 
# The One New Thing

## Jos Pierce
Copyright © 2020 by Jos Pierce

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For Sarah, the first friend I ever had.

# Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About the Author

Also by Jos Pierce

# Chapter One

"You're here."

"You're observant," I said swiftly, surprised by my fast response.

I'd never been the quickest or the wittiest—that honor had gone to my sister on most days. But not today; this was a new town, new school, new opportunity to reinvent myself. Anonymity could ensure my survival here, and acting like Samantha was not the way to make that happen. I needed to strive for invisibility, so I sobered.

"Victoria, right?" the man asked, fumbling to catch the few books that slid from his arms as he'd crossed into the room, tripping over his feet. He managed to remain upright, but his dark-rimmed glasses slipped down his nose as he dove to catch a weathered textbook.

Was that my fault? Had I caught him off guard? It was too early to be in the building, and yet here I sat—front and center in a seat that wasn't mine. I'd scared him. This was _definitely_ my fault.

He kept his eyes down as he crossed the room. "Victoria..."

"Bradley," I offered my last name.

He nodded and stood upright again as he reached the large desk at the front of the room. He freed his hands of the heavy books and lifted the strap of a leather bag off his shoulder before dropping it onto his seat. He seemed to carry more books than me, and I should've earned a world record by this point.

I waited silently for an introduction, but he never told me his name; I doubt it crossed his mind that maybe he should. He ran his hands down his shirt to smooth out imaginary wrinkles and then tucked a strand of overgrown hair behind his ear. He was frantically searching for something to do with his hands, and guilt settled in the pit of my stomach.

I shouldn't have been there. I should've given my teacher time to start his morning routine, but I'd taken my order, and I'd never looked back.

_Here's your schedule. Find your class._

When the principal doles out an order, you follow it—especially considering the power he held. Ethan Pullman was my sister's high school sweetheart and someone who knew far too much about the tattered life I'd left behind when I moved to Brighton. I wanted to trust that our family secrets were safe with him, but I'd learned a long time ago not to trust anyone but myself. Ethan— _Principal Pullman_ , as I now knew him—was the only person who could ruin my new start, so I'd stay on his good side. If he said jump, I'd jump. And he'd told me to go to class, so...

I focused again on my teacher.

"I'm sorry if I rattled you," I said. "Mr. Pullman suggested that I..."

I couldn't lie to him; I wouldn't do that. But what was I supposed to say? _My sister used to boink your boss, and now they're in his office "catching up?"_ Nope. That was the wrong way to start.

I scrambled out of the desk and onto my feet.

"Would you like me to leave? I can come back when—"

"No, please stay," he said quickly, finally nudging his glasses back to their rightful place. As soon as he'd adjusted the glasses, he removed them and tossed them aside on his desk. "I didn't introduce myself, did I?"

"You did not."

"Mr. Amaya," he said, taking a few steps forward to offer his hand.

I didn't budge as he moved closer; I only studied him with an amused smile. Given what little I'd observed about this man, I half-expected him to trip over his feet again as he approached, but his steps were far more graceful than the first few he'd taken into the classroom. It was almost as if he'd tossed away his inhibitions along with his glasses.

I took his outreached hand, giving it a firm shake.

"Are you normally this..." I didn't want to say _flustered_ , although it seemed like the right word. I couldn't tell if it was an endearing character trait or if my presence had thrown him off his A-game. Whatever it was, this guy seemed seriously—

"Unnerved?" he asked, his eyes trailing down to where our hands still lingered together in the air. I quickly jerked mine back.

"Sorry," we said in unison, and I'd never know if he'd met my eye with that apology because I turned back quickly to reclaim my seat.

"I wasn't expecting you so early," Mr. Amaya said, returning to the marker board at the front of the room. He began to write the daily agenda across the board, and I took to copying his notes. "The first bell doesn't ring for another half-hour. You said Mr. Pullman knows that you're—"

"Oh, yes," I said quickly, still writing his agenda verbatim in my notebook. "He's an old friend. He and my sister were tying up loose ends on my enrollment, and... honestly, I felt like a third-wheel, you know? He's more _her_ old friend than mine, so..."

Despite that information, Mr. Amaya didn't pry, although the mention of my sister seemed to pique his interest. He snapped around, and his brow furrowed.

_Where's your mom? Your dad? Why is your_ sister _overseeing your transfer? Who_ are _you? Where are you from? How exactly do you know Mr. Pullman? What's your story, Victoria Bradley?_

All great questions, Mr. Amaya—questions that may never have an easy answer. Thank you for _not_ asking.

To avoid the inevitable first-day interrogation, I cleared my throat. "So how'd you get this gig?"

"This gig?"

"Teaching," I said. "At your age—"

"My age?"

"You're young," I said. It wasn't a question. Mr. Amaya didn't look a day over twenty, which was impossible unless he was some kind of wunderkind. Standing at the front of the classroom in his navy button-down and tie, he hardly looked old enough to teach a group of senior class students.

"I'm young," he agreed, his voice firm. "But I'm also highly-qualified. I have a degree in education, and I'm working on my Master's—"

"I wasn't questioning your qualifications," I said quickly, hoping to squash the misunderstanding. "It was just an observation. I've never had a teacher who looked like..."

"A classmate?"

"No," I whispered, shaking my head. That wasn't it...

What I'd meant was that I'd never had a teacher who was quite as handsome as he was, and the fact that I recognized his good looks racked my whole body with disbelief. That wasn't something I usually noticed about men, but it was definitely something I couldn't stop noticing about him.

That whole tall, dark, and handsome thing he had going on... that was Samantha's thing. He was precisely the kind of guy my sister would've fallen for in a split second, based on his charming smile alone. She wouldn't have noticed his goofy quirks—like the fact that he'd taken his glasses on and off twice since he'd come into the room or the way he seemed a little too socially inept to be a teacher. Samantha would've never looked past his thick black hair or radiant blue eyes to see that there was something far more alluring about him than what lay on the surface.

There was something about Mr. Amaya that was silent and compelling, something that made him far more attractive than just tanned skin or the way his hair curled on end.

"What have I missed?" I asked abruptly, shaking my head to ward off those dangerous thoughts. I couldn't think like that about him. I was better than that. I _had_ to be. I had something to prove, and I couldn't exactly prove anything by giving into my hormones.

"You haven't missed much," he said, turning away from the board. "We're only a few weeks into the year. We spent the first week getting settled and easing into the material, and now we're writing narratives."

"What's the topic of the week?"

"The moment you realized you were no longer a child."

"Oh," I said, and that one word was clipped by a lump in my throat. How was I supposed to write a narrative essay on something like that? I couldn't remember a day in my life that I actually felt _like_ a child.

"There's no reason to be nervous," he said, reading into my expression. "You're smart. You'll catch on quickly."

"I'm smart?" I asked. "That's a lot of faith to have in a stranger."

"I consider myself a good judge of character. I'm right about this one."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He tossed a dry-erase marker toward the tray beneath the board, but it completely missed and hit the floor. Ignoring the failed shot, he crossed his arms at his chest and studied me for a silent minute. "You're a straight-A student."

"You've seen my transcript."

"I haven't. I got an email that you were starting today—nothing more, nothing less. Now, I imagine I'll get a glimpse of your transcript later this afternoon, and it will confirm exactly what I suspect about you."

"That I'm a nerd?"

"Did I say nerd?"

"It was implied, I think."

"It wasn't," he said smirking. "Am I wrong?"

I squirmed in my seat. "No."

"I rarely am."

"You're not so modest, either." His smile widened, and I couldn't help but match his contagious grin. "It's my first day of school, Mr. Amaya. I'm a senior starting three weeks after the rest of my class, and I was kind of hoping to fade into the crowd—you know, go unnoticed. This is a chance for me to start new—without the labels. What gave me away?"

He half-laughed. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously."

"You're sitting in class a half-hour before the first bell. Some of your peers are still at home in bed."

"But Mr. Pullman said—"

"And of all the seats you could've taken, you're sitting front and center."

"But studies have proven that students who sit—"

"You have a three-ring binder with colored tabs and two sharpened pencils on your desk," he said. "You already have more notes on that sheet of paper than most of my students will take in a day, and..." He clicked his tongue, looking for one more piece of evidence to really drive his point home. "There. No one carries those anymore."

I looked down at the black backpack resting at my feet.

"You're joking. _Where am I supposed to put my books_?" He smiled as if he'd just proven his point. "Really?"

"Well," he shrugged. "Only—"

"The nerds," I said, dropping my shoulders. "Fantastic."

He took a few steps toward me and then stopped, careful to keep a respectable distance.

"You don't have to worry about what people think of you, Victoria."

"Of course I do; I'm in high school," I said. "I don't want them to think _anything_ about me. I just want to get through this year, silent and undetected, and then... then I can finally move on and have a real life."

"This life isn't real?"

"It definitely doesn't feel like it."

"What does it feel like?"

"Like a terrible nightmare."

That admission was all the ammunition he needed to slowly close the gap and approach my desk. He knelt down, right in front of where I sat, his blue eyes falling perfectly in line with mine.

"If you let yourself fade into the background, you're doing yourself the biggest disservice of your life," he said. "You're supposed to be the star of your own story."

"I don't think so," I whispered. "I've _been_ the center of attention; I've lived that life, and believe me, it's not all it's cracked up to be. I'll take the stage crew any day if it means I never have to play the lead. No one needs to know I exist."

"You're wrong about that," he said quietly.

"What makes you so sure?"

"I'm a good judge of character," he said again. "You have more value than you give yourself credit for. The world will see that; don't sell yourself short."

My eyes drifted down to watch the way his lip curved with the faintest smile, and my heart swelled three times its size. There it was—that compelling _something_ that made him so attractive. It was compassion— _heart_. Empathy.

"I'm going to challenge you, Victoria Bradley," he said, standing straight again and walking back across the room. "I challenge you to do at least one new thing every day—something you have never done before."

"To what end?"

"Expand your mind, learn new things, vanquish your fears," he said. "I've always been a proponent for living life out loud and being unapologetically happy."

I half-laughed. "I like that."

"If your life feels like a nightmare, do something to change it. There's no reason to be miserable for the sake of being miserable. From one nerd to another," he said, displaying a wide grin. "Maybe a little spontaneity is all you need."

# Chapter Two

"So the rumors are true."

I'd barely had time to register those five words before a male student slid into the chair next to mine, interrupting what had the potential to be the best lunch of my life.

No one had bothered me.

No one had looked in my direction.

No one knew I existed.

It was twelve o'clock, and up to that point, I'd gotten exactly what I'd hoped for out of this first day—invisibility.

In English, Mr. Amaya had respected my wishes to forgo a formal introduction to the class. My second class was covered by a substitute who didn't know any different, and I'd survived a quick (mostly painless) introduction in my third period. By the time I'd made it to lunch, very few people in Brighton had even recognized the new girl navigating the busy halls.

I'd found an empty table at the back of the cafeteria, pulled out a collection of short stories, and started reading to pass the time.

Everything had gone entirely to plan until—

"So the rumors are true."

I tore my eyes away from Hemingway to meet the eager-eyed stare of a boy in a red varsity jacket. His blonde hair was purposefully disheveled, and my best guess was that he'd spent more time primping that morning than I had. Honestly, he didn't need to make such an effort. If his personality was half as attractive as his face, he'd have his pick of any girl... so why he was sitting next to me was the greatest mystery of the century.

"What rumors?" I asked, clearing my throat. It was the first time I'd spoken in hours.

"You're here," he said. "A new girl."

"Okay?" I shifted, suddenly aware of my dry mouth.

"We don't get many noobs here."

"Oh."

"Victoria, right?"

"News travels fast."

"You stay at the Starlight?"

"News travels _very_ fast," I muttered. "How do you know where I live?"

"You _live_ in the motel?" he asked quietly, and the concern etched in his expression told me he hadn't meant to sound judgmental. I even detected the faintest hint of pity. "That's a permanent thing?"

"It's not permanent," I said, trying to justify what didn't need explaining. I didn't even know this guy's name, and—

"I'm Andy, by the way," he said, perfectly timed. "I'm the Student Body President. It's one of my responsibilities to greet the new students and make sure you're finding your way around comfortably and to fill you in on everything that's happening around the school. The football season's drawing to a close— _Go Eagles!_ —and the homecoming game is in two weeks. There's a dance on the following Saturday."

"Noted, thank you."

"So..." He clicked his tongue. "Are you? Are you finding your way around okay? I don't mean to pry, I just—"

"Thank you for checking in," I said, glancing down at my book to avoid his persistent stare. "I appreciate the welcome, but I'd rather just—"

"It's a shady place," he said, lowering his voice; he was back on the topic of the Starlight. And again, pity. It was dripping off of every word. "Do you know what kind of stuff goes on there?"

I looked around the cafeteria, darting my eyes away from the uncomfortable conversation. _How did he even know where I lived_? And why did he think it was any of his business?

"It's a small town," Andy said, blowing a lock of hair from his eyes. He had an unbelievable knack for reading minds because he was answering every question without a single hesitation. "People talk. I've heard whispers, and—"

"People are whispering about me?"

"Everyone whispers about everyone," he said. "Isn't that the cardinal rule of high school?"

"I guess," I said, trying to ignore the sinking pit in my stomach. "I thought small towns were supposed to be wholesome and welcoming. And now... now you're telling me that I live in a seedy motel and go to school with a bunch of unapologetic gossips?"

"First of all," Andy said, quick to clear up a few things. "The Starlight is five miles out of Brighton and in the middle of nowhere. We don't claim that place as our own. As for the unapologetic gossips..." He looked around the cafeteria before bringing his green eyes back to meet mine. "Yeah. They suck. I can't explain that one."

I wanted to dislike Andy because he'd managed to make me so uncomfortable on my first day of school, but he wasn't motivated by malice. He was friendly and witty, and despite the pity, he seemed genuinely concerned for the wellbeing of a classmate he'd never met before today.

"For what it's worth," I said, hoping to offer him a small semblance of relief. "The Starlight is temporary. My sister and I moved to town unexpectedly this past weekend. We're still looking for a place."

He sighed. "That's a relief."

"Do you know of anything?"

"Nothing," he said. "Local real estate isn't my forte."

"Just welcome wagons?"

"Precisely."

After the final bell, I stopped off at my locker to store the textbooks I'd accumulated throughout the day. I didn't have a long list of assignments or homework, and there was no room left in my backpack to accommodate another heavy book. I made a mental note to carry a lighter load of reading material from now on. It was only a matter of time before I'd need to start carting those texts to and from school.

"How was your first day?"

I recognized the voice immediately, and I braced myself for the impending conversation with a forced smile.

I turned on my heel. "It was fine, thanks."

"Just fine?" Ethan asked, and then I made another mental note: I had to stop thinking of him as Ethan. He was _Mr. Pullman_ now. It didn't matter that he'd dated my sister for four years. That was ten years ago... ten years that felt like a lifetime. "Is there anything we could've done differently to make it better?"

"No," I said. "It's nothing anyone did or didn't do. It's just... an adjustment. New school, new people."

"You were evasive this morning when you came in."

"I was?"

"I got the impression you were angry with me."

I would've responded right away with some half-assed lie about how I had no reason to be angry, but my attention instinctively drifted behind him when I caught a peripheral glance of Mr. Amaya at the end of the hallway.

If not for the fact that I had memorized his face, I wouldn't have recognized him at all. In this setting, outside the classroom, he seemed to exude ultra-confidence. He spoke to a group of his colleagues with a permanent smile and a tall, assertive posture. Those once-fidgeting hands were now open with each of his graceful gestures, and his steady voice carried down the hallway. His tone had the cadence of a joke, and each of the four men laughed at whatever he'd shared with them. And never once, not for a moment, did he seem the slightest unnerved.

I watched this interaction in awe of him.

This morning, he'd fumbled around. Throughout his lesson, he'd find a steady rhythm only then to stammer and become flustered all over again. Someone behind me had even whispered to their neighbor, " _what's with him today_?" He must've had an off morning. Now that he had shaken whatever had bogged him down, I was getting a real glimpse at the authentic Mr. Amaya in his natural habitat. It was like fire and ice, night and day. He was a completely different man.

"You're doing it again."

"Hmm?" I said, bringing my attention back to the man in front of me. "Oh, right. What were you saying?"

He shifted his weight between his feet, and a muscle jumped in his neck. "You were evasive this morning. I got the impression you were mad at me."

"I'm not trying to be evasive," I said. "I was probably distracted."

"Are you distracted now?" he asked, and I glanced behind him again to steal a glance at Mr. Amaya, this time finding that my teacher was staring right back at me. His head tilted down a little as if he was trying to read our body language the same way I'd just read his. "Victoria?"

"Yeah," I said, my head snapping back up to Ethan— _Mr. Pullman_. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Are you doing this intentionally?" he asked. "Is this because of Samantha?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, and that was the truth.

"Listen," he said, leaning forward until he was only a few inches from my face. "Things are going to be a lot easier for both of us if we can agree to just get along despite our differences, okay? I'm in a position of authority at this school, and I command respect. I don't need you to make any trouble for me. Are we clear?"

I cleared my throat and took a step backward, hitting the lockers and feeling the cold metal press against my shoulders. There was really nowhere I could go, but I could feel his warm breath on my face, and it made the bile in my stomach rise.

"Are you going to make trouble for me?" I stammered.

"I have no reason to. The past is the past."

"So then we agree," I said. "I'll stay out of your way; you stay out of mine."

When I'd given him the answer he wanted, he stood up straight again, adjusting his tie and nodding once. "You have my word."

And with that, Mr. Pullman turned off down the next hallway, without so much as a "Welcome to Brighton" or "Happy to have you aboard."

Still pressed against the cold lockers, I realized that my shoulders were hunched against my ears. I closed my eyes, took a long breath, and slowly meditated the tension away.

"What was your one new thing today?"

When I peeled my eyes open, Mr. Amaya was standing in the spot that Mr. Pullman had just vacated. His was a much friendlier face, and I found myself bouncing off the locker and standing upright again.

"I sat with a stranger at lunch."

"Andy Olson's obligatory welcome wagon doesn't count," he said. "That was forced upon you. Your one new thing is supposed to be a conscious decision, something that you deliberately choose to do."

I held my hands up in defeat. "Then, I've got nothing."

"The day's not over yet."

With an off-kilter smile, Mr. Amaya started to walk away. I watched him for a few long seconds while I contemplated what I could do to prove to him—and myself—that I was taking calculated steps toward being "unapologetically happy." I replayed the entire day in my head, searching for some kind of clue, an ounce of motivation. And then it struck me.

"Where does a girl need to go in this town to buy the local paper?" I asked, and Mr. Amaya turned back with a shrug. "You can buy one on any corner, or... you can just take the one from my desk. Any specific reason?"

"Yeah," I said nodding. "I think I know what my one new thing is going to be."

# Chapter Three

"We're moving."

Samantha gaped up at me, her mouth wide open as she tossed a bag of chips aside on the nightstand. She sat up straighter on the lumpy mattress, wiping crumbs off her chest and onto the grimy carpet.

"What do you mean we're moving?" She swung her legs over the side of the bed to stand up. "We just got here."

The way she stamped her foot made her look like a moody teenager, which was a fantastic feat considering she was only one year shy of thirty. Yet these were our roles; even though she was my court-appointed guardian, I spent most of my days taking care of her.

I slammed the local newspaper down on a table near the door.

"I got this from school," I said, flipping through the pages to find the classifieds. "We're getting out of this trashy motel and finding a place to rent."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Samantha said, trying to rip the newspaper away from me, but I kept a firm grip on it. "That wasn't the plan."

" _What plan_?" I yelled. "You don't have a plan. You _didn't_ have one. We're not here because your meticulously scheduled planner said it was time to make a change. We're here on impulse, and we need to find a place to unpack our bags."

"I told you we'd have a place eventually, but—"

"I'm not moving in with Ethan Pullman," I said emphatically. " _You're_ not moving in with Ethan. He's _married_ , Samantha!"

"And getting a divorce," she said, flipping her perfect blonde hair over her shoulder. She'd gotten up hours before me to do her makeup and style her golden locks into big, bouncy curls. She had to dress to impress because she had zeroed in on her target; she didn't care that Ethan was still involved with the woman he'd been married to for the last ten years. "They're separated."

"He's still wearing his ring," I said quietly, remembering the way the gold band shined on his finger. It was the first thing I'd noticed about him this morning—that, and he'd inherited his father's receding hairline.

"Sam," I said quietly, trying to reason with my irrational sister. "I'm not staying in this trashy motel for another night while you lie in bed waiting for your high school boyfriend to move us into his house. We need to be proactive."

Samantha's anger dissipated with my tone. She wasn't so stubborn that she couldn't acknowledge the truth. She'd impulsively moved us across the state so she could be with Ethan, and I wasn't even sure he knew what Samantha had in mind. She'd always carried a torch for him. He was the one who'd gotten away, and she'd never stopped pining for the man who'd stolen her heart.

Ethan and Samantha had stayed in touch over the years through social media, but I had no way of knowing how much they really talked. Daily messages? Texts? A simple birthday message once a year and a Merry Christmas in December? It was hard to say because I never asked, and I wasn't about to ask now. I knew a few basic facts: the moment he changed his relationship status to "it's complicated," Samantha had quit her job and packed up our apartment. Two days later, we were driving westward. It happened that fast.

She nodded to the open newspaper. "Anything good in there?"

"There's not much," I said, skimming the ads for the third time. "Brighton's not exactly a bustling metropolis. We can't be too picky." I glanced around the dingy room, my eyes landing on the faded bedspread we shared every night. "Anything's better than this."

She nodded. "You're right."

"There's a room for rent," I said, pointing to an ad. "It's in a house, not a motel, and the monthly rent is cheaper than staying here longterm."

"But it's a _room_." She crinkled her nose. "We'd have to share the house with other people."

"But we'd have a kitchen and reliable plumbing, which is far more than anything we have right now," I said. "Wouldn't you love to have a hot shower? I would."

"I don't know," she said. "I'm not crazy about having roommates."

"It's not ideal, I know, but neither is this, and _this_ is bad." I lowered my voice, echoing the words that Andy Olson had said to me earlier. "Do you know what kind of stuff goes on at the Starlight?"

"What do you mean?" she matched my whisper. "What kind of stuff?"

" _Stuff_ ," I said. " _Bad_ stuff."

"Like...?"

"You don't want to know," I said, pretending I had a clue, but I didn't even want to imagine what kind of things Andy had hinted at. "Let's just call this number. Maybe we can set up an appointment to meet the guy." I glanced down at the advertisement. "Gabriel. Let's give good ole Gabe a call."

"Gabriel," Samantha said. "That's angelic."

"See? We're already feeling good about this," I said, dialing the number. "With a name like that, there's only a 50% chance that he's an axe murderer."

" _What_?" she asked, and I smiled as I pulled the cell phone up to my ear. Her concerns were quickly muffled by the sound of a voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Hi, am I speaking with Gabriel?" I asked, injecting a little more enthusiasm in my voice than I usually would. I wanted to sound kind, professional, approachable. Classic roommate material.

"Yes, how can I help you?" His voice was just as friendly. The tension in my shoulders melted as I took a deep breath in and slowly let it pass.

"I'm calling about the ad in the paper," I said. "The room for rent."

"Oh, great," he said. "Do you have any specific questions, or did you want to set up a time to meet?"

"No questions at the moment," I said. "But, I would love to schedule something soon; when are you available?"

"Now?" he said. "This evening? Tomorrow? I'm flexible."

I covered the mouthpiece on the phone and whispered to my sister, "Definitely an axe murderer—an eager one, too. Are we available to be killed tonight?" Samantha's brown eyes widened, and she started to protest, but I waved her away and returned to the call. "Now's perfect. I can be there in... fifteen minutes?"

"I'll be here," he said. "You have the address?"

"Yep."

"And who am I talking to?" he asked before I could hang up. "I didn't catch your name."

"Oh," I said. "Sorry. Samantha."

"Samantha," he said. "Great. See you in a few."

I hung up the phone, and my sister's open hand slapped me across the back of the head.

" _You gave him my name_!" she shrieked.

"You don't want him to know your name?"

"You couldn't tell him yours?"

"I'm not the one signing a lease," I said. "You're the adult. You're the one he's going to have a contract with. Think of me like a lovely and adorable pet that's just tagging along for the ride. I have no financial obligation here. I'm just a baby."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to that man's house."

"You have to go," I said, making my rounds through the room to collect her keys and purse. "I just set up a meeting, and—"

"What if he really is trolling for a victim?" she asked. "I'm not going to waltz up to this guy's house and offer myself for slaughter."

"Oh, wow, okay," I said, realizing the joke had not landed. Samantha was serious. "You've really lost it, haven't you?"

"I'm not going," she said defiantly. "Over—my—dead—body."

"Interesting choice of words."

"You know what I mean," she said, sinking back down on the bed. She reached for the bag of potato chips and locked her focus on the grainy television.

"You can't be serious," I said, studying her subtle movements for any sign she was facetious, but she never budged. "You're really not going?"

"We'll find a different place," she said. "We'll find an apartment... or a house that we can rent—a house all to ourselves."

"With what money?" I asked. "You haven't found a job; you haven't even looked, and what little money we have isn't going to last forever. We need a temporary solution."

With sarcastic fanfare, she raised her arms and motioned around the room. "Ta-da. Temporary solution."

"Not here," I said, refusing to admit to my sister that our living accommodations were the talk of the school. "Anywhere but here. _Please_."

"I'm not going."

"Fine," I yelled. "Don't go. But I am."

"Knock yourself out," she said, sinking lower in the bed. She did not seem at all concerned with stopping me as I stormed out of the room, straight into the arms of a potential axe murderer.

# Chapter Four

I veered the car off the road about two blocks from the address. Samantha would've called me crazy— _park as close as you can! Prepare for a fast getaway!_

And maybe it was naive to assume that there was no reason to worry, but I'd gotten warm and fuzzy vibes from the man on the other end of the phone, and my intuition was rarely wrong about these things.

I grinned when I realized that my inner monologue sounded a lot like Mr. Amaya this morning. _I'm a good judge of character. I'm rarely wrong_.

It was a warm late-September evening, and the sun cut through the trees, casting beautiful patterns of light on the sidewalk as I slowly meandered through the neighborhood. This was it—Main Street Brighton—the center of the small town that I now called home.

I studied the architecture and color scheme of each house along my walk, appreciating the unique characteristics that made this neighborhood so charming. These homes weren't oversized and intimidating; most of them were quaint and cute and straight out of a storybook with their white picket fences and large oak trees. With each passing house, my excitement and expectations grew bigger. Any of these homes would be a far cry from where we were staying now, and all I could hope was that this Gabriel guy was—

" _Mr. Amaya_ ," I said, turning my glance forward just in time to see my English teacher a few feet ahead of me. He was standing at a mailbox near the street, fishing out the day's mail. Since leaving school, he'd changed out of his navy button-down and tie and into a blue collegiate hooded sweatshirt and jeans. Somehow, casual wear suited him far better than his work attire. "Hi."

"Victoria," he said, jumping back as if my niceties had alarmed him. The stack of mail slipped through his fingers and scattered on the sidewalk near his feet. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes, and I imagined he was cursing his sudden onset clumsiness. He knelt, picking up the few stray envelopes. "Are we neighbors?"

"I don't think so, no," I said, wondering if he really hadn't heard the rumors about my glamorous life at the Starlight Motel. "I'm just out for a stroll."

"It's a great evening for it."

"It is," I agreed because there were few things I appreciated more than a long walk on a beautiful night. "How... how was your day?"

"How was my day?" He chuckled.

"Is that a weird question?"

"Not weird, no," he said, although he was still smiling a goofy smile, so I had to believe that it was despite his answer.

"Then...?"

"I just saw you an hour ago, that's all," he said, grinning. "Besides, I can't remember the last time someone even asked me that question. I guess it just surprised me."

I half-smiled. "I know what you mean. I don't think anyone has _ever_ asked me that question."

There was a moment of pause, and a slight breeze picked up, blowing my long auburn hair into my eyes and obstructing my view. I didn't need to see him to know that he was still standing there, looming a few inches taller than me, with an irresistible smile stretched across his lips.

"How was your day, Victoria?" he asked, his voice quieter now, soothing.

"That does sound weird," I said. "When you're not used to hearing it."

"Well?"

"I asked you first."

"I had a hard time keeping it together today," he admitted. "You know the feeling—like all the powers in the universe get together and gang up on you, just for a good laugh."

"Oh yeah," I said. "Except... I just call that my life." That was my lame attempt at making a joke, but he hardly reacted. "I'm sorry you had a bad day."

"It's getting better."

"Mine too."

"How so?"

"Well, I figured out my _one thing_."

"Care to share?"

"It's not one black or white thing so much as a movement. I'm taking the bull by the horns," I said. "It's time to get settled. I've spent my entire life being a very _go with the flow_ kind of person and letting my family dictate our daily lives. I'm stepping up now and doing something for myself. I'm taking charge."

"Good for you," he said, beaming, but distraction got the best of him, and he pulled his phone from his back pocket to check the time. "Listen, it was nice running into you, and I hate to go, but—"

"Yeah, right, go," I said, waving him off. "I have somewhere I need to be anyway."

"Good." He nodded. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah. Tomorrow."

Mr. Amaya lifted his free hand in a small wave and started back down the sidewalk toward a small one-story house. I tried not to linger, but I took the time to appreciate the way his charming home fit perfectly with each of the neighboring houses. It was a delightful blue cottage that backed up against a densely wooded forest; the bright color of the house was contrasted by white shutters and a red door, and the house numbers were gold-plated near a small lantern light on the porch.

I read the address in a faint whisper. "Three, two, five, nine."

Mr. Amaya disappeared behind the red door after a small nod in my direction. The wind picked up again, and the scratching sound of paper tore my eyes from the house. A crumpled envelope was plastered to my shoe, and I knelt down to sweep it off the ground.

Standing again, I smoothed out the paper and read the name.

"Gabriel Amaya," I said, looking back up to the house. "3259 Main Street."

I quickly pulled the rolled-up newspaper from my back pocket and reread the ad. A breath caught in my throat as I stared at the matching name and numbers.

It was Mr. Amaya's ad.

_He_ was the Gabriel I'd spoken to on the phone, the man who'd given me those warm and fuzzy feelings.

It was his room for rent.

So that settled it; I'd just lost the only lead I had on a potential home because I couldn't very well rent a room from one of my teachers... especially a teacher who I'd caught myself admiring in a way that no student should ever admire a teacher.

Still, even if I had no plan to stay and see the place, I needed to return the piece of mail and extend the courtesy of letting him know that the meeting was canceled. That was the very least I could do.

I let myself through the gate into the fenced-in yard, following the cobblestone sidewalk to the front of the house. I took each of the three steps slowly, nervous that I was about to come face-to-face with him again.

I had no idea what it was about that man that left me rattled, but my fingers were trembling as I raised my hand to knock on the door. When it finally swung open, I was greeted with a familiar smile.

"I found a piece of your mail," I said before he could ask.

"Oh, thanks." He took the crumpled envelope. He was expecting _you're welcome_ and a quick departure, but I lingered on the porch and swallowed my nerves. "Was there something else?"

I nodded slowly and cleared my throat. "I know this is going to sound weird, but... it's me. _I'm_ the girl you've been waiting for."

His smile faded, and his eyes searched my face, looking for something, but I didn't know what. I sensed he hadn't heard me correctly, or I'd seriously misspoken because he blinked more times in that one minute than most people do in a single day.

"Can you explain what you mean?" he finally asked, his voice trembling behind those words. "I'm not sure I understand."

"You made an appointment to show the room," I said. "I spoke to you on the phone a little while ago."

His shoulders dropped with a relieved sigh. "You're the girl— _you're_ Samantha?"

"Well, no," I said. "My older sister is Samantha, but... she refused to come here to meet you."

"Because I'm an axe murderer?" he asked. I closed my eyes with the realization that I hadn't covered the phone well enough to muffle my voice earlier.

"When I saw your mail, I put it together, and... I just wanted to let you know, so you weren't waiting around all evening for someone who wasn't going to show."

"She doesn't need the room anymore?"

"No, she does," I said. "But... we're a package deal, that's all, and—"

" _You_ need a place to stay."

"Yes, both of us, but—"

"It would be weird."

"Exactly." I twisted my lips. "Looks like another cold shower at the Starlight tonight."

His smile faded. "You're serious?"

"It was supposed to be a joke," I said, realizing my tone had fallen flat. _This_ is why I should never make foolish attempts at being witty; I'd never been good at it. "I wasn't fishing for pity."

"You're staying at the Starlight?"

"It's just a temporary—"

"You can't stay there, Vic," he said, and I shifted a few inches backward, processing the way he'd just called me _Vic_. It was tender and protective, and it was utterly foreign to me. No one had ever called me _Vic_. "It's none of my business, I know, but—"

"It's a bad place," I finished his sentence. "I know, that's why I'm trying to get out of there. That's why this appointment was my _one thing_ for the day."

He fell silent, and I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he finally took a step backward and opened the door wider.

"Please come in."

"Oh," I said, wringing my wrists. "I don't know."

"At least look at the room."

"But it's weird. You said so yourself."

"I'm an idiot. It's not weird," he said, still holding the door wide open, but I didn't take another step closer. "Please. Let me show you—"

"This is very kind of you, Mr. Amaya," I said, taking a single step backward. "But I should really get back to my sister."

"Victoria, I..."

I didn't hear the words that followed because I rushed off his porch, down the sidewalk, and back to my car as quickly as my feet could move.

As much as I wanted a safe and comfortable place to live, that place could not be with Mr. Amaya. It went against everything I had promised myself when I moved to Brighton. I would fly under the radar. I would remain undetected. I would not give anyone a reason to point fingers and talk. Not this time.

This town, this school... it was going to be different. I was _not_ going to relive the nightmare I had escaped from. Moving in with my teacher—my _gorgeous, kind, compassionate_ teacher—would put me on the fast track to surefire ridicule, and I couldn't stand another ounce of mockery in my life.

"You're back early."

I tossed my keys on the table and shrugged. "I couldn't do it."

"Was it that bad?" Samantha asked. "Worse than this place?"

"No, it was..." I closed my eyes and pictured the gorgeous house again. It was picturesque—the epitome of perfection. "The house was beautiful, but I never made it inside."

"Why?" Samantha asked, sitting straighter. "You were so adamant—"

"Because I couldn't do it without you," l lied. "We're supposed to be in this together, and you weren't there. Besides, you don't like the idea of sharing a place with someone else, so I figured... I'll be patient. I'll give you time to figure something out. That's what you wanted to do. I'll respect that."

Samantha nodded, but I sensed she was disappointed. It had always been more comfortable for her to take the backseat and let me take the lead. She hated responsibility, and I felt guilty for relying on her. She hadn't asked to raise a teenager; I'd fallen in her lap, and she'd stepped up to take care of me despite her shortcomings as a caregiver. The least I could do was grant her a little patience.

"We'll find something," I said, offering her a half-smile, although I wasn't sure I believed my own words. Mr. Amaya's room for rent seemed too good to be true, and we'd probably never find another place we could afford so quickly. "Let's just figure out what we're going to do for dinner. We'll take this one hour at a time."

"One hour at a time," she repeated, and I could tell that I was finally moving at her pace. Sometimes my sister was impulsive enough to jump into something without a single thought or concern. That's what had landed us in Brighton to begin with. But then sometimes she just needed to slow down and tiptoe to the next destination.

My job was to accurately gauge her speed and stay the course. Right now, she was in tiptoe mode, so I had to follow her pace and hope she was comfortable.

Comfort.

I'd kill for comfort right now.

# Chapter Five

"Victoria?"

The sound of my name on his lips made my heart pinch.

I'd tossed and turned all night, remembering the soft look in his eyes as he pleaded with me. _You can't stay there, Vic._

I'd barely slept an hour all night. Visions of Gabriel Amaya flittered in and out of my subconscious, and I'd lay awake most of the night staring at the discolored ceiling of a rundown motel room.

Samantha had no trouble sleeping. She seemed completely unaware of my distress, and I was grateful for that much. She had enough to worry about without adding the stress of my anxiety.

"Can I speak to you for a moment?"

It was Tuesday morning, and the bell had just signaled the end of class. I glanced up at the clock. I could use tardiness as an excuse to say "no" and be on my merry way, but the truth was that I didn't really want to run away from him as quickly as I'd convinced myself I did. The real danger was moving _in_ with him; there was no harm in hearing what he had to say.

I swept my books off the desk and hugged them tightly against my chest, clinging to those texts as if they could offer me an ounce of the comfort I craved.

"Yeah?" I met my teacher in front of the room, and he adjusted his posture, feigning confidence. At the same time, remorse flooded the blue eyes behind those glasses.

Mr. Amaya lowered his voice as my classmates exited, and a new wave of students poured in.

"I don't like how we left things yesterday."

"It's nothing." I waved a hand.

"I wanted to apologize," he said. "I was too assertive, and I shouldn't have insisted that you—"

"There's no reason to apologize."

"Regardless, I _am_ sorry," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I should have respected your wishes and—"

"I can't do this with you right now," I said quickly, effectively ending any chance he had to make yet another apology. It was humiliating enough that my classmates knew where I lived, but now that Mr. Amaya did, too, it felt like an insurmountable problem. Not only did he know, but he pitied me, and he wouldn't stop apologizing. Tears sprung to my eyes, and I refused to let him, or anyone else, see me cry. "I should go."

I turned quickly on my heels and bolted for the door, and I felt his eyes on me with every deft move I made to scurry away.

I didn't try to make it to my next class. I ducked into the bathroom to wash my face, hoping to wipe away the tears that were pricking at the corners of my eyes.

This picture was all too familiar. High school bathrooms had become my sanctuary against the problems that consumed me throughout the years. It used to be the relentless teasing. Now it was fear of what everyone must think of me—a penniless girl with no parents, an irresponsible caregiver, and no place to call home but a desolate square of a rented room. It would've been humiliating for any teacher to think this, but it especially hurt considering it was Mr. Amaya.

For reasons I couldn't begin to rationalize, he was the one person I wanted to hide the truth from because the truth was a mess. And yet, as difficult as it was, I still tried to rationalize it. It was a crush. From the moment he'd stumbled into the classroom yesterday, I couldn't stop studying every one of his subtle movements. I wanted to know him, to understand what made him tick. My crazy, stupid heart—the one that had forever sworn to stay guarded against anything that could break it, had solely decided that it would pound offbeat every time he crossed my mind.

I'd never wanted much out of my life. I'd never asked for a thing.

But now, in a matter of twenty-four hours, I found myself wanting the one thing on this whole God-forsaken planet that I couldn't have: him. His warmth. His apologies. His comfort.

"Are you okay?" a small voice echoed off the bare walls. I quickly checked my reflection for tears, wiped my face, and turned around. " _Are you crying?_ "

"No," I shook my head, but the reverberation in my voice gave away the lie. "I'm fine."

A small girl stood a few feet behind me, seemingly torn between minding her own business and prying further.

"You're Victoria, right?" she asked. I noticed then that she wasn't trying to whisper; she had a naturally airy voice, one that matched her small frame and pixie-length haircut. She was cute as a button—someone you could literally sweep up and carry around in your pocket. "I'm Reese. We have English class together."

"Oh, yeah, right," I said, pretending I recognized her, but I had never once laid eyes on that platinum blonde hair. "You sit in the back."

"Lucky guess," she said, smiling sweetly, because she knew the truth: I had no idea who she was. "It's hard being the new girl. A few first-week tears in the bathroom is like a rite of passage; you have nothing to be ashamed of. I've been known to just lock myself in a stall and weep when life gets too chaotic. This is my second year at Brighton. I'm slowly adjusting, but... I still have the rare teary day."

I twisted my lips, wondering what I had done to deserve her kindness. She'd literally walked in on an emotionally traumatized classmate, and yet she hadn't hesitated to offer her reassurance. If I would've been in her shoes, I would've ducked and run at the first sign of emotions.

"What brought you to Brighton?" I finally asked, finding my broken voice.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

"That's fair. I don't need to know." We shared a simultaneous smile. "I'm late for class. I should—"

"Sit with me at lunch today," she said quickly. "I have a really great group of friends; they'd be happy to have you."

"Oh, that's nice, but I—"

"You can read your books at home," she said, shutting down the flimsy excuse before I made it. "I made the mistake of isolating myself for weeks when I first moved here for fear of rejection. I kick myself every day for wasting so much time. It took me a long time to realize that life only has to be as depressing as you make it."

I half-smiled. "I'm not really a social person."

"You can ignore us," she said. "You won't have to say a word; you don't even need to listen, really. We don't have much to say—nothing of substance anyway. It's really just a half-hour of mindless gossip about cute boys. Sit with us. Please?"

I rechecked my watch. "I've really gotta—"

"At least say you'll think about it."

"I'm already thinking," I promised, giving her my best smile as I turned out of the bathroom.

It was a nice offer, and I hadn't lied. I _was_ thinking—thinking it sounded like the dumbest thing I could do if I wanted to stick to my plan. If I planned to socialize, make friends, sit with a group of gossiping girls at lunch, I might as well hang up my invisibility cloak for the rest of the year.

_Expand your mind, learn new things, vanquish your fears._

Of course, this could be my one new thing for the day—and if I got it over with now, I'd never have to do it again.

"Boff, marry, kill."

I stared at a girl named Markie, a blank expression plastered on my face. In the first second I met her, I decided I would never have the energy to keep up with her. Just as Reese had promised, her two friends had accepted me with open arms, but they hadn't really abided by the promise that I wouldn't have to participate in the discussion.

"Are you in?" Markie asked, pulling her dark hair into a high ponytail as if preparing herself for an intense battle.

"I don't understand what you're asking me," I said, my eyes trailing between the three girls.

"It's a game we play," Reese explained. "One of us will name three people, and then someone else will have to tell us which of them you would boff," she lowered her voice to a whisper. "That means intercourse."

" _Sex_!" Her friend Claire said, giggling. "It means sex. _Who would you have sex with_?"

"And then you pick which one you would marry," Reese continued as if she hadn't been interrupted. "And which one you would kill."

"I don't need to play. I'll just listen."

"Nonsense," Markie said. "It's harmless fun."

"Unless you're the person being killed," Claire joked. Markie laughed, but Reese just rolled her eyes. I managed a small smirk, but I did not have the energy or the willpower to match them. "Start with Reese."

Markie sat up straight, and her expression sobered.

"Boff, marry, kill," she said, glancing around the cafeteria. "The sweet Patrick Weston... delicious Danny Boone... and President Andy Olson."

Reese's face flushed as red as the lunch tray in front of her. "Wow, that's... that's a hard one."

Her friends leaned forward, eager to hear her response as if Reese held the answer to solving world hunger. There was so much at stake; they were invested. Whatever Reese said, it would be up for severe scrutinization and intense debate.

"Boff Danny Boone," she said, eyeing a boy two tables over. He wore a low-cut v-neck shirt, his dark hair slicked back, and the hint of a tattoo peeked out the bottom of his sleeve. There wasn't another person at his table that didn't look exactly like him—dark, mysterious, and undoubtedly dangerous. He looked a lot like some of the guys who hung out in the parking lot of the Starlight.

Markie and Claire swooned and whistled, and they were all in agreement that she had chosen the right one for a senseless romp.

"Marry..." Reese pursed her lips, and the girls leaned in even closer. "I guess I'd marry Patrick. He's a real sweetheart."

" _Yes_!" Claire squealed, but her laughter was lost beneath Markie's howling.

"You'll assassinate the president!" she said, doubling over. "Perfect Andy Olson—may he rest in peace."

Reese tried to smile through her friends' laughter, but her shoulders had fallen with her expression. Her friends were so consumed in their giggles that they didn't recognize the guilt that had racked Reese's body. Her eyes roamed away from the table, and I suddenly saw what she had seen earlier today—the early signs of a girl on the brink of tears... a girl who needed a life raft.

Something was going on with Reese right then, something she wasn't saying to her "great group of friends." I suspected it had a lot to do with the fact that she couldn't stop staring across the room at Andy.

It was too easy to figure out: Reese had a crush on the student body president, and for some reason, she did not want her friends to know. That admission would make her the subject of ridicule, and she was hiding. I recognized a comrade when I saw one.

"I'll go," I said quickly, trying to take the heat off of Reese. I couldn't let them know that she'd just wiped away a tear. "Who are my options?"

"Well," Claire bit her lip, suddenly scanning the crowd for prospective targets. With fresh meat in mind, she and Markie had already moved on from their game with Reese. "This won't be fun. You don't know anyone here."

"She knows the teachers," Markie said.

" _What_?" the rest of us asked in unison, each of us equally shocked as the others.

"She knows the teachers," she said again, nodding to the group of men standing near the exit.

"Oh, I'm not comfortable with that."

"Don't be such a killjoy," Markie said, turning to face me with a wicked grin. "Boff, marry, kill: Mr. Pritchett...Mr. Evans... and Mr. Amaya."

The three girls leaned in, wholly invested in my answers. No one seemed to remember the hilarity of killing off Andy Olson. That was old news; all they wanted to know now was how, given the opportunity, I would use and abuse three of my male teachers.

I'd never been so uncomfortable under the scrutiny of strangers.

I didn't know these girls, and I honestly didn't care about making a good impression. What I really wanted was not to make an impression at all, but I didn't want to risk putting the spotlight back on Reese. She needed a few minutes to compose herself without the prying eyes of the girls she'd called her friends.

I turned in my seat and stared back at the group of men, and then my eyes trailed up to the clock. The lunch bell would ring in three minutes. I just needed to hold out for three minutes, and then this would all be over.

I looked at the men again.

Mr. Pritchett had been our substitute teacher yesterday in second period. He was an older man, nearing retirement, but still reasonably attractive for someone with a headful of gray hair.

Mr. Evans, the band director, was a heavyset man with chubby cheeks, but he had what I'd always called "baby face." He was cute in an unassuming way.

And then there was Mr. Amaya...

" _Today_ , _new girl_ ," Markie said, her impatience growing as I tried to run out the clock. "Who would you boff?"

"Um..." I couldn't answer the question. _Two minutes_. I hated everything about this game, and I hated everything about Claire and Markie. Reese was the only tolerable one at this table, but her kindness wasn't enough to outweigh the overbearing personalities of her two best friends.

"Whatever. I don't have all day." Markie threw in the towel. She stood up and collected her things, and Claire immediately followed her as she stomped away.

Reese watched them stomp off, and then she turned back to me.

"Sorry. They tend to run a little... hot and cold."

"No worries," I said, forcing a smile, but it was all for naught. Reese never looked up from her tray. In one fell swoop, her so-called friends had abandoned her all because she had taken a chance on the new girl. I was the reason she was sitting here without a friend, which hardly seemed fair. But what kind of friends were they if she couldn't even talk to them about her feelings and her secrets? Anyone who wanted a friend deserved a friend, so I swallowed my pride and leaned in to whisper.

"You like Andy, don't you?"

Her head snapped up. "What did you say?"

I glanced across the cafeteria, and I caught Andy's eye. He lifted a hand to wave, and I waved back. Reese quickly ducked her head so he wouldn't see her staring.

" _You're friends with Andy_?" she asked suddenly, and so quietly that I could barely decipher her words.

"Not friends," I said. "Friendly. He came by my table yesterday to introduce himself. He seems like a nice guy."

"The nicest." She gnawed her lip and stared at me, on the verge of asking a question that she couldn't find the words to phrase. Her eyes were wet with tears again.

I wanted to do something, _anything_ to ease her mind because, for some strange reason, I liked Reese, and I didn't like seeing her sad.

I looked back at the group of teachers and then refocused on the girl in front of me. "Listen, I wouldn't boff or kill any of them, just FYI. That's gross," I said. "But... I don't know, gun to my head... I'd marry Mr. Amaya."

A slow smile spread on her lips as she glanced up at me through tears. " _Gun to your head_? You would need persuasion?"

"No," I admitted, laughing as she started to giggle. Her small laughter turned into a full-on belly-laugh, and the two of us were red-faced and guffawing by the time the lunch bell rang. I couldn't even bring myself to care that all of my classmates at the nearby tables were turned in our direction, observing our fit of laughter.

"Don't look now, but your hubby's got his eye on you," Reese said, nodding behind me, but I did exactly what she told me not to do and turned anyway. There he was, right where I'd last seen him—Mr. Amaya, in his confident stance, looking like a million bucks. And Reese was right—he was watching us with the faintest smile. Reese leaned forward and whispered, "God, he's cute, isn't he?"

"Yeah," I said breathlessly. "The absolute cutest."

# Chapter Six

"You're on your own tonight."

"Where are you going?" I asked, watching as my sister swiped a line of pink gloss across her lips. She admired her reflection for a minute before running her fingers down through her curls to loosen them. I'd watched this routine enough over the years to know exactly what her next four words would be.

"I have a date."

With who? Had she already rekindled things with Ethan?

We'd only been in Brighton for seven days. I'd just finished my first official week of school, and now I got to enjoy the prospect of a night alone at the Starlight without my sister.

Over the last couple of days, I'd learned more about our resident motel than I'd really wanted to.

When I explained to Reese that I wouldn't continue sitting with her friends after the disastrous lunch we shared on Tuesday, she asked if we could still hang out. That turned into us sharing a table during our last period calculus class, where we were given the freedom of flexible seating. On Wednesday, that was my one new thing; I made a deliberate choice to sit in the back of the classroom. During that class, Reese and I exchanged a series of notes that eventually turned into her inquiry about whether or not the rumors were true. I admitted that Samantha and I were lounging at the Starlight, and she'd proceeded to tell me all the horror stories Andy had kept to himself.

The stories went back decades and ranged from drug busts to prostitution, and Room 213 was even the site of the town's one and only murder-suicide to date. The Starlight was the only place in Brighton that had a reputation for being violent or dangerous because it attracted the worst of the worst from all the surrounding counties. In Reese's exact words: "the Starlight is Brighton's unclaimed shame."

And now I got to spend my Friday night surrounded by the shadiest neighbors in the tri-state area, all thanks to Samantha's new man.

"Who's the lucky guy?" I asked, rolling off the bed. I met her at the mirror and untangled a set of thick curls at the nape of her neck.

"Who do you think?" she asked, staring dreamily at my reflection as I ran a comb through the back of her hair. "The very same guy I came here for."

"That's... fantastic," I said, tasting my harsh words. I hated the way the lie felt in my mouth, but this was anything but fantastic for everyone involved. Ethan hadn't had the appropriate amount of time to recover from his separation—if there even was a separation. I'd noticed again today that he was still wearing his wedding band.

And it also worried me that Samantha didn't know this version of Ethan; they hadn't spent a single day together in ten years, and she had no idea what kind of man he'd become. Then, of course, I had to consider Ethan's wife... I couldn't even begin to imagine how she must feel knowing her husband was going out on a Friday night amidst their separation. This sounded like a lose-lose-lose, no matter how I looked at it.

"Aren't you happy for me?"

"Bursting at the seams."

"Thanks for your support," Samantha said, detecting my lie.

"I just want you to be cautious," I said. "Make smart decisions."

She rolled her eyes, and I couldn't help but chuckle at how infantile she acted when I offered motherly advice.

Her phone buzzed on the counter, and she looked down. "That's him. He's here. How do I look?"

Perfect. Beautiful. The epitome of every man's dream.

"Flawless," I said, admiring my sister's natural beauty. She'd never had to work too hard to turn a man's head.

Samantha pulled her purse off the back of a chair and rechecked her phone. "I'll be home sometime tonight. Stay inside. Don't answer the door. There's plenty of food on the table if you're hungry."

I turned back and looked at the stack of junk food piled near our bedside—Cheetos, Ho-hos, and a 12-pack of Sunkist soda. The dinner of champions.

"Okay, I'm out. Byyyyye."

"Wait, he's not coming up?" I asked.

"I'm meeting him at the car."

"He doesn't want to come to your door and pick you up, like a proper date?" I asked.

"Come on, don't do that."

"Do what?" I asked. "I'm just asking a question."

She glared. "He's not comfortable poking around this place. It gives him the creeps."

"And how does he feel about you living here?"

She shrugged. "He doesn't mind. It's temporary. We all know that."

I nodded. "Right. Well, have fun."

She blew a kiss and flew out the door, disappearing before I had time to say, "be careful."

I peeked through the curtains of our second-story window and watched as she skipped down the concrete stairs that led down to the parking lot. She climbed into the passenger's side of Ethan's black Camry, and they sped out of sight within a matter of seconds.

"Real class act, Sam." I returned to the counter to clean up the cosmetics my sister had left strewn about. "Seriously, what a jerk," I mumbled, remembering how concerned Andy was when I confirmed that I was living here. I didn't even know the kid; he had no reason to care, and yet he was concerned enough to issue a few friendly words of warning. Samantha and her date, however, didn't seem the least bit concerned about abandoning her young sister in the most dangerous part of town.

# Chapter Seven

Not five minutes after she'd left, there was a knock on the door, and I assumed it had to be my sister. Maybe she wanted a jacket. Perhaps she'd changed her mind or forgotten her keys.

I rushed to the door and swung it open, realizing too late the danger I'd exposed myself to because I hadn't paused long enough to assess the situation.

My heart jumped when I met the face on the other side of the door—not because it posed a threat but because I couldn't come up with a single reason why my teacher would be standing there with a reluctant grin.

"Mr. Amaya," I said breathlessly, and then his smile faded, and his brow furrowed.

"You didn't know it was me," he said, hearing my surprise. "You didn't check."

"I didn't think—"

"Promise me you'll think next time."

I smirked, appreciating that he cared about what an extra moment of thinking would mean for my safety.

"I promise," I said, crossing a finger over my heart. "What are you doing here?"

"It's been bothering me all week," he said. "I couldn't stand the thought of you living in this place, and I figured if you _have_ to be here..." He lifted his hands to show off a few large grocery bags. "I could at least help make it easier for you."

"Oh," I gnawed my lip. "That's nice, but—"

"It's not pity," he promised. "And it's not charity. I know that's important to you."

"Then... what is this?"

"Can we just say that it's one friend being there for another friend?"

"We could say that," I said, although I wasn't sure at what point we'd become friends. In the past few days, we hadn't had any communication outside of him delivering a lesson at the front of the classroom and me taking notes.

I glanced back into the room to assess the state of things, deciding it was about as clean as it was going to get, and I opened the door a little wider.

"Would you like to come in?"

"Thanks," he said, crossing the threshold into the tiny room.

"How did you know where to find me?" I asked, realizing that he would've had to knock on dozens of doors before he found the right one.

"Believe it or not, your sister listed this as your permanent address on your enrollment forms," he said. "It wasn't hard."

"Oh." That made perfect sense. We didn't have a permanent residence, and until we did, this was technically our home address.

Mr. Amaya glanced around the room, and if he was appalled by what he saw, he didn't let on, although I did catch his eyes lingering on our pile of junk food.

"Have you eaten?"

"Not yet," I said. "My sister just left."

"To get dinner?"

"Maybe," I said. "She's on a date." He closed his eyes as if my words had stung, and I studied the way his breath seemed to come heavier and slower now with that revelation. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," he said quickly, lifting one of the bags to change the subject. "I brought food."

"Oh, well," I looked around. "We don't have a fridge or microwave—"

"It's cooked and ready to go."

"Takeout?" I asked. "What'd you bring?"

"Sorry for the disappointment, but it's not takeout," he said. "I made dinner."

"You..." I tried to process that.

I didn't understand what was happening.

Why in the world had Mr. Amaya come over to my motel room? Why had he called himself my friend? What had possessed him to go through the trouble of making dinner when he could've just as easily swung through the drive-thru and picked up a couple of burgers?

"Mr. Amaya," I said, trying to read his expression, but it was difficult to assess. "What's going on here?"

He set the bags aside on the corner of the bed. Once his hands were free, he didn't seem to know what to do with them. He shoved them down into his pockets and shrugged.

"I don't know," he said quietly, never really meeting my eye. He _never_ talked to me like he talked to his coworkers at school. Over the last week, I'd watched this man communicate a dozen times with a confident smile, an even tone, and direct eye contact. Yet, whenever we were alone, he turned a little boyish and shy. "I know I shouldn't be here, but I worry about you."

"Because I live in the Starlight?"

"Yes," he said. "And because you don't seem to have a stable family."

"So, you're here as a parental figure?" I asked, feeling a pang in my heart.

"I'm here as a friend," he said again. "You've made it clear that you want to fade away, and you don't want to be seen, but... I can't help but see you. I always see you, Vic, and I worry about you."

"You don't have to worry about me," I said, pausing for a moment to appreciate what it meant to hear someone say those words. I could only remember one person _ever_ saying those words to me, and it was the judge who assigned custody to my sister three years ago. "Thank you, though. It's nice to know someone cares."

He nodded once. "Are you hungry?"

"I could eat," I said because I couldn't admit that I hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. Money was scarce, so I tried to be picky about when and how I spent it. A meal every couple of days was enough to keep me going. "I'm sorry we don't really have a good place to set up."

Samantha and I had turned our only table into a catch-all for just about everything. It's where my books and school supplies sat; Samantha had a mountain of magazines and junk food. There were a few loose coins and a pair of sunglasses. I started to clear away the clutter when Mr. Amaya stepped in to help.

"You seem to be getting along well with Reese Lowe," he said, finally meeting my eye as I set my books aside. "How's that going?"

"She's nice," I said, shrugging. "I don't know that we'll be best friends or anything, but—"

"I think it's too late for buts," he said. "She likes you."

"I like her," I admitted. "She's funny. Her friends are a little—"

"Crazy?"

"Interesting," I said, laughing at his candid choice of words. "I think it's hard for Reese to be herself when she's with Markie and Claire, and I hate that. I feel like I've seen more of her personality in four days than they've seen in the year that she's known them."

"Very likely," he said, clearing the last of the pile. He picked up the anthology of short stories that I'd started and opened it to the bookmarked page. " _Hills Like White Elephants_."

"Yeah."

"You're a Hemingway girl."

"I appreciate his symbolism," I said. "Life is rarely direct, and I tend to be an over-thinker. Hemingway has allowed me to exercise that skill in a healthier way. With something so chalked full of symbolism, I can look for meaning in just about anything without doing any damage."

His response was silent but satisfied; a grin told me he agreed.

He silently passed a bag across the table, and I took it, assessing the contents; it was packed with containers stuffed with the food he'd brought from home. I pulled each piece of glassware from the bag. He'd brought turkey and green beans, potatoes, and pie. It was like a small Thanksgiving meal, which would be the most substantial Thanksgiving meal I'd had in years—even if it was in the middle of September.

"Where did you learn to cook?" I asked.

"I grew up in a household full of girls," he said, grinning at the memory. "I was the only boy among three women."

I twisted my lips, trying to wring every bit of meaning out of those few words. I heard what he said, but I heard what he didn't say, too. He'd grown up without a father; that was something we had in common.

"What was the family dynamic, then?"

"Grandma, mother, and older sister," he said. "The three most incredible women in the world."

"That's sweet," I said, admittedly jealous that there was no one in my life that I could honor with such kind words. "Do they still live in Brighton?"

"My sister, yes," he said. "My mother and grandmother sold their souls to Florida and hightailed it out of here last summer."

I smirked. "Are you still close to them?"

"We talk every day," he said. "My grandmother, Adele... she's the best friend I've ever had. The distance sucks, but I visited for a few weeks over the summer. They've never been happier."

"That's amazing," I said. "You're lucky to have that."

"That fact is not lost on me," he said, passing a plate and silverware from another bag.

I kept looking at the meal, wondering how long he'd spent preparing this with the knowledge that it would be shared between the two of us. But then I realized that he hadn't set a place for himself, and he was still standing long after I'd taken a seat.

"You're not staying?"

"No, I probably shouldn't," he said. "I just wanted to make sure you were settled, and then—"

"I'll never eat all of this alone," I said. "And I can't save the leftovers. You should stay. At least have dinner."

He massaged the back of his neck, taking an extra-long minute to contemplate my offer before he said, "Yeah, okay. There's no harm in eating."

He took the seat across from mine, and I passed him one of the containers.

"I can't remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal," I said, spooning potatoes onto my plate. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me until you've tried it," he said. "It could be the most horrendous thing you've ever eaten."

"I don't believe that," I said. "And I don't believe that you believe it either."

"No?"

"No," I said, trying to read him. "You're suddenly modest. I don't know what to make of that."

We spent a few quiet minutes portioning food onto our respective plates. The silence stretched into the meal, neither of us speaking while we chewed our food. His eyes had drifted toward the window, and mine were periodically drifting back to him and then away again. I considered saving the pie for later. I'd overeaten, and I thought there was no way I could make room for dessert. But then I took one bite, and the sweet cinnamon flavor paralyzed my will to stop. I polished off every last crumb, unashamed that I looked like a total pig.

After fifteen quiet minutes, he slid out of his chair and back toward the bags he'd left on the bed.

"I brought a few things from home that I thought you could use," he said. "You don't have to keep any of it, but—"

"Are those blankets?" I asked, watching him pull a stack of folded linens from the bag.

"Some clean towels and sheets," he said, lifting them. "I wasn't too sure about..."

"Yeah, the bed's gross."

"Some hand sanitizer, disinfectant wipes, just some basics," he said. "I left some pillows down in the car, too, if you'd want to keep a couple of those."

"You really are angelic," I whispered under my breath.

"I'm sorry?"

"Nothing," I said, refusing to say anything that would make him uncomfortable. I would express my gratitude for all the amazing things he had done for me, but I couldn't let him know the countless praises that were resounding in my mind. "I was just thinking about how well your name suits you, that's all. _Gabriel_. Of course, if I took a page from your playbook, I guess I would have to call you Gabe."

He didn't need any elaboration, and I didn't offer any. It was a defining moment that I decided that I couldn't keep calling him _Mr. Amaya_. He didn't feel like a teacher anymore. He was my friend—my friend Gabe.

"I was worried you wouldn't answer the door this evening," he said, changing the subject as he returned to the table to finish cleaning up. "I thought you'd take one look at me and run."

"Because I ran from you on Monday?"

"And you've been running ever since," he said. "You'll hardly look me in the eye in class, and we're like strangers if we pass in the hall. Why is that?"

Because I like you. Because you're everything a man is supposed to be. You're kind and compassionate, warm and friendly. Funny. Handsome. Admired by your students and respected by your peers. You're tender and comfortable, and... I like you, and that scares me.

"I came from a school that thrived on ridicule, and it made it hard to survive from one day to the next," I said, finally finding a way to explain without spilling my heart. "When I came to Brighton, I promised myself that I wouldn't do anything that would draw unwanted attention to myself. When I showed up at your door on Monday... when I realized that I had inadvertently tried to move into your free bedroom, I just... freaked out a little. I was desperate for a place to stay, but I thought, 'God, what would my classmates say if they knew I'd considered moving in with our gorgeous English teacher?'"

Those last three words spilled out of my mouth before I could catch them, and Mr. Amaya's face flushed as crimson as his college sweatshirt. I'd lost myself in a moment of complete honesty, and I had forgotten to filter those raw feelings. Before I knew it, they were out in the open before I could do anything to take them back.

"I'm really sorry," I said quickly. "I didn't mean... I didn't just..." I raked my fingers back through my hair, feeling suddenly faint.

"Do you want me to go?"

"You probably should," I mumbled, knowing that if he didn't leave now that I was bound to say something else I would regret. "Thank you for everything."

Before leaving, he ran back out to his car to fetch the two pillows he'd promised, and he never crossed back into the room when he returned. I took the pillows, hugging them to my chest as I leaned in the open doorway.

"I don't know how to thank you for everything."

"Just keep this door locked," he said. "And don't open it unless you know who's out here, okay?"

I nodded, and he reached forward as if he thought to squeeze my shoulder. The reassuring touch would've been welcome, but he quickly jerked his hand away before it ever graced my skin. His hands moved aimlessly in the air for a moment. He kept shifting between the offer to shake my hand or let it be, and then he finally dropped his arms to his side and shoved them into his pockets again.

"Is there anything else you need?" he asked, his voice as unnerved as it had been on Monday morning when we'd first met.

"No."

"Would you tell me if there was?"

"Yes."

He didn't believe me, and he shouldn't have, but I didn't want to make a habit of relying on him or anyone else to take care of me.

He stood at the door and watched me for a few long beats, his eyes saying more than his lips ever could. Coming here tonight had only helped to ease his mind a little, but he would never stop worrying about me until he knew that I was safe.

"I sat with Reese on Tuesday," I said, trying to buy a little more time with him. "And on Wednesday, I sat in the back of the classroom."

"That's huge," he said, knowing as well as I did that it wasn't a small accomplishment. It was proving to be a beneficial challenge, if for no other reason than giving me an excuse to delay this departure.

"What was your one new thing yesterday?"

"I skipped the library."

"You...?"

"I always go to the library on Thursday to get new books for the week," I said. "It's a lifelong tradition, and yesterday... I went to the park instead. Saw some ducks. They were cute."

"And today?" he asked, and I wondered if it was general curiosity or if there was a tiny part of him that wanted to savor these last few minutes, too. But that was absurd. I couldn't read more into this than what it was—a friendly gesture.

"I tried apple pie."

His lips parted as he watched me for two long beats. "You're serious? For the first time?"

"I've never been big on sweets," I admitted. "Until tonight, I guess. It was delicious."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said, humbled by my compliment, but then something in the air shifted, and I knew we were back to much more pressing matters. "My offer still stands, by the way. I know you're concerned about your image, but I think your wellbeing trumps any negative blowback that could come from you taking the extra room at my place."

I nodded, but I couldn't respond. I didn't know what else I could possibly say, because my answer would never change. Instead, I just forced a smile and shrugged.

"I'm okay."

"Keep this door locked," he said again, and those were his final words as he turned away and back into the night. I locked the door immediately behind him and flew across the room until I reached the window. I peeked out the curtains for the second time that night, watching as he descended the stairs and reached a parked car at the end of the lot. Before he opened the door, he turned back and looked up at our window, but I didn't move, smile, or wave. I knew he couldn't see me, although I sensed he wished he could.

# Chapter Eight

I fell asleep in one minute. Every inch of my full, showered body was wrapped in clean sheets, and my head cradled by the soft walls of a luxurious feather pillow. I inhaled deeply, trying to detect a faint fragrance that I could tie to the man who'd given me these linens, but the sheets only smelled faintly of laundry detergent.

It wasn't until morning that I realized my sister had never come home. The sun shone through the musty curtains, waking me earlier than I would generally stir on the weekends. I didn't jump in shock at her absence. Of course, I worried, but this was classic Samantha Bradley; it's what I'd come to expect. Considering she was out with the only man she'd ever truly loved, I wasn't surprised that she hadn't made her way back to the motel.

I rolled out of bed, taking special care to straighten the sheets and remake the bed. I reorganized all of the clutter that belonged on the table and returned everything back to where it had been before last night.

Before Gabe had dropped by unexpectedly...

Before I'd called him gorgeous and said far more than I ever should...

Before he'd offered, yet again, refuge far away from this hell hole I called home...

My phone buzzed at nine o'clock, and I dove over to the bedside table to grab it. I'd hope for some kind of update from my sister, at least one tiny clue that she was okay, but with one glance at the screen, I was met with disappointment. It was a text from Reese. It said one word: _homecoming_?

I snickered and replied, "are you asking me on a date?"

As quickly as I sent it, she replied, "you wish. Are you going or not?"

I tapped my phone, considering her question. I hadn't even thought about it. What reason would I have to go? I didn't have a beautiful dress to show off. I didn't have a gorgeous date on my arm, nor did I have an obnoxious group of friends to keep me company. Those were the perfect ingredients for a successful homecoming recipe. I didn't really see the appeal of showing up just to be underdressed, alone, and stuck in the corner of a room full of bouncing teenagers.

"I don't think so," I replied. "Are you?"

"It's my last homecoming. Of course I'm going. Come with me to buy a dress. Maybe you'll find something hot and change your mind."

I shook my head. That wouldn't happen, and even if I did find something I liked, I could never afford to buy it. I'd spent my entire savings on a cellphone last year, and with Sam out of work, we were barely getting by with what little money she had left. I didn't even know how many more days we could guarantee phone service before they disconnected us for nonpayment.

"I'll come," I said. "But don't get any bright ideas. I'm not buying anything."

"We'll see," she said, and then she sent the address for a boutique in downtown Brighton. "Meet me in an hour?"

"I'll be there."

"Do you have a date?" I asked, admiring the way a backless purple dress contrasted against Reese's fair skin.

She twirled in front of the full-length mirror. "I like this one. And no."

"You should ask Andy." I was deadly serious despite the dangerous glare she gave me through the mirror. "What?"

"I can't ask Andy," she whispered out of fear of being overheard. We were in a private staging room surrounded by lush chairs and full-length mirrors, but only a thin curtain separated us from the storefront. At a whisper, her naturally airy voice was almost imperceptible. "It's not that easy."

"Why?" I whispered back, teasing her. "You obviously like him, and he's a nice guy."

"He's also way out of my league," she said. "And the girls..."

"What about 'em?"

"They don't like him," she said. "They make fun of him because he's smart and responsible; he's athletic, but he's a dork—one of those lucky few that have the brains, the brawn, and the looks. He's an enigma, and they just don't get him. And because they don't get him, he's just... subject to disapproval."

"Okay, but to be fair, your friends... they don't really seem to like _anyone_ outside their immediate group," I said. "And can I be frank?"

"Please."

"You don't really seem to like them all that much either," I said. "And yet you spend a lot of time trying to impress them."

She shrugged. "They're the only people who paid any attention to me when I moved to Brighton," she said. "They took me in, and I don't know, I guess I feel like I owe them some sort of loyalty."

"How is hiding your true feelings being loyal to someone else?"

"I don't know."

"And why am I here right now?" I asked. "Where are your friends? I'm sure this is exactly the kind of thing they would've loved to help you with. Did they bail on you because they knew I would be here?"

"No. I sorta bailed on them." She studied her reflection again, this time turning to the side to get a new perspective. "They weren't nice to you at lunch on Tuesday, and I didn't want this morning to turn into another catfight."

"I'm not interested in fighting with your friends."

"That wouldn't stop them from trying to pick a fight if they wanted to," she said. "And if it comes down to you or them... I'd rather spend time with you."

My heart suddenly felt heavier and lighter all at the same time. Had I really made enough of an impression on Reese that she valued the time we spent together? Had I somehow become something more than just her calculus deskmate? Were we... friends?

"This one's a _maybe_ ," she said, cutting into my thoughts. "I'm going to try on a few more. Do you think I could pull off white?"

A small woman turned into the room, hanging two dresses on a hook.

"Don't wear white," she said, passing Reese another gown to try. She shook her head, but the tight bun at the nape of her neck never budged. "Save white for your wedding. I have hundreds of dresses you can come back and try on when it's time to walk down the aisle, but I hate seeing young clients come in here and choose a white dress for a high school dance. That color is sacred."

I'd never really thought about that before, but I appreciated her perspective. In the half-hour that we'd been at Once Upon a Dream, the shop owner—Tiffany, as her name tag read—had dished out endless advice on how to choose the perfect dress to complement your figure, tone, event, and personality. She was an expert in her field, and it was no wonder Reese had chosen to buy her dress here rather than driving into the city to find something at a national chain—even if it would've been cheaper. Tiffany offered an experience, and it was fascinating to watch her interact with her clients.

Reese nodded, taking Tiffany's advice. She stepped down off the platform and carried a black sequined dress into her dressing room.

The boutique owner turned to me, one eyebrow lifted. "You already have a dress?"

"No. I'm just here for moral support. I'm not going to the dance."

"I made that mistake myself," she said. "What I wouldn't give to go back in time..."

"And let me guess... calling it a mistake is supposed to convince me that I should go?" I asked, and she smiled.

"You said it."

"No, see, I recognize manipulation when I see it," I said. "But that was a nice try. I'll give you points for effort."

She laughed. " _Manipulation_ seems harsh. And it's none of my business, I know—go to the dance, don't go to the dance. I'm sure you'll be at peace with whatever decision you make."

"I'm not buying a dress."

"I'm not trying to sell one," she said. "I don't care if you go in rags... I just think you should go."

"Why?" I asked. "Why do adults think it's so important for us to go to these silly things?"

"Life experience," she said. "You're in high school. These are supposed to be some of the happiest days of your life."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but if the happiest days of my life are the days I've spent in high school, then I might as well die now. I don't want to be around for the fresh hell that's waiting around the next corner."

The bell over the front door chimed, signaling the arrival of a new customer. Tiffany half-smiled in my direction, undoubtedly grateful for an excuse to escape my pessimism. I hadn't meant to be such a downer, but my frustration had gotten the best of me the moment Reese came out wearing her first dress.

Suddenly all those stupid thoughts I'd had back at the motel had gone out the window. I didn't care anymore that I didn't have a date or a group of friends, but I _did_ care that I didn't have a dress. I didn't even get a choice; whether I wanted to or not, I wouldn't even have the opportunity to go to the dance or make a memory. It was a formal event, one that required something I didn't have.

I liked telling myself that I didn't need these experiences and that I just wanted to fade into the background, but there was a tiny part of me that just wanted a taste of normalcy in my life again.

"What do you think?" Reese came back out, and I didn't give her a chance to see her reflection before shouting an emphatic " _no_." The dress was completely wrong. I wouldn't let my worst enemy go into a dance looking like that, let alone her.

While I waited for her to change into the next gown, I wandered into the shop. Hundreds of dresses spanned the shelves and racks along every wall. I fingered the plastic bags that protected the gorgeous gowns, and then I stopped along a display of accessories. There were shoes and tiaras, veils, and belts.

Realizing I hadn't done my one new thing today, I pulled one of the long veils off the shelf, admiring the intricate floral pattern in the netting. I pinned it into my dark hair and smiled at the reflection in a nearby vanity. It fell mid-back and graced my tanned skin, and honestly... I kinda liked the way it looked.

" _Congratulations_ —when's the big day?"

I turned when I heard his voice.

"Gabe— _Mr. Amaya_ ," I quickly corrected myself, and a slow grin spread on his lips as he assessed my new look. "W-w-what are you doing here?"

"It's weird that I'm in a bridal boutique, isn't it?"

"I don't know, maybe," I said. " _Are you getting married_?"

_Please say no. Please say no. God, please, say you're not getting married._

"No."

I prayed the sudden relief that I felt by his answer wasn't written on my face. "Then?"

His lips parted, close to giving me an answer when Reese turned the corner in a beautiful pink ball gown.

" _There you are!_ " She stopped at the sight of our teacher, and then her eyes darted back and forth between the two of us. She snickered, and then her girly giggle turned into a fit of laughter. "Oh, this—is—too—much."

"What's gotten into her?" our teacher asked out of the corner of his mouth.

"Beats me," I said, hoping her hysterics would die down and she would eventually explain herself, but she was bent at the waist and dropping crocodile tears onto the floor.

"Oh, come on," she said, finally standing upright again. She wiped her damp eyes. " _You don't see it?_ "

"See what?"

She pointed between the two of us and then said four familiar words, punching each one for emphasis.

"Gun—to—my—head..."

My head snapped back in Gabe's direction, and then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was still wearing the veil, and she was moments away from calling us, _Mr. and Mrs. Amaya_. I could sense her on the brink of spilling every detail of our boff, marry, kill game just to humiliate me in front of our teacher.

I tore the veil off my head and tossed it back onto the shelf.

"We should get you back in front of the mirrors," I said, shoving Reese toward the back of the store. "You need to see this. This is definitely the one."

I didn't bother saying goodbye; I rushed out as quickly as I could, pushing her along the way. Once we were in the privacy of our room again, I pulled the curtain and glared at her.

" _Are you serious right now_?"

"I wasn't going to say anything," she said. "I wouldn't do that."

"Well, I think you just did."

"Oh, calm down. Mr. Amaya had no idea what I was talking about, and if he's smart enough to figure it out from those four words, then maybe he deserves to know. I mean, I know they call him 'kid genius,' but there is _no_ way he's a mind reader, too."

I wanted to argue again, but I was too stuck on two of her words to formulate a good argument. "Kid genius?"

"Oh, yeah," she said. "It's common knowledge around here; everyone knows he's like... freaky-genius guy. He graduated valedictorian of his class when he was _fifteen_ years old. He's the same age as my twenty-year-old sister. _Twenty_. He's only two years older than us, and he's our teacher."

I wanted to correct her and say three years, because I hadn't hit the big 1-8 just yet, but it seemed like a minor detail.

My eyes drifted back toward the curtain. If what Reese told me was right, it made a lot of sense. Gabe seemed far too young to have achieved so much success already; I remembered thinking on my first day that maybe he was a prodigy or something... turns out, I wasn't wrong.

"You know what baffles me, though?" Reese continued, turning back to study the way the pink beaded bodice clung to her torso. "If you're so smart, and you've literally got the world at your fingertips, why go into education? Why go _back_ to school? I can't wait to get out of that place."

"Some people genuinely love learning and shaping minds," I said, remembering the few lessons he'd delivered over the past week. The first couple of days were touch and go, but he'd finally hit his stride on Wednesday, and he was a compelling speaker. It was impossible not to admire how passionate he was while delivering the lessons. He was patient. Understanding. Happy. "He followed his dream."

"Too bad his dream wasn't to model," she said. "He'd make a killing on the runway."

"I'm not so sure," I snickered, remembering those first few clumsy steps he'd taken into the classroom on Monday. "I think he's found his calling."

"Oh, don't pretend you aren't scribbling his name in your notebook every morning," she teased. "You said yourself— _gun to my head, I'd marry Mr. Amaya_."

"That—was—a—game," I whispered, but she had already moved past it.

"You were right," she said, turning in a full circle before her eyes landed back on me. "This is the one. I'll take it!"

# Chapter Nine

Samantha returned home from her date on Saturday night, exactly twenty-six hours after she had left in Ethan Pullman's car. In all that time that she'd been gone, she never checked in, nor did she answer any of my three calls or texts.

When she finally got in, she never questioned the new blankets or pillows, and I began to wonder if she'd even noticed that anything was different. She spent most of Sunday in bed catching up on her beauty sleep, and I spent my day on the mattress next to her catching up on my reading list. I tried to make my way through the series of short stories, but my mind kept drifting back to the place it always went when left to its own devices. _Him_.

On Sunday, my one new thing was pretty dull: I watched a reality TV show about a hothead chef that liked to drop the "f" bomb every other sentence. The show revolved around a cooking competition, and by the end of the season, one of the contestants would be awarded a top chef job in a prestigious restaurant somewhere in Las Vegas. It was entertaining, to say the least, but I turned it off after one episode because it served as a constant reminder that I hadn't eaten more than a handful of chips since my Friday night meal with Gabe.

By the time I got to school on Monday morning, I hadn't been able to shake my incessant thoughts of that man. It was like a disease, and I couldn't stop the spread. He was everywhere, and if he wasn't, my brain found a way to tie every little thing back to him.

"We're doing this again?"

"You know, I thought it could be our Monday morning routine," I said.

I sat taller in my desk as he crossed into the room to deposit his books and bag over in his designated corner.

"You're not wearing your glasses today."

"I broke 'em," he said, but I wasn't entirely sure I believed him. He had no reason to lie about broken glasses, but his tone was different than usual. There was an air of dishonesty in those three words. "I hate them, okay? I hate the stupid things. I took 'em off."

"I think they're cute," I said, realizing one second too late that I'd done it again. I'd spoken without my filter. "I'll stop doing that now."

He didn't say a word; he didn't even acknowledge that he'd heard what I'd said. He quietly sifted through his bag, and when he located the paper he was looking for, he turned it over to make a note.

Something was different about him today, and I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was. He was distracted, but not in that typical cute, boyish, flustered way. It almost felt as if he was avoiding me.

"I met your sister."

_"What?"_

"She's in the office," he said, still writing. "You know she's here?"

"No," I said. "She was still in bed when I left, and I came straight here."

"Well, she's here."

I didn't have to wonder why. If things had gone as well as I suspected they had on Friday night, she was probably hoping to sneak some alone time with my principal before the day began.

I'd be disappointed in her actions this morning if I wasn't guilty of pulling the exact same stunt. I'd left the Starlight a half-hour earlier than usual and snuck into the school behind a group of teachers long before students were permitted in the building. I'd risked a severe amount of detention just so I could steal a few minutes with Gabe before the rest of my classmates showed up for the day.

"Was she... nice to you?" I asked, scared that maybe she had said or done something that had caused his foul mood.

"She was fine," he said. "It was a quick introduction."

"Okay, good," I said, still trying to look past his clipped words and read his expression. It was the words he hadn't said that scared me the most. "Are we okay?"

"What do you mean?"

"You seem a little distracted," I said. "Upset, maybe? Did I do something?"

With a small smile, his icy exterior thawed, and he finally met my eyes.

"No. You're fine. We're fine. I'm sorry if I'm off today, I'm just..." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm dealing with some family stuff, that's all. I have a lot on my mind."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I won't burden you with my family drama."

"Believe me, I know a thing or two about family drama, and there's nothing you could say that would burden me. It might just help to talk; maybe you'll feel better."

When he turned his back to write the daily agenda on the board, I took his silence to mean that he'd meant what he said. He wasn't going to tell me what was bothering him. I wondered if he did that all the time—bottled things up out of fear that it would burden the people who cared about him. I was guilty of that, too. Just last week, I'd hid in the bathroom because I didn't want him to see me crying over the things I was too afraid to admit out loud. But now... now I wanted to tell him everything. And I wanted him to feel comfortable talking to me, too, but I needed him to know that he could trust me first. There was nothing he could say that would scare me, and there was nothing he could say that I didn't want to hear.

"I never knew my father," I said quietly, and he stopped writing for a moment, but he never turned away from the board. "I don't even know if you can call him a father, really." I scoffed. "I never met the man who impregnated my mother. Sam... she's my half-sister—same mom, different dads; we both took Mom's last name, so that's one of the few things we have in common."

Gabe never turned from his spot, but he kept listening as I talked.

"My mom was married to Sam's dad for five years, and he divorced her when she got mixed up in some pretty bad stuff," I said. "He completely bailed on them, so Sam went to live with our grandma—that's where she spent most of her childhood. And then I came along; I was the product of exchange."

His shoulder sank, and his head fell forward, resting on the board. That reaction was all the proof I needed that he understood what I'd meant.

"My mom traded sex for drugs," I said quietly. "And at some point, she discovered she was pregnant with me. There were so many guys... she had no way of knowing who my biological father could be. I went home with my grandmother shortly after I was born, and I lived with her and Sam until she passed away three years ago. I was fourteen, and Sam was twenty-six when she signed the papers to take legal custody of me. It's just been the two of us ever since."

My breath was unsteady as I looked down at my hands. I'd never done that before. I'd just told Gabe all the things I was too afraid to tell anyone—the things I was scared the people in Brighton would eventually figure out... the things that had made me the laughing stock of my old school. Here, the kids didn't call me "crack baby," because they didn't know where I'd come from. But it wouldn't take much to set them off, so I'd kept that bottled up. Until now.

"Why did you tell me all of that?" Gabe asked quietly, finally turning to meet my teary stare.

"Not because I want your pity," I said, realizing I sounded like a broken record. "You said on Friday night that you couldn't stop worrying about me. While I truly appreciate your concern, I just hoped that you can see that I've been through far worse than a few crummy nights in a sleazy motel. My past followed me around like a curse in my old high school. I wanted nothing more than to escape that place and begin again—somewhere where I could be free from whispers and ridicule. So I didn't fight Sam when she decided to leave. I readily packed my bags, and I found exactly what I was looking for. I know my classmates whisper about my living arrangements. I know they probably think I'm a little weird because I'm different than what they're used to, but... that's okay because I've made a friend that I trust, a friend that I'm comfortable talking to about the hard stuff. A friend that makes the crappy stuff feel not so crappy."

"And I'm that friend?"

"You really are a genius."

"Oh, don't," he rolled his eyes. "Not you, too. Please don't call me that."

"Even sarcastically?" I smiled despite the heaviness in the room, but he didn't return the gesture.

Gabe came across the room and slid into the desk next to mine. We both faced the board, looking at nothing but refusing to look at one another.

"I appreciate your friendship, Vic," he finally said, breaking the long silence. "I can't imagine the courage it took for you to tell me those things."

"You can talk to me, too," I said. "And it would never be a burden."

"But it wouldn't be appropriate, either."

"Why?" I asked. "Because you're my teacher?"

"That's one reason," he said. "The biggest reason, honestly."

"But... I think that line kinda blurred on Friday night, don't you?"

"The line's not blurred."

"I think it is."

"It's not. I didn't do anything wrong."

"I never said you did."

"I only wanted to help."

"And I'm grateful for your help."

"But I did _not_ cross a line."

"I never made that accusation; _are you listening to me_?" I asked, leaning to catch his gaze. "All I meant was that you called yourself my friend, and that meant something to me. I don't just look at you as my teacher; I consider you a confidante—a sounding board. I thought we were..." I shrugged. " _God_ , I thought you meant what you said. _I thought we were friends_."

His shoulders fell with a sigh, but he didn't try to defend himself. He didn't try to argue that we _were_ friends and that I'd misunderstood him. It was at that very moment that I realized that everything that had happened on Friday... he'd genuinely done _everything_ out of pity—not out of friendship. And I was the idiot for believing he cared about me the way I cared about him.

I stood up from my desk. "I'm leaving."

"Where will you go?"

"I'll wait in my car."

"You don't have to go," he said. "Stay. Please."

"No, I think I do," I said, making a beeline for the door. "I'm sorry I misunderstood your intentions, Mr. Amaya. It won't happen again."

"Where are you at right now?" Reese asked, trying to catch my eye.

"Hmm?"

"You've been spaced out all week, and I really need you to focus up," she said, running her hands down the front of her newly tailored dress. Just four days after she'd swiped her card and took ownership of a beautiful gown, we were back at the boutique for a post-tailored fitting—one that had to be finished because the dance was in three days.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I shook my head. "Big test next week. Just nervous."

"You'll ace it," she said, beaming at her reflection. "I think it's good, don't you?"

"Perfect." I tried to conceal my jealousy with a toothy smile.

"Okay, I'm going to change, and then we're going to hit the diner for some coffee. I don't know what's going on with you, but you've been monosyllabic all week, and you need some serious girl talk."

I half-laughed. "Coffee. Sure."

She stepped down off the stage and returned to her dressing room just as Tiffany returned to check on things.

"Is she happy?"

"She's happy," I said, and she nodded and turned to leave. Before she reached the curtain, I cleared my throat and jumped from my seat. "Um... Tiffany?"

"Yeah?" She spun back around.

"Do you um..." I lowered my voice and took a few steps closer. "Do you have any kind of rental policy? Like, do you ever let the dresses go out on loan?"

"Yeah," she said. "We have a whole collection; it's been picked through quite a bit over the last few weeks, but I'm sure we have some good options left. Have you changed your mind? Do you want to take a look? I have some open appointments tomorrow evening. I could get you in right after school."

I gnawed my lip. I didn't know where I would come up with the money to even rent a dress for Saturday night, especially on one day's notice, but the thought of not going to the dance completely gutted me— especially considering how much Reese had talked it up over the last few days.

I needed to be resourceful. At my old school, when I couldn't afford to pay my lunch balance, the administration let me work off the money I owed by washing dishes during study hall. Maybe, if Tiffany needed an extra hand around the shop, I could offer to work off the rental fee over the next couple of weeks.

"I'll be honest," I said, looking over my shoulder to make sure Reese hadn't resurfaced. I turned back to Tiffany. "My family's strapped for cash; it's the main reason I hadn't planned to go to the dance. But—"

"You'll work here," she said, lighting up. It was the first time I'd seen her genuinely beaming. " _It's perfect_. Do you need a job?"

"You mean, like... a permanent job?"

"Of course," she said. "My family and I are looking for another pair of hands, just someone who can pitch in on the weekends and help during our busy summer season. You'll have your pick of dresses, and we'll take the fee out of your check over time until it's paid off. Plus, you'll get an awesome employee discount, so you're practically paying pennies a day. Would you be interested in something like that?"

"I've never worked retail before," I said. "I've never even had a job outside of some volunteer work at the animal shelter."

"You'll catch on quickly," she said, and I closed my eyes because as friendly as her words were, they stung. Those were the same words Mr. Amaya had said to me on my first day of school, and they were words that had launched me into a full-on fantasy in believing that I'd met someone I could trust.

I couldn't even look at him anymore. In class, I kept my head down. I listened when I needed to, and I left when it was time to go. I'd given up on his stupid "one new thing a day" challenge the moment he drew a line in the sand. If we weren't friends, I didn't need the constant reminders of him.

"Why don't you come in tomorrow after school and find your dress," she said. "We'll talk about getting you on payroll this weekend—maybe starting Sunday, so you can spend Saturday getting ready for the dance? How's that sound?"

"Like a dream come true." I couldn't stop myself from throwing my arms around her neck and hugging her. "Wow, Tiffany, thank you. Thank you so much."

"No, thank you," she said, pulling away to take my hands. She gave them a gentle squeeze, and I looked down to study the way her fingers lingered on top of mine. In all of my seventeen years, my own sister had never shown me that kind of intimacy. I hated that the thought even crossed my mind, but Tiffany emulated everything I'd always wanted in a big sister and had never gotten from Samantha.

"Believe me, you're doing _me_ a favor," Tiffany said. "My brother will be immensely relieved. This is a small family business, and he's been helping out every chance he gets, pulling most of the weekend shifts since the rest of our family moved. He'd never admit it, but he's had about all he can take of blushing brides and demanding teens."

"Crazy women are not for the faint of heart," I said, and she nodded.

"I'll have him stay on through the weekend to start your training, and then...hopefully, I can send him on his way."

"I don't want to put him out of a job."

"Trust me, he'll love you for this," she said. "You're doing him the biggest favor of his life."

"Okay then," I said. "So I'll come in tomorrow around—"

"Five?"

"I won't be late."

# Chapter Ten

"I got a job."

"Say that again," Samantha said.

"It's a bridal boutique—Once Upon a Dream," I said. "I'm starting this weekend."

"How'd you pull that off?" she asked as if getting a job was some impossible feat. And of course, it is, if you never actually try.

"I was there with a girl from school today," I said. "She was picking up a dress she bought for homecoming, and the store owner mentioned that they need some extra help on the weekends."

"Do you think you can get me in?"

"Get you in?"

"Put in a good word," she elaborated. "Ask if you can bring your sister."

I groaned. It was too hard for Samantha to say "good for you, that's amazing, congratulations." Instead, she just wanted to know how my good news could somehow benefit her.

I didn't think Sam loved living in this crap motel or that she relished being poor, but she had also made no effort to change our situation for the better in the two weeks that we had lived in Brighton. She'd always been a hard worker when the jobs were handed to her—a friend of a friend knows someone who needs someone... But I couldn't recall a single time she'd ever put in the work to find something on her own.

"I don't think they need anyone else," I said. "Besides, it's extremely part-time, and you need something a little more substantial. Maybe you could go out tomorrow and do a little digging around. I'm sure there are plenty of places around town that need some help."

"Yeah, I guess," she said, her hopes deflated as quickly as I'd inadvertently built them up. "Are you staying in tonight?"

"Where else would I go?" I asked because staying in was all I ever did. My social life was limited to a couple of trips to a bridal shop to help a classmate choose a homecoming dress. The only friend I thought I had turned out to be no friend at all, and he hadn't spoken a word to me since Monday. And now here it was, Wednesday night, and I had as much of a relationship with Gabriel Amaya as I had with the janitors who cleaned our school. Zip. Zilch. None.

It had been five painstakingly long days since I'd watched him from the window, staring longingly up at our room as if it took all of his willpower to drive away from me.

I'd decided something last night as I tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep: I hadn't made things up. It wasn't make-believe. None of this was in my head. He'd called himself my friend, and he'd made an effort the way a friend would. We'd talked and joked, and he'd met my eyes with genuine concern. He could sit and defend himself, arguing that he hadn't blurred the line, but he was wrong, and I took solace in knowing that _my_ truth was the _only_ truth.

The part that hurt the most was that he'd driven a wedge between us.

Had I scared him away with the truth about my family's past? Was it too much for him? Was someone like him—someone born with an exceptional gift of intelligence, too evolved for someone like me... a child born addicted to the drugs her mother refused to give up? I'd come a long way in my life, beating all odds despite an early prognosis in the NICU, and I'd achieved a lot more than anyone ever thought I would.

I hadn't been afraid of burdening Gabe with my story, but maybe that was my mistake. Perhaps he didn't want the weight of the truth. Maybe he couldn't handle it.

"Are you going to the dance?" Sam asked, and I nodded.

"Yeah, I think so," I said. "I have an appointment tomorrow to pick up my dress."

"When's the big night?"

"Saturday."

"This Saturday?" she asked. "As in three days from now?"

"The one and only."

She nodded slowly, lost in thought. "Ethan never mentioned it."

"Why would he?"

"I don't know," she said. "I guess I thought... well, I mean, he'd have to chaperone something like that, right?"

"I don't know," I said. "There are dozens of teachers and parent volunteers. I don't see why the principal should have to oversee something like that."

"Yeah, maybe," she said, biting her lip, but she wasn't convinced. Sam was mad that he hadn't asked her to homecoming; a twenty-nine-year-old woman was angry that her boyfriend hadn't asked her to a high school dance. "I just can't believe he hasn't even mentioned it."

"Because he's still married," I said, frustrated that she failed to recognize that. "He can't just bring his new girlfriend into a school function and expect everyone to accept it. If Facebook is any indication, they've been separated for maybe a month. _Maybe_. If he brings you to a dance this soon, everyone will suspect that _you're_ the reason that they broke up. There will be countless questions of how your relationship with him might've overlapped his marriage. Is that what you want—for everyone to think _you_ were a sidepiece?"

I'd struck a nerve with that one. Samantha would never settle for being "the other woman," not where Ethan was concerned, and she wouldn't have people thinking that either.

"I get it," she said quietly, sinking back down into the bed. "I hadn't thought about it like that."

"Again, I doubt he's even going, so don't drive yourself crazy over a stupid high school dance."

"You're right," she said, pulling the blankets up to her chin and rolling over."

"You've been coming to school in the mornings to see Ethan, haven't you?" I asked, but she didn't budge from her spot.

"I've stopped in to say hi a few times," she said. "I never stay more than a few minutes."

"You sure?" I asked, praying that she wasn't meeting him there so they could have intimate hookups behind his closed office door.

"I won't go back," she said firmly. "Not now."

Not now—now that I'd convinced her that people would be suspicious of their instant connection. And I was honestly surprised that Ethan had allowed her to keep showing up, especially considering how adamant he was on my first day of school that he didn't want any trouble. Maybe I had misunderstood what he meant because he didn't seem in any hurry to shut down whatever was going on with my sister.

"You uh," I cleared my throat and sat down on the other side of the bed, talking to her backside. "You met one of my teachers on Monday."

"The hot one?"

I half-smiled, but my heart wasn't in it. "Mr. Amaya."

"The hot one," she confirmed. "Yeah, he's easy on the eyes, but he is a piece of work. The guy totally blew me off."

"What did he say?"

"A whole lot of nothing," she said. "I said, 'Hi, I'm Sam. Crazy coincidence, but my sister Victoria is new here; I think you might be one of her teachers,' and he said, 'Wow, imagine that, meeting a teacher at school. Crazy coincidence.' And then he grabbed some papers from a mailbox behind the desk and disappeared into the hallway. He was crazy-rude."

That didn't sound like him, at least it didn't seem like any version of him that I'd ever known. But maybe I'd never known him at all.

"Sorry, that sucks," I said. "Maybe he was just having a bad day."

"Yeah, maybe," she said, her words growing sleepier with each passing second. "You can leave the light on, but I'm going to sleep. It's been a long week."

I had no idea why it had been such a long week for her, but I had to agree that the past few days had been excruciatingly slow. I reached over and turned off the bedside lamp and settled into the bed.

All I wanted was to close my eyes and fall into a quick and dreamless sleep, but as soon as my eyes faded, all I could see was Gabe.

All I could hear was his voice.

And all I wanted to do was cry...

# Chapter Eleven

"I'm just finishing up with somebody in the back," Tiffany said, waving as she crossed the shop to grab another dress. "My brother will be here soon to help with appointments." She nodded to a sliding barn door at the back of the store. "Why don't you go back to the staff lounge and hang out while you're waiting. I'll be back in just a few minutes."

I wandered back into the lounge—the designated space for the employees of Once Upon a Dream. There were a few small lockers along one wall, a table, a mini-fridge, microwave, and two employee bathrooms. It was an intimate space, decorated with rows of framed wedding pictures from the top of the ceiling down to the floor.

"Are these your gowns?" I asked when Tiffany joined me about ten minutes later.

"Every last one of them," she said. "Not every couple sends us a photo of the big day, but the ones who do go up on the wall. I like it—it's just a daily reminder of what we're doing here. We're in the business of making people happy. Of course, I know we play only a tiny part, but... it's fulfilling."

"That's sweet," I said, examining the pictures closer. Every bride beamed as if they were living a fairytale come true, and each dress had a unique style, fit, and personality that perfectly complemented the brides.

Tiffany didn't rush me as I studied the pictures; she wasn't in any kind of hurry, so I took my time. Along the third row, near the middle of the wall, I noticed there was ample empty space.

"You only need a couple more."

"Oh, yeah," she said. "This is our special row."

"Why's that?" I asked, taking a closer look at the "special" photos.

"That's our friends and family row," she said. "The first picture, those are my grandparents. The next picture is my mother and father, rest his soul. And the rest of this line is a collection of aunts, uncles, and cousins. This," she pointed to a young Asian couple. "This is my best friend and her husband. They just got married last month."

"That's so sweet," I said, stopping to stare when I reached the empty space again. "So who's missing?"

She rolled her eyes. "Mine fell down last week and busted. It was a mess; we're still finding glass all over the place. Watch your step while you're back here. I'm having it reframed, so we'll have it back up by next week. And then the empty spot next to that... one day it will belong to my brother. _I hope_."

"One day soon?"

"Oh, god, no," she rolled her eyes again. "He doesn't even date, and not for my lack of interference. I've tried setting him up on a dozen dates in the last two years, and each one is more disastrous than the last one. That's why I said, _I hope_. The poor kid might never get married."

"What's wrong with him?" I joked, and she laughed.

"Honestly, nothing," she said, still giggling. "He's a great guy... he's just extremely picky."

"Well, I suppose you should be when it comes to picking a life partner."

"Yeah," she said quietly, still staring at the empty spots. "You really should be."

The bell chimed over the front door, and she shook her head to ward off whatever sadness had suddenly overcome her. She checked her watch.

"That should be him," she said. "I'm going to go give him the rundown of our nightly schedule. You can go back to the staging area and start looking through some of the dresses I left for you. I pulled some good ones— _not just our rentals_. You deserve something great to wear to your dance on Saturday night."

Tiffany disappeared back out to the storefront, and I stopped in the bathroom to pull my hair away from my face, emulating the tight bun that Tiffany always wore. I washed my hands, took one last look at the mirror to convince myself that this was really happening.

I had just stepped out of the employee lounge when I heard a familiar voice coming from the other side of the racks.

"What kind of surprise?"

"Well," Tiffany said. "You've been eager to get out of this place for months, and... I've found your replacement. Your weekends are about to blow wide open."

"No kidding?" I hid behind one of the displays and peeked out to confirm that it was exactly who I thought it was—Gabriel Amaya himself. "I'm off the hook?"

"I still need you this weekend," she said. "Could you stick around and start the training?"

"Yeah, I have nowhere else to be."

"She's a great kid, very friendly. She's actually here right now," Tiffany said. "She's going to try on some dresses for Saturday night—she's a student at Brighton." She smacked herself in the head. "God, she's probably one of your students; that never even occurred to me."

"Oh, yeah?" he asked, suddenly intrigued. "Do tell."

I leaned forward to get a better look at the duo, and my foot slipped on the edge of the display. I grabbed hold of the mannequin, trying to keep my balance, but it toppled onto the floor, taking me with it. I struggled to free myself on landing, but I was tangled up in layers of tulle and lace. It was far from a graceful save; I imagined I looked like a beached whale struggling for survival.

" _Victoria_!" Tiffany rushed over to help free me from the dress. "Oh, my god, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," I said, trying to pull myself off the ground and smooth out my clothes. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going, and I bumped right into the thing. Is it okay? _Did I ruin it?_ "

"It would take a lot more than a knock to the ground to ruin one of these things," she said, taking my hands to examine them. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"No, I'm fine, really, I just..." I closed my eyes. "I'm sorry."

She smirked, and together we picked the mannequin back off of the ground and fixed the display.

"Well, your entrance needs a little work, but your timing is fantastic," she said, looking back up to the front of the store. "I was just telling my brother that it never occurred to me that you might know each other."

All of the enthusiasm I had walking into the boutique this evening had faded with the realization that Gabe was the brother that Tiffany had been talking about all along—the one whose job I would be taking... the one who would be responsible for my training this weekend.

"Vic," he said below his breath, so low that I barely heard him. But Tiffany heard, and her ears perked up with sudden interest. She saw it, too—she saw exactly what I had seen over the last two weeks—the way his eyes softened when he looked at me. The way his fingers twitched... the way he said my name like we'd known each other all our lives.

"Mr. Amaya," I said, burying my nerves and keeping my tone as formal as possible. "I didn't realize you worked here, too."

"It's been a family business for generations," Tiffany piped in. "My grandmother opened it in her twenties, and then our mother took over after Gran retired."

"Now Tiffany's at the helm," Gabe said. "And if I do say so myself, she's killing it."

"I wouldn't say _killing it_ ," his sister said, and her suspicion about his reaction seemed to fade with his compliment. She pulled a black binder off the counter and clutched it close to her chest. "I need to get ready for some of our evening appointments. Victoria, are you ready to try on some dresses?"

I didn't look at my teacher, but I felt his eyes burning on the side of my face as I said, "Yeah. I'll be right back."

Tiffany disappeared back into the dressing room area, leaving nothing but silence behind her.

"Victoria, can we—"

"I wouldn't have taken the job if I knew," I said. "This wasn't some manipulative ploy to get closer to you. If you're not comfortable with this, or you think this blurs the line too much, then say something. I'll walk away. I've never quit a job before, but... maybe it can be my one new thing today."

He bit his bottom lip, studying me carefully, and then his shoulders lowered with a defeated sigh.

"Of course I want you to stay," he said. "Vic, you have to know that I'm sorry that I hurt you. I would give anything if you stopped shutting me out for one second so we can talk about what happened on Monday."

"Oof," I said quietly to myself, feeling the last of my breath drain. After a few long minutes of silence, he took a few steps closer. He reached forward to grab my hands but then stopped himself, and then I swear he cursed under his breath.

"There is no excuse for the things I said to you," he said, falling back on his habit of shoving his hands into his pockets. It was probably the cutest quirk he had; he never knew what to do with those hands of his. He could never keep them still. "No excuse, but... I had an unusually bad morning on Monday, and... an even worse week because I took that negativity out on you." I started to look down, but he dipped forward to catch my eye. "Don't take this the wrong way, but... you make me uncomfortable, Victoria, and sometimes I don't know what to do with that."

My heart pinched, and my stomach bottomed out. All I'd wanted was for Gabe to talk to me, to admit that he was wrong, and I'd gotten exactly what I wanted. But there was the added declaration of discomfort that felt like a knife through the heart. There were very few people in the world that I have ever felt truly comfortable around, and he was one of them. And yet, he stood there just now telling me that _he_ wasn't comfortable with _me_.

"I wish I knew how to change that," I whispered, tears stinging my dry eyes. "I never meant to make you uncomfortable. Was it something I said? Did I—"

He jerked his hands out of his pockets and lunged forward to catch my face before my eyes fell back to the floor. He cradled my jaw and studied the tears as they streamed down my cheeks and across his warm fingers. My skin burned beneath his touch, and my heart pounded in my ears.

He lowered his face until our eyes met, our noses almost touching.

"My discomfort has nothing to do with you," he said. "It's me."

I shook my head. "That doesn't make sense."

"I'm sorry," he said, wiping away my tears. "I don't know how else to explain it."

I scoffed but tried to smile. "Some genius you are."

He grinned and dropped his head forward, resting it on mine for one brief moment before pulling himself entirely away. Almost immediately, his hands found their familiar home in his pockets.

"Are we going to be okay?" he asked, gnawing his lip.

I nodded. "I think so."

But I didn't know; I wasn't really sure I understood what had just happened. Gabe was uncomfortable with me but not _because_ of me but because of himself. He was sorry for the things he'd said, and he'd never meant to hurt me. He'd held me, wiped my tears, offered assurance... but telling me that I made him uncomfortable hurt more than anything he'd said to me on Monday.

"Does that mean we're friends again?" I asked.

"Yeah." He smiled. "Friends—still."

A small cough came from the other side of the room, and Tiffany leaned in the doorway, staring between the two of us.

"What's going on?" she feigned innocence, but I know she saw the mascara trailing down my cheeks. "Is everything okay?"

"It's fine," her brother said quickly. "I was just—"

"He was consoling me," I cut in. "I was distraught that I might've ruined the dress when I hit the floor."

She waved a hand. "Don't worry about the dress. It's a _thing_ ; things are replaceable. As long as you're okay, I'm okay. Are we good?"

I nodded, looking from sister to brother. "I'm going to go clean my face, then I'll get to the dresses."

"Sounds like a plan," Tiffany said, but her words were clipped, and her focus locked back on her brother. " _You_. We need to talk."

# Chapter Twelve

"So this is homecoming," I said, standing against a wall in the school gymnasium, feeling the vibration of loud music beat against my shoulders. The dance floor was overflowed with students, and teachers and parents closely cased the perimeter.

I could never tell my sister, but Ethan had shown up tonight to supervise the event, and he looked far too happy to be wrapped up in conversation with a dazzling brunette that I didn't recognize. Worse, as of tonight, he was no longer wearing his wedding ring.

Maybe that's why he didn't want any trouble from me. He knew I would eventually find out that he was seeing other people—people who weren't his wife and people who weren't my sister. He didn't need Samantha to snap and go crazy-ex-girlfriend on him, so he depended on my secrecy.

"Sensory overload."

"You said it, babe," Reese said, her bright eyes observing the crowd. She focused momentarily on Markie and Claire, who'd ignored her since we'd arrived, and then she groaned. " _Why did I let you drag me here again_? This would be a lot more fun if we had dates."

"Maybe you should ask President Andy for a dance." I nudged her with my elbow, ignoring the fact that she wanted me to take the blame for her showing up to this thing.

"No. That's humiliating. Girls don't ask guys."

"Oh, come on," I said. "You can't ask him? What kind of 1950's boohockey is that? March your cute butt over there and ask him to dance."

"What if he says no?"

"Then it's his loss," I said, shoving her away. "But he _won't_ say no, and the faster you ask him, the sooner you'll be the First Lady of this school. How could he resist your charm?"

She took many small, hesitant steps into the group of dancers, weaving through the crowd to make her way to the other side of the room. Every few seconds, she'd turn around and plead with me to come and save her, but I just shook my head. After a song and a half, she finally reached the table where Andy and his friends had set up camp for the night. Reese and Andy exchanged a few friendly words—smiles and all, and then three seconds later, he stood from his chair and walked her out onto the dance floor. I smiled as they fell together, swaying to the rhythm of a slower song.

"God bless you, Mr. President," I whispered, watching them for a few long seconds, and then I eyed the three exits.

I needed to get away from this music, to get a drink or breathe some fresh air. The door leading outside was blocked by a crowd of chaperones, and the bathrooms were spilling over with dozens of girls eager to fix their hair and makeup. I looked toward the one viable exit and quickly made my way out. I pushed through the double doors and stepped into the dark hallway, relaxing immediately as the volume of the music was dampened by the barrier.

I stared down the black corridor, appreciating the way Brighton High School looked at night.

No students.

No teachers.

No one to see or point or whisper.

It was pure silence.

Freedom.

I took my heels off and wandered down the empty hall, embracing the way the cold tile felt against my bare feet. Every now and then, I'd spin in a circle, just to feel the way the large skirt whirled around my legs. Tiffany had gone to extreme lengths to help me find the perfect gown. I'd tried on sixteen different dresses before she brought me a black princess gown with a full skirt and a strapless bodice. The moment we'd zipped it, we both knew we'd found the one.

As I wandered the halls, I continued to lie about my motive. I tried to reason with myself; _I'm not going anywhere in particular_. But there was nothing aimless about my route. One more turn down the hallway and a few doors down from where I stood, I had a perfect view of Room 115—Mr. Amaya's English class.

Gabe wasn't at the dance tonight, and my heart had yearned to be near him again, to hear his voice and see his soft face. If being in his classroom was the closest I could get to being near him, even spiritually, that's where I wanted to be.

I continued my slow journey down the dark hallway until I reached his open door, and a breath seized in the back of my throat as I caught sight of him, sitting at his desk. The lights were off, but his workspace was scarcely lit by faint lamplight. He was hunched over a stack of essays with a red flair pen in his left hand.

I hadn't expected to find him here, but I certainly hadn't expected to see him dressed in a suit and tie, the darkness of which complemented the rims of the glasses he'd finally decided to wear again.

"Do you always get dressed up to grade papers?" I asked, and he jumped in his seat, knocking over the lamp. It shattered when it hit the floor, and the last little bit of light burst with the bulb. "Oh, my god, I—"

"Don't come in," he said quickly. I could hear him fumbling around. "There's glass everywhere."

"I was just going to turn on the light."

"They're on timers," he said. "They only work during school hours. It's why I have a lamp... _I had_ a lamp."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to scare you, I just—"

"Why aren't you at the dance?" he asked, his tone more curious than upset. Actually, he didn't seem upset at all, about me or the lamp. He just seemed—in true Gabriel fashion, concerned. "Is everything okay?"

"I needed some fresh air."

"So you...?"

"I couldn't get outside, so I wandered the halls for a bit," I said. "Can I come in now?"

"I don't want you getting hurt," he said, and his voice sounded lower to the ground now, but I couldn't make out his shape in the dark. There was a faint sound of glass scraping against the tiled floor, and I finally tiptoed in.

"I'll stay away, but... maybe you shouldn't be down there either."

"I can't leave a bunch of broken glass on the floor."

"Can't you clean it up on Monday, when you can actually see what you're doing?" I didn't have to see his expression to know he smirked. "You know, I'm really enjoying my sarcastic comments about you being a genius and all, but it's starting to feel cruel. People tell me you're a smart guy, but—"

"Okay, lay off," he said, and his voice sounded closer this time. "Where are you?"

"I think I'm at my desk," I said, but I couldn't know for sure. The room was pitch black, and I'd slid into the first desk that felt like it was front and center. "I'm sorry about the lamp. Why are you in here anyway? You're all dressed up; were you supposed to chaperone the dance tonight?"

"No," he said, and now his voice was as close as it was on Monday. He'd found his way to the desk next to mine and sat down. "I, uh... I had a thing."

"A thing?"

"It was nothing."

"It was _something_ ," I said. "You look like Prince Charming."

"You're sweet, but—"

"What was it?"

"Just a thing."

"Yeah, you said that but—"

"I had a date," he said quickly, like ripping off a band-aid.

"Oh," I whispered, hoping he hadn't heard the disappointment I felt with his admission. I didn't know how I was supposed to respond. Was it inappropriate to ask how it went? Could it had even have gone well if it had ended before nine o'clock and he was spending his night at school grading papers? "Did you... how was... where did you—"

"I blew it off," he said, and I was eternally grateful for the fact that his loud sigh masked my own. "I didn't go."

"Um..." _Don't ask, Victoria. Don't poke your nose where it doesn't belong_. It's none of your business. _Butt out_. "Why not?"

"It would've ended badly anyway. Why waste my time?"

"You know it would've ended badly?"

"Yes," he said positively. "Beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"Because...?"

"I'll give you three reasons. One, I'm bad at dating. I'm awkward; I don't know what to say, and the conversation always stalls. Nine times out of ten, it's my fault. Two, I love my sister, but these "friends" she sets me up with are just bridesmaids she meets in the store. She doesn't know them, and half the time they turn out to be..."

"Crazy?"

"Old."

I laughed. " _Old_?"

"Vic, the last two were almost twice my age."

"Hyperbole."

"I wish."

After a few silent minutes, I finally got up the nerve to ask, "What exactly is twice your age?"

See, I thought I knew, because Reese had said he and her sister were the same age, but I had to hear it for myself. I would not be one of those girls who believed every piece of gossip she heard. I'd learned the hard way that there were very few credible gossips out there, and it was always best to go straight to the source.

"I'm about to lose all credibility with you, aren't I?"

"Does age determine credibility?"

"I think it helps, especially considering my position," he said, taking a deep breath. "I'm twenty."

"Impossible."

"I graduated high school when I was fifteen," he said. "I completed my student teaching assignment and graduated from university last year. I am twenty years old. Would you like to see my driver's license?"

"Wow, I feel... stupid."

"Stupid?"

"I'm seventeen and still in high school," I said. "You were halfway through your college degree when you were my age."

"But you realize that you're the normal one here, right?" he asked. "I'm a freak."

"You're not a freak," I said, smiling at his incredible accomplishment. I'd never met someone like him—someone who'd taken advantage of the gifts they were given. Someone determined and hardworking. Someone special. "So what's the third thing?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You said there were three reasons you didn't go on your date tonight."

"I did?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"I guess I misspoke," he said, and I wished I could see his face because I didn't believe for one moment that there wasn't a third reason. He'd just decided not to share that one last thing with me. "You plan on getting back to the dance anytime soon?"

"I don't think so, no," I said. "I was thinking of bailing, honestly. Reese is probably set for the night, and I'll probably just go back to the motel."

"Are you ever going to leave that place?"

"I hope so."

"And you won't reconsider—"

"I can't move in with you."

"Why?"

"I'll give you three reasons," I said. "One, I've already told you. I've been the subject of enough gossip for a lifetime. Two, my sister will never agree to living with you after meeting you on Monday. She thinks you're a jerk."

"And three?"

" _Three_?"

"There was a third thing."

"I don't think so."

"You said, _I'll give you three reasons_."

"Oh, well," I shrugged. "I guess I misspoke."

He groaned, and I smiled at the pleasure I took in taunting him. _Flirting_ with him? Is that what this was? Was I flirting with my teacher?

"Do me one favor," he asked.

"Anything."

"Come home with me tonight."

" _What_?"

"Okay, rewind," he said quickly. "Come home with me and look at the room. Get the full picture before you make a decision. It's not a five-star hotel, not by any means, but it's big enough to accommodate both of you, and... it's safe. And believe me, Vic, I'll sleep far better at night knowing that you're safe."

There were a million reasons—at least three, but I'd never tell him the third—that this was a mistake. He knew it. I knew it, and yet I found myself on the brink of agreeing just to keep the night alive. But this was impulsive and stupid. This wasn't something that Victoria Bradley would do. I needed more spontaneity in my life, that was true, but not like this.

"I can't come back with you," I said, staying true to the one promise I had made myself. I wasn't going to screw this up. This was my new beginning.

"It was worth a shot."

"Why are you renting the room, anyway?"

"The house is so quiet since Mom and Gran left," he said. "It's unsettling."

"You should get a cat."

"Maybe I will."

"I've always wanted a cat," I said, more to myself than to him.

"Hey, how's the challenge going?" he asked, and I wondered what it was about my cat comment that made him think of the challenge he'd given me. "What was your one new thing today?"

"Homecoming," I said. "I've never been to a school dance."

"Never?"

"Not one," I said, biting the inside of my lip. I didn't want to tell him that it had turned out to be a crappy new thing. I came, I saw, and that was really all I needed out of this experience. "I have a confession. I haven't been keeping up with the challenge."

"Setbacks are normal," he said. "I slip up every now and then."

"You do this, too?"

"Every day," he said. "Or, most every day. I try. It was something Tiffany suggested when I took this job. She said that when you start working so many hours, you tend to lose the part of you that feels in control. To avoid burnout, she suggested that I try to do something new every day. Most days I do pretty well. I've picked up a few new skills— _I can bake now_."

"I thought growing up in a household with a bunch of women led to your master chef cooking skills," I said, and he laughed. "No?"

"I had three women cooking for me all the time," he said. "I had no reason to learn."

"So you taught yourself?"

"I taught myself," he said. "And I'm glad I did. It's therapeutic. Of course, now I'll need a gym membership. There's really only so many pies a guy can eat."

I chuckled. "So, what was your one new thing today?"

"I don't have one," he said. "Do you have any ideas?"

"Not one," I said. "It's hard enough coming up with something for myself. I can't start doing the heavy lifting for you, too."

The room fell silent again. I expected my eyes to adjust to the darkness, to make out some shape or outline of him in the desk next to me, but I still couldn't see anything but the night.

"I never went to homecoming," he said. "I was so young; it was awkward."

"Maybe that can be your one new thing, then."

"What's that?"

"Go to homecoming," I said. "Lucky for you, there's a dance going on right down the hall."

"What's the point if I can't dance?" he asked, and his words had the cadence of a joke, but his tone was somber.

That's when it hit me. Gabe was just like me—pretending like it didn't bother him not to have typical experiences, but he silently craved an ordinary life.

"You could dance if you wanted to," I said quietly. "I would dance with you."

Again, the room fell silent, and I was afraid that I'd finally said too much, and this time there was no excuse. My words were intentional, and I'd meant every one of them. This is why he was uncomfortable with me. I never said the right things, and when I said what I really felt, it was wrong. It truly crossed the line... and not in a platonic way. He was uncomfortable because I kept coming on to him.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have—"

My words were interrupted by the sound of him pushing out of the desk. He took a few slow steps in my direction, and then his hands found mine. I fumbled out of my seat, leaning on him to find my balance in the dark. Careful to keep far away from the broken glass, he placed one hand on the small of my back and pulled me closer to him, and I rested my head against his shoulder. My heart pounded louder than the music in the gym; I could hardly catch my breath as he clung to me. Our movements were subtle but sweet, and we swayed to the distant rhythm that echoed through the hallway.

Taking a slow breath, I closed my eyes and breathed him in, burning his scent to memory. This was the definition of a perfect moment, but I felt like Cinderella at the ball. Soon, this would all be over. The clock would strike midnight. The dance would end. He'd back away, I'd leave this room, and we'd leave this dream... and then the fairytale would fade with the night.

"This is my new favorite thing," Gabe whispered, so quietly that I barely heard his words.

"Homecoming?"

"Dancing with you." He tightened his hold on me for one long minute, embracing my small figure, and I wrapped my arms around his waist and closed the tiniest gap that was left between us.

Dancing with him... it was my new favorite thing, too, but we weren't dancing anymore. At some point, we'd swayed to a complete stop.

Now we were just two friends, standing still, holding on for dear life.

Because we knew this moment would have to end, and it was bound to be a surefire disaster.

We couldn't let go.

We were falling in love.

# About the Author

Jos Pierce is an emerging author of young adult fiction. This is her second series. More information about this series is available on the blog at www.jospierce.com.

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