "Hop in the Jeep, Cal. I'll drive you around. Maybe he went somewhere close by."

We scour the parking lots of local restaurants, coffee shops, and strip malls for a black Porsche.

"Think, Callie," Rob begins, "where would he go? Think about what he likes."

I snap my fingers, remembering his list from the top of the lighthouse. "I know." Minutes later, we find Ryan's car in the parking lot of the local bookstore. I turn to Rob. "Okay, wish me luck."

"Just give him the truth: It's much better than luck."

I stroll down the center aisle, peering down each row, wishing I knew what to say to him. No words come to mind. All I can imagine is holding him tightly and not in a way that I have ever envisioned in the past. Yet as I spot him in the back corner of the store, I can barely muster the strength to walk up to him.

"Hi," I attempt.

His eyes never leave the page. "What do you want—to yell at me again?"

"No, to apologize."

"Well, it's too late."

I stand there, knowing that Chloe could talk her way out of this. I wish I had her words right now, but I offer the only words I have: the truth. I take another step toward him. "I thought I knew about Missy, but I really didn't. I saw you at Publix yesterday, buying flowers, and then after talking to the florist, I came to the wrong conclusion. I never knew about the accident until now." I take another small step toward him. "Because I just read the article you wrote. My friend was the editor of our school paper, and when I was talking about you earlier, he remembered your article and showed it to me."

His eyes lift from the page.

I step toward him, my eyes watering and my lips slightly parted. He's a wounded bird, and I want to scoop him up and take care of him until the hurts go away.

He closes the book and rests it on the table next to the chair. "Don't look at me that way."

"What way?"

"Like you feel sorry for me."

"But I do feel sorry for you, and I feel horrible about the way I treated you. I just wish you would have told me..."

"Don't you understand? I didn't want to tell you about Missy and the accident because I wanted you to get to know me. To like me for who I am and not just feel sorry for me for what I've gone through." He pauses. "I even told Ian and the guys not to tell you."

I nod, all of it making sense now. "Then you understand how I could have come to the wrong conclusion, right?"

"Yes, I can understand that. What I can't understand is your insatiable desire to hook up with other guys every time I turn around."

"But..." The word falls and hits the ground, traveling a trajectory of defeat.

"Yep," he glares back at me, "not much you can say to that, can you?" He brushes past me and bolts down the center aisle.

"Ryan, wait." I follow him, tears welling in the corners of my eyes as he leaves the store and heads into the parking lot. It's the night at the boardwalk all over again, yet I do not allow him to get too far from me this time. "Ryan, please, stop," I beg. "I need talk to you."

He turns. "What?"

"Listen, I'm not some floozy," my voice cracks, "okay?"

"Right, Callie, because in the week that I have known you, you have kissed two other guys, and those are just the ones you told me about."

I shake my head, "It's not—"

"Going to work out. I know," he pauses, anger rising, "and even if you hadn't been kissing other guys all the time, you'd still be leaving in a week." He opens the door of his car. "Goodbye, Callie, and have a nice life in Tennessee."

"Ryan, I..." My mouth pops open to tell him the "good" news about next year, but he slips into his car and leaves me in the parking lot. My face drops into my hands, tears spilling at my inability to change Ryan's mind. Rob comes over and guides me back to the Jeep. I climb in and stare out the passenger-side window, and he never utters a word. He lets silence be my friend as we drive back up Riverside Drive. We pass by the guard house, and as we slow toward his house, my eyes fixate on the shiny black Porsche in Courtney's driveway. My insides twist at the sight of his car. Rob parks in the garage and cuts the engine, and I exit the Jeep, rushing past the party and into the woods which snakes through their neighborhood.

I enter the Preston's house, bullet up the stairs, and gather my belongings around Chloe's room and bathroom. I keep swiping the tears from my eyes as I shove clothes into my duffle bag. As I descend the stairs, Mr. Preston stops me. "You heading home?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, before you go, let me give you a key to the house." He motions for me to follow him into his office at the other end of the house. The room showcases posters from book signings around the country. He opens a desk drawer, but before he hands me a key, he receives a phone call. He sits down at the desk and gestures for me to take the chair across from him. From this side of the conversation, I assume that he is talking with his editor, possibly an agent. I try not to listen, so I play around with my phone. For some reason, I pull up Ryan's article, needing to see how it ends:

...My parents saved my life. Someday, when I have children, I will tell them how close I came to death. I will say to them: "I wish you could learn from my mistakes." Yet as I look at my parents and how they live their lives, I realize I have learned more from their actions than their words. It is our actions that cause change in the world around us. From this day forward, I will never drink again. It is a small thing to give up, but it's all I can do, and maybe my actions will save someone's life.

"Sorry for making you wait." Mr. Preston hands me a key and then directs me toward the alarm system by the garage. "We change the code often, but for right now, I'll make it Chloe's birthday. That'll be easy for you to remember."

I nod. "Thank you." I pause. "And thank you for letting me live here next year."

"You're welcome, Callie, but you really need to thank your mom."

"I will," I say as my hand reaches for the door knob, "when I get home."

I slip out the door and escape without a lengthy lecture from Mr. Preston. After all, the guy lectures people for a living—in books and in large convention centers. I rush through the humid garage and over to my car. I open the trunk and toss in my duffle bag, and then I lay the white dress across the backseat. As I step back, a deep voice catches me: "I didn't know if you'd still be here."

"Me?" I question as I turn around. "W-w-what are you still doing here?"

He shrugs. "I was playing H-O-R-S-E with your friends, showing them a thing or two." He pantomimes a shot. "And then I jumped in the pool."

I notice his glistening skin as he stands, shirtless, a few feet in front of me. His tan torso with sliced-up abs makes me even more regretful over my inability to change his mind earlier. I have no idea why he is here and what he wants to say, but I just decide to join him in idle conversation like two mere acquaintances chit-chatting about the weather. "You win?"

"Yup." He steps closer. "Listen, I don't have much time." He puts his hands on his hips. "I have to get Ian back for work tonight, but I thought we could exchange numbers."

Rather than ask any questions, I nod and offer him my digits. Then he holds up his phone, says "smile," but I don't smile. I'm confused and trying to take the enormous leap from "have a nice life" to "smile." I glue a few pieces together. "Did Rob talk to you or something?"

"Yeah." He nods. "And so did your date from last night."

"Oh, so you know about..."

He steps forward with a grin and pinches my cheek like grandma does. "The kiss." He gestures toward Chloe's house. "And about your new address."

"Oh," I manage, hope lifting the corners of my mouth into a smile.

He takes a few steps backward and then points at me. "I'll call you."

"Okay," I say meekly as he meanders back into the woods. There is no greater anxiety trigger than those three little words. My phone and I will be inseparable until his cell successfully connects with mine. I open the car door, slip into the stifling heat, and drop my cell on the passenger seat. It rings immediately, and I notice the area code and take a deep breath. "Hello?"

"Hey, I forgot to give you something."

"What?"

"Just come here...and hurry it up, girl. Ian keeps texting me."

I jog into the woods as the sun delivers blinding rays through the lush canopy of trees. I discover Ryan in the middle of the neighborhood forest, striding toward me. Feet, then inches, separate us. My eyes connect with his tender emerald ones and then close instinctively as his hands cup the back of my neck. His eager mouth crushes against my lips. His tongue parts my lips, and gently, he finds the tip of my tongue. Playfully at first, then deepening into a steady rhythm. I drop my phone on the forest floor and touch his face, feeling the soft stubble on his jawline before my fingers slide into his hair, still damp, then over his sculptured shoulders, and across his bare skin, trickling slowly down his angular frame and toward his tapering waist. His hands slide under my T-shirt and across my back. He draws me nearer to him, and I moan softly. My hands, my lips, my tongue disconnect from my brain and work independently, each entity of my body extracting us much pleasure from this moment as possible. Our first kiss, deep and rhythmic, conveys an indescribable passion, trumping any mind-kiss I ever fathomed.

"Dude," Ian interrupts from behind us. "I'm going to be so late for work!"

I step back, but Ryan draws me in for one final kiss on my lips, his hands cupping my face. Then he murmurs against my lips. "You have my number, so call me."

"I will." I pick up the phone off the forest floor and aim it at him. "Smile," I say, and he puts his hands on his hips. With the light breaking through the trees, glinting across his chest, I relish the good fortune of having my phone on the Zoe setting, assuring me a three-second photo shoot of pure gorgeousness.

As I walk back to my car, I realize that I don't have to wait until he calls, but just the appropriate amount of time before I call him. I despise these games and the ridiculous rules set by some dating expert. But did he wait? Does Ryan play by any rules? I have to wonder if knowing your life should have ended offers you a different perspective.

*****

I drive out of Chloe's subdivision, down Riverside Drive, and cross over the river, which divides the city into the haves and the have-nots. I consider The Outsiders and the line, things were rough all over. Even though I understand what S.E. Hinton meant, it's a lot rougher if you have lived on both sides. And it's a lot easier to move up—than down. I park my car next to a rusted-out wreck and climb up the metal stairs. I unlock the door to the apartment and find my mom on the couch, an open box on the floor and a stack of photo albums next to her. "You ready to pack some boxes?"

"Yeah, I can't wait," I mutter sardonically.

"I know this hasn't been easy on you."

"That's an understatement."

Her shoulders slump. "I'm just trying to talk to you."

"I know, Mom, but...I'm still upset." I say what I really feel. "Staying here with the Prestons is better than moving to Tennessee, but you'll miss my senior year. Homecoming. Prom. Basketball. All of it."

She nods. "I can drive down for the state tourney."

"Assuming we make it to State."

"Well..." She smiles warmly. "If I know my daughter..."

"Yeah, we do have a good chance this year." I smile in return.

She eyes my duffle bag. "I was just going to start some laundry if you want clean clothes."

"Yeah, that would be great." I head toward the laundry closet in the hall and sort the dirty clothes into the labeled baskets. Then I head into my room, which seems smaller and darker than I remembered, and I realize I have not slept here for a couple of weeks.

I head into the shower, taking my time to shave my legs and condition my hair. I reenter my room and find the Ryan-scented T-shirt from the zipped pocket in my duffle bag. I take a whiff of him, and I am under a canopy of wide-armed oaks, lost again in his tender kisses. I slip it on over my head, pick up the phone, and plop down on the bed. I decide to look over my three-second photo shoot of the boy who ignited my hormone levels to an all-time high an hour earlier. The pictures show little change until the final frame where the corner of his lip curls into a seductive smile. I save his smiling face to my phone, knowing this perfect picture will flash whenever he calls. I hold the phone, willing it to ring. Sure, I could call him. After all, he told me to call him, but I still live by those stupid rules. I put the phone down and stare at the ceiling. Then I pick up the phone and decide if I need to live by the rules, maybe I should set some parameters. I decide to set an alarm for 7 p.m. tomorrow night. When it goes off, I will call him. Wait, is it uncool to call a guy at 7 p.m. on a Saturday night? And shouldn't I be doing something better than sitting in my apartment calling him? Wait, I have a new plan, if he doesn't call by—

The phone rings, and I smile as Ryan's ridiculously sexy photo fills the screen.

"Hey girl, I just wanted to let you know that I just got home." My eyes close at the sound of his deep voice, the words he chooses, and the sincerity of his call.

"That's good," I answer as I prop another pillow under my head. "Was Ian late for work?"

"Yeah, but it was worth it."

"For you maybe."

He chuckles softly. "Well, next time he can just drive himself."

"So—there will be a next time?"

"Actually, no." Ryan pauses, and I wonder how much more of this I can handle. It's like an emotional war between hope and disappointment. Every time "hope" gains some ground, "disappointment" retaliates with greater force. I am stuck on a battlefield of divergent emotions.

"W-w-what do you mean—there won't be a next time?"

"Because Ian broke it off with Courtney."

"Oh, okay..." I trail off, not really surprised Ian called it quits with my flirtatious friend. "I thought you were talking about us."

"You want to talk about us?"

My breath catches in my throat, and I close my eyes, choosing each word carefully. "Or do we not talk about it and just see where it goes?"

"I know that's pretty standard, but I don't agree with that approach."

Yep, of course not, and I wonder if he would be kind enough to create "A Guide to Dating Me" manual. He does not play by the same rules as every other warm-blooded American teenage boy, and I have no idea what to expect from him. His words, his actions, especially that amazing kiss in the woods, surprise me at every turn. It's like riding a roller coaster with a blindfold on—every thrill is totally unexpected.

"Cal, on the ride home, while Ian was ranting about Courtney, I was thinking back to what you said about you and Mike—and about not having a future with him. And I realized that you were right about relationships." He pauses, "So, uh, you know why I'm bringing this up, right?"

"No, and do you really want me to draw my own conclusions—after what happened when I saw you buying flowers at Publix?"

"Uh, probably not." He chuckles softly. "I know we haven't known each other that long, but I think we'd be good together." Hope swells in my chest, and I kick my legs in the air, doing the happy dance in my bed. "Are you there?"

"Yes," I release with a breath of relief.

"But—" he hesitates long enough for fear to grip my heart. I sit up and lean against the wall, squeezing a throw pillow against my chest. "We're not ready to be in a relationship, Callie. We both need time."

"Then what does that make us? Friends?" I consider the kiss that still lingers on my lips.

"Well, maybe a little more than friends," his voice deepens, suggesting that his thoughts also traveled to our earlier kissing session.

"You need to heal, so you can trust another guy and not assume he'll cheat on you. And I need time to get over Missy because when I'm with you, I sometimes look for her in you. That's not fair to you either."

I remember the photo of the two of them at the Homecoming dance. "I don't look anything like her."

"Yeah, but you act like her—and you definitely play ball like her. I can't lie. It's what first attracted me to you," Ryan admits.

I remain silent, hoping that I don't have to offer my shallow side of the what-attracted-me-to-you-first conversation. "Well," I begin, "it sure wasn't your conceited personality that won me over," I pause, "Suh-woosh!" My stomach flips over the sound of his deep chuckle. "Thank you for being honest with me, Ryan, and telling me how you feel."

"It's not how I feel as much as knowing we should do the right thing."

"Well, speaking of the right thing," I push out a breath. "I should let you go and help my mom pack. I'll talk to you soon."

We exchange a few more quick pleasantries, and then I hang up the phone. I am an emotional paradox, feeling the simultaneous tug of "hope" and "disappointment."

*****

I enter the family room with "What's for dinner?" and notice my mom on the couch, flipping pages of photo albums and sipping wine.

"I just had a bowl of cereal, but let me know if you want me to make you something substantial." She lifts her eyes and examines me. "That's not your shirt, is it?"

"No, it's Ryan's," I say nonchalantly.

Mom arches an eyebrow. "Who's Ryan?"

"Um..." I take my phone out of my pocket. "I'll show you." I find the picture I took of Ryan earlier and hand her my phone.

"Whoa!" Her mouth drops open. "He's very...."

"Cute," I add with smile.

"I would have said sexy," my mom offers with grin.

"Mom," I start with some fake attitude, "don't be crushing on my man."

"So—is he your new boyfriend?"

"Well...it's complicated."

She sighs. "Most relationships are."

Before she slips into an emotional coma, I ask, "What are you doing?"

"Packing photo albums." I look at the empty box on the floor. "Or maybe just looking at them," she adds with a sigh and then pats a spot next to her on the couch. I sit down and put my phone on the coffee table, and she lays a hand on my thigh. "Why is it so complicated, honey?"

"Well, to start with...his girlfriend was in a car crash and is still in a coma."

"Oh." My mom's eyes widen. "He goes to Spruce Creek?" I nod. "Yes, I remember reading his article in the school paper."

"Apparently, everybody read it—except me."

"He just needs time, honey."

I take one of my albums off the stack, looking at a ten-year-old version of myself. "He thinks we both do."

"He sounds like a very smart young man."

"That's another thing," I say, turning toward her. "He's brilliant, rich, and really burns up the court."

"Those are good things, but does he make you laugh and treat you right?"

"Yes, he makes me laugh all the time—sort of like Landon does." I flip the pages to my sixth-grade growth spurt. My team pictures show me a head taller than the other girls. I bite down on my lip. "And he's an amazing kisser."

"Now I know what you did at the beach all week."

I shake my head. "Actually, our first kiss was today—in the woods behind the Preston's house." I consider the time that I have known him. "We spent most of our time talking. I could talk to him for hours, about anything. He's such a good listener, Mom."

My mom reaches over and pinches my arm. "Looks like someone got bitten by the love bug."

"I have only known him for a few days." I flip the pages of the album, seeing middle school pass by me. "I knew Mike for years, and I am not even sure that was love."

My mother swirls her wine glass, letting the purplish-red liquid circle her glass. "So when do I get to meet him?"

"I don't know, Mom...probably never." I close the album and pick up the one that chronicles the past three years of my high school life. "You're moving, remember?"

My phone chirps on the coffee table.

"Ooh," my mom squeals as Ryan's photo fills the screen. "It's a call from Mr. 'It's Complicated.'"

"It's okay," I dismiss with a wave of the hand. "I can call him back."

She reaches forward and swipes the phone off the coffee table. "Hello, Ryan. This is Callie's mother." My mom touches the screen stealthily, and his voices enters the room. "Uh, hello, Mrs. Williams, do you still go by that, ma'am?"

My mother smiles. "Yes, I do."

"May I speak with Callie, please?"

"Yes, one moment." My mom gets up and circles the room and smirks at me. "She's around here somewhere."

"Okay, thank you."

"So—young man, how do you know my daughter?"

I cover my face with my hands.

"We met on Saturday."

"Where did you two meet?"

"On the basketball court."

"Well," she begins with a laugh, "isn't that a romantic spot?"

I jump off the couch and grab the phone from her clutches. "Hi, Ryan, sorry about that." I retreat to my bedroom for a little privacy. "What's up?"

"Forget everything I said earlier."

"Everything?"

"Just the part about taking time," Ryan clarifies. "In a matter of months, we'll be making decisions that will decide the next four years of our lives. We don't have much time, do we?"

"Well, I've already made my decision, and I'll be giving my verbal this week."

"Vandy, huh?"

"Yep, it's part of the deal with my mom. I get one year here if I agree to four up there."

He falls silent.

"You there, Ryan?"

"Yeah, I was just thinking...this isn't the kind of conversation we should be having over the phone. Plus, there's something else I need to tell you."

"You want to talk in person...tonight?"

He pushes out a breath. "Yeah, but it's late, Callie, and it's two hours round trip to Riverside. My curfew is twelve, leaving us 30 minutes to talk and...do other...stuff. I want to, but—"

"Well, it's a half hour to the Deland exit. We could meet there, and that would give us an hour and a half if we hurry."

"Way to be thinking, girl. I'll go tell my parents." He pauses. "And then I'll text you an address of where to meet when I'm on my way. Leave in five minutes after that. I don't want you to be alone in the parking lot."

*****

I circle the lot, finding a black Porsche on the other side and Ryan leaning against the driver side door. He has on a cream colored polo and dark khaki shorts. I park and stroll around my car. He grins and gives me the once over, his eyes traveling from my face to my dressy flats. "You look too nice to be eating here tonight."

I glance down at my white dress and then look back up at him. "Well, this is what I was going to wear on our date last night."

"Well." He gestures at the pancake place. "This will have to be our date then." He shakes his head. "Not exactly what I had planned, girl." He extends a hand, and I take it, letting his fingers lace comfortably through mine. He guides me into the sparsely populated restaurant, and we find a booth in the back corner. We sit next to each other on the same side, and our long legs stretch to the empty seat across from us. We order some pancakes, trying various flavors of syrup.

"I love breakfast dinner!" I shove a forkful of syrup-drenched pancake into my mouth.

"Does anyone ever have dinner breakfast?"

"Sure," I say, "haven't you ever had a slice of pizza for breakfast?"

He shakes his head. "Nope."

I elbow him in the ribs. "You need to live a little, Ryan."

His eyes drop to the table, and he pushes out a breath. "That's what Missy always said to me." He turns to look at me. "Sorry, I shouldn't bring up my..." he pauses, "I don't even know what to call her. We never broke up, so she's not my ex."

"Did you love her?"

"Yeah, of course, I did."

"And she was your first love?"

He nods and bites down on his lip.

"Then that's what she will always be—your first love, but when we're talking, you can just call her Missy, and..." I rest my hand on top of his. "I want you talk about her. I think you need to, Ryan." My thumb circles the top of his hand. "So tell me about her."

He lets out a sigh. "Where should I start?"

"At the beginning," I say gently and squeeze his hand. "Where did you meet?"

"Well, we met down at the jetty. She was going to be a sophomore, and I was going into ninth. We were both with different groups that day, but one of her friends knew one of mine, and you know how that goes." He swirls a piece of pancake in a pool of syrup. "We started talking and hit it off right away. I was too chicken to ask for her number, so I didn't see her again until the first day of school. I had spotted her a few times that day, but I finally got up the courage to talk to her at the end of the day—right by her locker. When I walked up to her, she turned and gave me a big hug."

"Ah," I say, "how nice."

"It would have been much nicer if her boyfriend hadn't been right behind me. He yanked me away from her and slammed me up against the locker. I had never been in a fight before, but somehow I managed to knee him in the nuts, and while he was doubled over, I started beating on him. Some teacher came along and broke it up, and I got suspended my first week of school." He pauses and smiles, "You do realize who her boyfriend was, right?"

My mouth drops open. "Doug? He was, what, a senior, and you were a freshmen?" Ryan nods. "So you really bruised his ego?"

"Now can you see why we're not friends?" He grins and slides a forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

"Yes, but what I don't understand is why Ian still hangs out with him."

Ryan shrugs. "Ian gets along with everyone."

"Yeah, but Doug is a total jerk, and he's proven that time and time again."

"True, but I sorta' feel sorry for him. The best years of his life are behind him. He graduated high school and now works in a surf shop. He just lives for the next party, getting high and drinking into an oblivion."

"Did Missy party a lot?"

He pushes out a breath. "Yeah, we both did."

"But you don't anymore, right?"

He shakes his head. "I can't...not after what happened."

"Me neither." He offers me an inquisitive glance, so I explain, trying not to get too upset when I retell my reasons. "Chloe—did you meet her at Rob's house?"

"Yeah, she's Rob's girlfriend and the friend you're living with next year, right?"

I nod. "Well, she got raped at a party this summer."

"Oh, no," he says quietly.

"Yeah, it was awful, but we didn't know what had happened until weeks later. You see, we were all drinking at Courtney's house, and I was actually sitting at the table with Chloe and the guy who raped her. I have often wondered if I had not been—" I pause, never actually articulating what I am about to say, "I feel like if I had been sober, then I would have noticed what was going on. The guy slipped a Rufie in her drink."

Ryan pushes out a breath. "That's awful." He shakes his head. "I feel sorry for her and for Rob. That's a lot to deal with...at our age."

"Makes you grow up way too fast," I add, considering their story, his story, my story. We all have horror stories which have succinctly truncated our childhoods.

He pulls me into his chest and holds me tightly. "I know how you feel...I mean, about not being there for your friend." As I listen to his words, I feel the reverberations of his voice against my face.

"I know you do, Ryan." I lift my head slightly and kiss his neck softly. He turns, raises my chin, and plants a soft kiss on my mouth.

He draws back, our heads inches apart, as he begins quietly, "Do you drink at all anymore?"

"No," I answer, speaking into his gentle eyes. "I may someday, but I don't see the benefit at our age."

He lifts a corner of his mouth. "It can be fun."

"Maybe...but I have had more fun with you in the last few days..." My words drift off as the memories resurface: I am in the water, splashing his face; at the top of the lighthouse, chatting easily; and in the forest, kissing his lips. "...than I have ever had with any other guy, and we've been completely sober."

His smile spreads into his eyes and warms my heart. "I know." He swallows audibly. "I feel the same way." His lips press against mine. I enjoy the warmth, and the sweet, syrupy taste of him, and his sexy hum as his tongue tussles with mine.

"You kids need anything else?" The waitress is at our table, picking up plates, and slapping a bill down at the end. Her voice separates us, and Ryan hands her two twenties as he exits the booth. "Keep the change."

"Next time," the waitress begins as she tucks the money into her apron, still balancing a stack of plates, "have him take you somewhere nice." She peers into the parking lot. "Especially if he drives a car like that!"

We stroll back into the parking lot. Ryan leans against his driver side door, and I pause in front of him. "It would be nice to kiss you without someone interrupting us," he mumbles and folds his arms across his chest. Then he pouts like a toddler, and I laugh at him as I rest my hands on his folded arms. "Maybe it's for our own good." I pause. "We need to talk, remember?"

"We can talk later."

"Right," I quip, "because we have so much time tonight."

He edges the back of his car and opens the passenger door. "Get in, girl. I want to take you for a spin. Let me see if I can impress you with my ride." I shake my head and roll my eyes as I slide on the leather bucket seat, sitting super low to the ground. I survey the dash. This car alone could impress a girl, but then as he gets in and smiles, that heart-warming look affects me even more. He reverses into the parking lot and plunges into the two-lane road. We travel for a few minutes, not talking, music thumping.

"Ryan, I was wondering something about that night." He reaches over, quiets the music. "Why did you get grounded?"

"I broke curfew earlier in the week." His eyes stay fixed on the road. "None of my other friends ever had to be home early, so I figured if I kept pushing my parents, they would give up."

"But they didn't give up, did they?"

"Nope." He eyes me. "That's why I'm still here."

"I'm glad you're still here."

He slows at the stop light, turns, and finds my lips, leaving a warm kiss on my mouth. "I'm glad you're here right now and that you'll be here next year." He glances at the stop light, still glowing red, then back at me. "Because," he starts, placing another kiss on my mouth, "I can't get enough of you, Miss Williams." He turns his attention back to the now green light, pulls into the intersection, and makes a U-turn.

"Well, Mr. Winters," I begin, the name feeling foreign on my lips, "if I may call you that?"

He peers over. "You may?"

"Do we know each other well enough to be on a last-name basis?" I tease.

"I think we got very...well...acquainted in the woods, don't you?"

I press my lips tightly and control a bizarre mix of desire and laughter. "Yes, I agree, Mr. Winters," I say, allowing the familiarity to grow. "Hey," I start as realization sweeps over me, "if we went to the same school and the teacher sat us alphabetically, you would be right behind me in class."

"Then," he says, releasing a low breathy chuckle, "I could stare at you, and when the teacher wasn't looking, I could..."

"Especially during a movie," I suggest.

"Ooh, yeah, especially if we had history together. Those dudes show the most movies." He reaches over and grabs my hand, resting our joined hands on the stick shift. "I wish we went to the same school, don't you?

"Yes and no. Yes, so I could see more of you, and no, so we don't have to deal with the same high school drama." I imagine Ryan at our lunch table, but I cannot see him hanging out with our crowd, and sometimes I cannot imagine myself there anymore. This year will not feel the same without Chloe.

"Listen, I'd take the good with the bad...if it meant being with you more."

I slide closer, drop my head to his shoulder, and place my hand on the inside of his thigh. Then I kiss the side of his neck, gently at first; then I open my lips and pull a little skin between my teeth.

"Damn, girl, maybe I'll just have to transfer to Riverside."

"It's a bit of a drive."

"I could just move in with...wait, I could take Rob's room. That would be convenient."

"And," I intimate a newscaster's voice, "now back to reality." He chuckles slightly as I lift my mouth to his ear. "We still need to talk, remember?"

"You were the one who got me all," he pauses, choosing his word carefully, "distracted."

"Well," I begin as I place a kiss on his cheek, "I'm not sorry."

He just shakes his head as he pulls back into the parking lot, the clock waxing past eleven. He opens the door for me and holds my hand as we stroll toward my red Corolla. He lifts a finger, asking for a minute, and pulls out his phone. "I'm letting my mom know that I'll be a few minutes late."

"You won't be if you leave right now."

"I don't want to leave...yet." He slides his phone back into his pocket and takes my hands, lifting them to his lips, kissing my fingertips. "We still need to talk about everything, but before I start, is there anything you want to ask me?"

"Yes," I say, my mind flashing to a conversation on the beach, "I do have one question."

"Just one?" He offers with a smirk.

"Yes," I say, biting down on my lip. "I've been wondering what you said to me that day on the beach—it was something in French."

"That's a statement. Not a question."

"But you know what I'm going to ask you?"

"Yes."

"Then answer the question."

"I just did. I said 'yes.'"

"Grr." I playfully punch him in the arm.

"You want to know what 'Tu es la fille de mes rêves 'means?" His words melt like butter on warm toast. "Well, girl, I could tell you the truth or lie, and you'd never know the difference."

Very softly, I reply, "Don't lie to me, Ryan."

"It means..." His soft green eyes find mine. "You're the girl of my dreams."

"I am?"

He responds with a single kiss on my lips.

I slip back and smile at him. "Just so you know," I begin, jabbing a finger playfully into his chest. "You have been in my dreams since the day I met you."

"Hmm, is that so?"

"Yes." My palms rest on his chest, then slide down his torso, and tug on the hem of his T-shirt. "Dreams that don't require you to wear a shirt."

"Yeah, well, in my dreams," he begins with a purely sexy grin, "neither do you."

"Ry-an!"

"What?" He steps back and spreads his hands to the sides. "A guy can dream, can't he?"

I slide forward, meeting him in a warm kiss, and he deftly pushes me backward, pressing my backside against my car. His hands hold my face while my fingers journey down his back. I pull him closer to me as our kiss deepens to a familiar spot under a canopy of wide-arms oaks.

"You two still here?"

We both look over and see our waitress, crossing the lot and heading toward the dumpster with some bags of trash.

"Man," Ryan grumbles, "what's the deal with us kissing and people interrupting?" Ryan shakes his head and reaches for his phone, checking the time. "Damn, I really gotta' go."

"I know." I rest a palm on his face. "Thanks for meeting me tonight."

"But we didn't talk about..." His words fall, weighted with distant pain.

"We can talk on the phone later."

"No," he begins, shaking his head, "I have to tell you this in person. This is why I had to meet you tonight." He pushes out a loud exhale. "It's the reason I am torn between starting things with you and waiting, and you should know everything, so you can decide if you want to be with me through all of this."

I swallow the nervous knot. "All of what, Ryan?"

He presses his lips together. "In two weeks, Missy's parents will pull the plug on the life support machines, and then they'll have the memorial services shortly after that. They have asked me to speak at the funeral." I nod in understanding. "I figured I would date again after she was gone, but then you showed up and..."

"I'm sorry for complicating your life."

He shakes his head. "You don't complicate it, Callie. You made it much better." He reaches for my hands. "When I'm with you, I completely forget about everything...but then I feel guilty when I remember."

I step forward and kiss his cheek. "'Better by far you should forget and smile/Than that you should remember and be sad.'" I slide back. "That's from some poem I memorized for English class."

He nods. "You're very smart."

"I didn't write it."

"But you said it—at the right moment." He draws me into a hug. "Thank you for helping me forget." I think of the last six days and how I resorted to daydreams of him rather than face reality. His warm breath finds my ear. "If you're okay with going through this rough time with me, then I want to date you."

"And I'll understand if I need to fade into the background while you play the boyfriend role one more time." I hug him tightly.

"But before you say yes, I need to warn you, Callie. I have only dated two girls in my life, and each relationship lasted an average of three years. You need to consider that statistical probability in all of this."

I step out of his arms, bite down on my lip, and pretend to consider my options. "Well," I return his mock solemnity. "You should probably consider the fact that I am moving to Tennessee in this three-year commitment of yours."

"Maybe I already have."

My heart alights with warmth, and then his phones rings. "Hi, Mom...No, I haven't left yet... Sorry, but I'm going to be late...I was talking to Callie about Missy." I step back, not wanting to interfere. "Thanks for understanding...I love you too, Mom." He slides his phone into his pocket.

"You always say that to your mom?"

"Now I do." He shrugs a shoulder. "I always consider the importance of the last words I say to someone, since I never know if I'll ever get another chance."

I don't know why I ask him, but I do: "What were your last words to Missy? Do you remember, Ryan?"

"Yeah." His eyes close and he pushes out a breath. "Don't have any fun without me."

I step closer, collecting him in my arms. "It's not your fault." His chest rises and then quivers as he exhales. I rub soft circles on his back. "Stop blaming yourself for being alive. You have a chance to live a life that will honor theirs." I hold him tighter.

His warm voice finds my ear. "Thank you, Callie. I needed to hear that." He steps back and shakes his head sadly. "It's going to be hard to say goodbye to you tonight. After all I've shared with you, I feel closer to you than I have to anyone else in a long time."

I place a hand on his cheek. "Ryan, I'm grateful that you opened up to me tonight. Before you go, I want you to know how much I care about you." I place a warm kiss on his cheek.

Ryan steps forward and holds my face in his warm hands. "Goodnight, Callie." He finds my eyes, burrowing a path deeply into my soul. "I...I'll miss you."

I close my eyes, soak in his words, and then peer into those emerald eyes that have been on my mind constantly for the last six days. "I'll miss you too, Ryan."

He leans forward, punctuates our night with a gentle kiss on my lips, and steps back. I turn, open the car door, and start the engine, feeling a way I never expected to feel tonight. It may be crazy to think of a three-year commitments after six days of knowing each other, but I am certain of one thing—whatever I am feeling for Ryan surpasses whatever I felt for Mike.

*****

I slip the key into the front door and open it into the family room, only to find my mother still on the couch with an album in her lap and a glass of wine in her hand.

"Still packing albums, huh?"

"Yeah, lots of good stuff in these..."

She has her wedding album open. The pictures show my parents in a way I rarely witnessed. "You really loved each other, huh?"

"Yes, but things changed when your dad got injured. It broke him, and I didn't know how to help him. I just took on the responsibility of keeping up our lifestyle." She looks at me intently. "It wasn't just his fault." She shakes her head, tears falling, and I join her on the couch, sniffling softly at my mother's admission. She strokes my hair gently. "I need to go and start a new chapter. There is no past haunting me up there—only the future for the three of you." She pauses. "You understand, right?"

I nod and sit back against couch.

My mom turns toward me. "I'm sorry for leaning on you so much—for making you listen to everything. I needed a friend, Callie, but through all of this, I forgot that you needed a mother. I'm so sorry, honey."

"I can be both, Mom...if that's what you need," I tell her, actually meaning it now. I stand up, holding an album in my hands. I consider the last few years, and yes, there are certain things that a child should never experience. Some child psychologist has probably written a book on this, but I am speaking from my own experience, and I don't need a degree in psychology to be an expert on the matter. I put the album in a box. A child should never find her father in bed with another woman. I turn toward the couch, pick up the wedding album, and then place it in the box. A daughter should never become her mother's sole confidante in cases of infidelity. I gather two more albums and drop them in the box. A girl should never turn to her boyfriend for sex to find what's missing in her life. My mother follows suit and adds the remaining albums from the couch. I close the box and add a few strips of packing tape across the top. I grab the Sharpie off the table, remember her words earlier, and label it: "Lots of Good Stuff."

I turn toward my mother and kiss her on the cheek. "I love you, Mom."

"Hmm, who are you, and what did you do with my daughter?" She offers a hearty laugh and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "I love you too, Callie. You've always been an amazing daughter—better than I ever deserved." A tear slips down her cheek, then another. "I will miss you so much next year." Tears spill from her eyes, and I give her a final hug goodnight. "I will miss you too, Mom." We separate and escape to our bedrooms.

I strip off my dress and slip on Ryan's T-shirt, still lightly scented with his cologne. I crawl under the cotton sheets and then drop my head on the pillow. I spend one of my final nights in this apartment as my thoughts drift back into Ryan's arms, deep into the woods, with kisses, warm and rhythmic. I fast forward to the myriad of kisses tonight, and those tender memories lull me to sleep, and I succumb to my fantasies, dreaming fervently of Ryan, shirtless, on the beach...

### The End

Thank you for reading the first book in the Seven Cs Series. If you enjoyed it, won't you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer?

Thanks!

Kimberly Blackadar

About Kimberly Blackadar

Born in Massachusetts but raised in Florida, Kimberly Blackadar, spent eight years in the classroom--teaching English, social studies, and drama. Now she resides in Minnesota with her husband, two kids, whom she homeschools, and two cats.

Other Titles by Kimberly Blackadar:

Nothing but Trouble after Midnight

_Questioning Authority_ (7.7.15)

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### Read a Sample from _Questioning Authority_ :

### 1. What's up, PK?

"Are you ready?"

I turn sideways in the mirror which hangs on the back of my bedroom door, wishing my reflection offered a different image—like a skinnier, taller, prettier version of my ordinary self. Yet all I see is a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl in a boring jean skirt and pale green T-shirt. I open the door and skulk out of my room.

"You look very pretty this morning." I get that obligatory response from the paternal unit every year on the first day of school. The maternal half departed hours ago to begin her day as the superintendent of schools.

Like the "cool" kids, I have never ridden the bus to high school. But I get to carpool with the principal. Not cool at all. For the entire ride, my dad relies on Vivaldi's strings to lull him into a good mood as we zip along the lightly trafficked, dark streets.

We enter a silent Central High and slip into the front office. A few eager beavers have arrived early, and my father gives them a that-a-boy smile as he traipses through the front office. He retreats to his den in the back.

I sit down on one of those dreaded arm chairs in the principal's office, unzip my backpack, and pretend to be organizing something. I do this to avoid my father's attempts to turn me into his free secretary. "Could you get me a cup of coffee?" It never works, though.

I get up, slide down the hall, and head into the staff lounge. I lean against the counter, unnoticed.

One guidance counselor says to another, "What do you think about our Richside transfer?" Central Highers never call Riverside, our greatest rival, by its actual name. They view the entire school as a bunch of rich kids who drive around in luxury cars. Central has always been the product of more rezoning, but Riverside only has a few undesirable neighborhoods on the other side of the river and remains at the top of the state's rankings.

"Interesting. I read her file," the other answers. "I was just surprised that her parents didn't opt for private school."

The first guidance counselor pours coffee into her cup. "At least she will bring up our test scores."

The other one guffaws. "Yeah, maybe she can bring one hundred of her closest friends, so we can get out of the hot seat."

I bite down on my lip, knowing all about the Riverside transfer. Her name is Chloe Preston, and we were close friends in middle school—along with Courtney, Caitlyn, Christina, Callie, and Carly. Our crazed gym teacher sat us alphabetically by our first names and referred to us as the 7Cs. It was the only way those girls would have ever included me in any of their reindeer games. Yep, I am Rudolph. Maybe I'll prove useful someday.

I place the cup on my father's desk. "Thanks." He never even looks up. "Why don't you wait for Chloe in the reception area?"

I gather my backpack and slink down the hall. I have been awake for two hours, spent the majority of the morning with my father, but have never uttered a word. I can talk, but I have always noticed how much adults prefer "children to be seen but not heard." This is especially true for parents who devote their lives to the future of America. They have little time left for their own progeny.

The front office staff acknowledges me with warm good mornings as I drop into a chair. I eye the front door as parents and students parade toward the front desk. I wait for Chloe, eager for a close friend to join me at Central.

Right before my freshmen year, my mother reassigned my father to be the principal of Central High. Leaving behind our mediocre home in Riverside, we moved into Central High's most prestigious neighborhood, barbecuing with booster parents on the weekends. While my parents' social life continues in a positive direction, I still miss the friendship of the Seven Cs.

With her father at her side, Chloe enters, clothed in an adorable sundress and sandals, her hair bouncing with blonde curls, and I almost expect a gust of wind to accompany her entrance. She notices me and waves at me like a mom spotting her kindergartner after the first day of school. I get up and greet her with a hug. "Welcome to Central," I say. Yes, I actually speak. Chloe has never hindered my communicative capabilities.

"Thank you." She pulls from the hug. "I'm a little nervous," she admits with a slight frown, "so I'm grateful that I have at least one friend here."

While her father finishes up with the secretary, I give her some quick pointers about Central High. "And," I begin, "my dad made sure we would have the same lunch, so I'll meet you after third."

She expels a breath of relief. "Good. I didn't want to be that new girl sitting all alone at the lunch table."

"And don't worry," I begin, "I'll show you around and introduce you to people." I say this, wondering where I will find "people." I am not exactly popular.

Her dad leans in with a kiss on the cheek, and we descend down the crowded corridor of Central High. I introduce her to her locker and proceed with a tour of the building, following her schedule. We land outside of choir. "This is where choir kids hang in the morning if you want to go in."

She shakes her head.

I glance at my watch. Yes, I still wear a watch. "Well, we have fifteen more minutes until the first bell. Anything you want to see?"

"Nope." Her shoulders drop. "I just want to fast forward through the next eight hours and the following 179 miserable school days, so I can be at Georgetown with Rob."

"Yeah." I smile knowingly. "I just want high school to be over, so I can get away from my parents."

"It must suck to have two parents in administration."

I nod. "If you ever think you have it bad..."

"I do, but," she starts, putting a hand on my shoulder, "you win the grand prize."

I laugh lightly as we turn toward the main corridor. Sophomore choir chicks pass us on the left, and I wave at them.

"Get out!" I turn, seeing Chloe on her phone. "Ryan showed at school this morning."

"Who's Ryan?"

"Callie's boyfriend," she updates. "He lives in Ponce. And you know Cal lives with me now, right?" I shake my head. "Yeah, her mom moved to North Carolina, so she's my new roomie. And Ryan is her freakishly hot boyfriend. He showed up at school with a slice of pizza and a bag of Twizzlers."

"Must be an inside joke?"

"Must be," Chloe echoes.

"Do you have a picture of him?" I wonder.

"I'll have her send one."

A few minutes later, a shirtless guy fills Chloe's screen.

"She seriously dates him?"

"Yeah, and he drives a black Porsche."

My hands hit my chest as I expel a breath. "Hey, sign me up for one of those."

We giggle as we reach the Commons. Soon a finger taps my shoulder, and I turn to find Lucas, sporting a vintage metal shirt. He grins menacingly. "What's up PK?" PK stands for preacher's kid or principal's kid; both labels cause kids to be watched heavily. Some rebel, but I've never been cool enough to question authority with any sense of style. He turns and eyes Chloe, up and down, like a complete prick. "Who's your friend?"

"Her friend can talk," Chloe begins. "And the answer is 'I have a boyfriend.' He's gorgeous. He's smart. And he knows how to treat a girl.'"

"You got attitude. I like that."

"Make sure that's all you like."

Lucas shakes his head. "I don't give up easily." He smiles over at me. "Just ask PK."

The first bell rings, and Lucas slips back to his circle of his friends.

Chloe cups a hand around my ear. "Pleeease, tell me you don't like him."

I sigh. "Kind of."

"Kind of a big mistake, Cynthia." She pauses. "I know guys like that."

"He's not like Austin." I try to explain. "He's a loser, okay? He's just some nobody."

"Yeah, and that makes him so much more desirable, Cyn."

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"Listen, the first guy you ever kissed was Landon Williams. He was in eighth when we were in seventh, and everyone was crushing on him. You always get the guy, Chlo. You are the total package, and those guys only date girls like you. You're at the top of the food chain." I pause. "And some of us are just bottom feeders."

"Cyn, you're selling yourself short."

"Well, I am only 5' 2''."

She rolls her eyes. "I was speaking metaphorically."

"Well, I'm speaking realistically, and guys like Lucas are what girls like me get to have."

"Hey." She strikes a finger in the air. "I will help you find a better guy." She eyes me coolly. "As long as you stay clear from that one." She points at Lucas who is now guffawing it up with his circle of stoners.

"Get to class," booms down the hall. "Let's go, people! Let's go!" I look over and spot one of my father's administrative lackeys doing his morning duty of "corralling the sheep."

"Well, we better go." I say with a smile. "We don't want the new girl to be late on her first day." We stroll toward the science wing.

School goes like this: Bell. First period. Bell. Second period. Bell. Third period. Bell.

I scurry down the hall toward the math wing to find Chloe and escort her to lunch. As I near her class, I find her among the school's academic elite, the ones who will graduate at the top of the class and go on to the best colleges. They have high grades, student council positions, community service hours, and athletics on their applications, making me look like a colossal slug.

I near her and tap her shoulder.

"Hey." She turns with a smile. "How was your day, Cyn?"

"Fine." I shrug. "You ready for lunch?"

"She's eating with us," Alaina Evans, our school's student body secretary, informs.

"Oh, okay," I manage. Nobody likes hanging out with a PK, not even the students who receive glowing praise from the administration. Thanks to my dad, I am a social leper.

"Wait," Chloe begins, "we can all eat together." As we stroll toward the lunchroom, Chloe informs them how we have been friends since sixth grade, elevating our friendship to a higher status than it has held in years.

Lunch at the academic elite table focuses on college applications. It reminds me of dining with my parents. Don't these kids talk about anything else?

Chloe nudges me. "I miss my old lunch table." She calls the girls and puts them on speaker. Soon a cacophonous revelry of Riverside friends displaces the boring prattle at our table.

"Hi, two Cs," comes from Callie, followed by Courtney and Caitlyn's unified, "Miss you so much, Chloe!"

"Miss you. Love you." Chloe pauses. "Hey, keep Courtney out of trouble. That's usually my job, you know?"

They all laugh.

"Guess who assigned me a seat in the front of class, Chlo?" Courtney offers.

"Really?" Chloe responds. "How was the view?"

"Incredible," she replies. "He has such a tight tush. I just wanted to go up and grab it."

"You should," Chloe teases, "and when you get called to the principal's office, just tell him you needed a better grasp of the subject."

Laughter erupts from the phone.

"What on earth?" I whisper.

Chloe mutes her cell for a moment. "Courtney has the hots for her science teacher." She returns to speaker. "Sorry, lost you there for a moment."

"I was just saying," Caitlyn begins, "that we should all get together this weekend. You too, Cynthia."

"Okay," I say. "Sounds fun." I envision the five us strolling through the mall, but that is total middle school. I wonder what they do now.

"Suggestions?" says Courtney.

"Preston's pool," Callie offers.

"Mani pedi, for sure," comes from Caitlyn.

"Eat a tub of Rocky Road ice cream while listening to maudlin music," Chloe adds with frown.

"Ooh, that's right," Courtney saddens, "we'll have to crash your pity party after Rob leaves for D.C."

"Yeah, yeah, join me for all the fun," Chloe grumbles. "But it will be B.Y.O.I.C. I'm not sharing my tub of chocolate heaven with anyone."

They end with another round of love you, miss you, and air kisses.

School continues: Bell. Fourth period. Bell. Fifth period. Bell.

I enter sixth period, always looking forward to show choir because it provides a morsel of fun in a long day of academic monotony. I convinced Chloe to take this class with me since she has five AP classes and could use a break. I slide into the room where the rows of chairs sit on risers like an auditorium. I sit in the middle row, the front is for the teacher pleasers and the back row is for the cool choir kids. No, that is not some oxymoron. Markus Benson elevates choir to cool because his dad is in the music industry. I place some books on the seat next to me, and wait for Chloe to enter, hoping she will be okay with sitting in social Switzerland.

Chloe enters and surveys the class.

"Whoa, who's that?" Markus's baritone belts from behind me. His voice alone makes me melt like a popsicle in mid-July.

"The new girl," Chase answers.

I wave overzealously at her, and Chloe returns a knowing smile and starts up the stairs.

"Ooh, I call dibs," Markus claims.

"She's taken," Chase informs.

"Really?" Markus begins. "What's the story?"

Chase provides the details: "Transfer from Riverside. Boyfriend heads to Georgetown in a week."

As she nears, I point to the seat next to me. She slides down the row, and as she comes closer, Markus gestures. "We saved you a seat, babe."

"Don't call me 'babe.'" She stands with her hands on her hips. "FYI, the last person to call me 'babe' was my ex-boyfriend whom I brought to court on sexual assault charges."

"Ah." Markus snaps his finger. "You're Chloe Preston, right?" She nods. "My dad said you were brave to go through all of that."

"If I were really brave, then I would be at Riverside right now."

"No one should blame you for wanting a fresh start." I watch her face soften as he tells her this. Then Markus extends a hand. "I apologize for giving you the wrong impression of me." She accepts his hand. "I'm Markus Benson. My dad's an old rocker from the eighties and calls everyone 'babe.' I inherited his lingo, I guess."

"Well, if you're lucky, Markus, I might forgive you..." she says, taking her seat. She turns slightly, glancing back over her shoulder. "By the end of the year," she finishes with a smirk and feathered giggle.

Mr. Hutchinson, our choir director, clears his throat to hush the conversations. "Today will be initiation for our new class members. Each new student will come up front and sing a solo. If you newbies refuse, then you can head to the guidance office and drop this class."

Chloe's hand pierces the air, and the teacher points at her. "Wouldn't it be better if we had a day or two to practice?"

"If you can't sing a song from your personal repertoire, then you don't belong in here." He gives her a malicious smirk. "And you may go first, young lady."

She slides down the aisle, descends the steps slowly, and lands front and center.

"Name?" Hutchinson asks.

She pushes out a breath. "Chloe Preston."

"God, she's beautiful," Markus whispers to his back row comrades. Chase, his informant, sits on his left and has the best dance moves of anyone in class. Jeremy, who occupies the seat on the other side of Markus, remains silent, probably gaming on his phone.

"Richside transfer?" Hutchinson asks.

"Riverside," she corrects, "and yes."

Markus chuckles softly. "And she doesn't take crap from anyone?"

"Yeah, not even from you, bro," Jeremy reminds.

Markus produces a guttural growl.

Chloe expels a breath and closes her eyes, and before she begins to sing, Markus leans forward, resting his folded hands on the back of Chloe's unoccupied seat. Her first words, delicately sung, produce chills down my bare arms:

Amazing grace

How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me

I once was lost, but now I'm found

Was blind, but now I see

"No!" Mr. Hutchinson roars. "Not that song. Something else please."

Chloe, slightly stunned, regains her composure, and with another deep cleansing breath, begins again:

I'm forgiven because You were forsaken

I'm accepted, You were condemned

And I'm alive and well, Your spirit is within me

Because You died and rose again

"No, no, no!" Our choir director steps toward her. "Don't you know any other songs—besides churchy ones?"

"But I only sing in church and for the glory of God."

"In case you haven't noticed, you are in a public school. This is not your church, Miss Preston. I mean, you do know about the separation of church and state. They taught you about that over at Richside, right?"

The teacher receives some snickers at Chloe's expense. I slide down in my chair, wishing she would just bolt out some inane pop song. She has serious talent, but she has to play by the teacher's unwritten rules.

"You have one more try...and no more church songs."

"Okay," she smirks. "I won't sing any more church songs." She steps forward and places a hand over her heart.

God Bless America.

Land that I love

Stand beside her, and guide her

Through the night with a light from above.

From the mountains, to the prairies,

To the oceans, white with foam

God bless America

My home sweet home.

Mr. Hutchinson slides forward, anger overtaking him. "Get out of my class!"

"Under what grounds?" She pauses. "In case the guidance counselor asks."

"For lack of talent."

"Well," Chloe returns evenly, "I can't argue with you there, can I?"

"But I can." Markus stands up. "Hutch, she has more talent than any of us." Markus sweeps his arm across the three rows of students as he slides down the back aisle.

"Talent is very subjective, Markus," Mr. Hutchinson fires back. "You should know that better than anyone. After all, your father is in the music industry."

"Then let's not be subjective." Markus descends the steps. "If you kick her out, then I will go with her—and so will all those anonymous," he gestures some air quotes, "contributions to your budget." He passes Chloe and stands a few feet from our teacher now. "Is that a little less subjective for you?"

Mr. Hutchinson offers a smile like a wolf about to eat poor Grandma. "Oh, calm down, Markus." He sneers at him. "And would you have been so forthcoming if she had she not been attractive?"

"Beauty, sir, is also quite subjective," Markus turns and glances at Chloe, "except in her case. It's quite universal."

Even from my seat, I can see the red rise in Chloe's cheeks as she presses her lips together and her eyes drop to her sandals.

Markus strolls over to Chloe and places a hand on her lower back, ushering her to our row. She slides down the aisle and melts into her chair.

I turn and whisper, "Are you okay?"

She bites down on her lip and nods.

Another victim gets called to the front of the class for a solo. This student chooses a classic Adele song and provides a decent rendition, and before she reaches the final chorus, Chloe turns in her seat. "Thank you for sticking up for me, Markus."

"Well, in actuality..." He pulls out a silver chain, dangling with a cross, and shows it to her. "I was sticking up for Him."

A couple more solos, and the teacher closes class. "Due to our new class initiates, we will have to shuffle our pairings for show choir." He surveys the room with mock solemnity. "And girls, I do not need to know who you would like as your new partner. We will hold mini auditions this week and sort it out."

Chloe turns and faces Markus again. "So—are you the choir stud who represents the "who" of the teacher's last statement?"

He laughs. "I don't know. What do you think?"

She surveys the room and turns back at him. "I will take the evil glares from the female populace as confirmation."

"I was hoping," he starts smoothly, "that you would judge with your eyes—not theirs."

"I have a boyfriend," Chloe launches that out-of-place conversational bomb.

"I heard." Markus grins. "Bad news travels fast."

The bell gongs, signaling the glorious end of school.

"If you knew," Chloe begins as she stands up, "then why were you flirting with me?"

"Because he's leaving for college."

She offers an indignant "So?"

"So," he belts back at her. "You two will break up soon."

While she expels a long, loud exhale and glares at Markus, I rest a hand on her arm. "We should get going, Chlo." We start down the aisle, descend the steps, and enter the crowded halls.

Chloe pulls out her phone and returns a quick text. "He's already out front."

"Who is?" Markus invades, moving deftly from behind us to Chloe's side.

"My boyfriend." She smirks. "Care to meet him?"

"Absolutely," Markus replies. "I want to size up the competition."

"Listen," Chloe says, stopping and stepping in front of Markus. She jabs a finger into his chest. "I am really grateful to you—for standing up for me and for Jesus. But I want you to stop this, Markus: I don't want you hitting on me. Do you know how hard this summer has been for Rob and me—after everything that happened?"

He pushes out a breath. "I don't know how difficult it has been for you, but I know how much you will continue to need him as you heal from everything."

"Yes, exactly."

"Then why's he leaving you—especially when you need him the most?"

"Because I don't expect him to change his plans for me."

"Did you ask him to stay?"

Her lip quivers slightly. "That's personal. Plus," she covers, "I have lots of friends to help me through it."

He softens his voice. "Then let me be a friend...too."

"As long as you promise to stop hitting on me."

He shakes his head. "I can't promise you that."

"Then...no."

He steps forward, his hand gently resting on her shoulder. "At least I'm being honest with you. At least you know where I stand." He waits. "Seriously, Chloe, how many guys play the friend role just to get close to a girl? I'm not hiding anything from you. That's better, isn't it?"

"Not really." She brushes his hand off her shoulder. "They are over a thousand girls at this school." She gestures toward the passing crowds. "Why not pick one of them?

"Because none of them sing like an angel, descended from heaven." He diminishes the distance. "Your voice could carry lost souls to Christ."

"You think so?"

He nods. "You have a true gift."

She shakes her head. "But I have a plan. One that does not include singing." She continues, "I want to focus on my school work and how to get through the next 179 days without any distractions."

"So you can be at Georgetown next year?"

"Exactly."

"Have you ever considered that God has a plan for you and that he gave you that voice to further the Kingdom?"

"Absolutely, that is why I sing in the youth choir."

"And you reach those who are found," he stops, grasping her shoulders, "you have the propensity to reach the lost."

"I'll think about it." She smiles and then brushes Markus's hands off her shoulders. "Just keep your distance—especially in front of Rob."

"I'll try."

She glares at him with piercing eyes.

"And if at first I don't succeed, I'll try again."

"If at first you don't succeed, Rob's fist will meet your face."

Markus nods an acknowledgement as we begin the stroll down the main corridor. Fellow classmates greet Markus incessantly. Even Chloe gets her fair shares of "hey" and "hi." I prove to be almost invisible, strolling down the halls with these two social butterflies.

"Do you have to go by your locker?" Markus asks Chloe.

"No, all my teachers were kind enough to give me homework on the first day."

"What classes do you take?"

She names them.

"So, let me get this straight: You're in all AP classes except for choir?" Chloe nods for clarification. "Smart, talented, and beautiful. That, babe," he says, glancing in her direction, "is what they, in the music industry, call a triple threat."

"And you," Chloe quips, "are what we, in the female population, call a flirt."

Markus laughs as we drift into the wide front hallway. I should stop by my locker, but I am not parting from this. I am walking through the Commons with Markus and Chloe. I will be popular by association if I can keep up with their quick gait.

We exit the school, and Chloe rushes toward Rob, who happens to be leaning against the front pillar in the folded-arms-right-leg-crossed-over-the-left model pose. I get that warm squeeze in my chest just by looking at him, and I cannot imagine how Chloe must feel to not only look at him but to hold him close to her.

Rob holds tightly to Chloe and speaks around their embrace. "Hi, Cynthia." He pauses, eyeing Markus. "And hello, I'm Rob." He extends a hand to Markus.

Markus steps forward and accepts the offer. "Markus Benson. My dad's in the music biz." Chloe rolls from her boyfriend's chest, and Markus glances in her direction. "So I know real talent when I see it." Rob's quizzical look begs for further explanation. "Chloe sang in class today. She has an amazing voice. We should get her in a studio and have her record a demo."

"Yes, she's a great singer," Rob confirms, "but she doesn't need to prove anything by recording in some studio."

"Shouldn't it be her choice?" Markus examines Chloe as he speaks.

"Her choice? My choice? It's our choice." Rob pauses. "We vowed to put our relationship above everything else."

"Vowed?" Markus chastises. "I don't see a ring on her finger."

Rob lifts her right hand, pointing to the band of gold.

"Hmm, isn't it on the wrong hand?"

Rob steps forward. "But it still means the same thing," he pauses, "to us."

The boys exchange looks like two alpha males about to spar during mating season. Rob glances at Chloe. "Let's go, Chlo." He grabs her hand, and they drift into the crowded parking lot.

"Man, this is going to be easier than I thought," Markus begins, leaning toward me, "because he suffocates her...into silence."

I chew on his words as Markus strolls into the parking lot, but I come to understand them better as I turn and find my father looming behind me. "How was your first day of school, dear?" I shrug. "Why don't you go to the library and get your homework done? I'm going to be a while." He frowns. "It wasn't exactly the best day."

