It Ends with Us / Все закончится на нас (by Colleen Hoover, 2016) - аудиокнига на английском

Chapter One As I sit here with one foot on either side of the ledge, looking down from twelve stories above the streets of Boston, I can’t help but think about suicide. Not my own. I like my life enough to want to see it through. I’m more focused on other people, and how they ultimately come to the decision to just end their own lives. Do they ever regret it? In the moment after letting go and the second before they make impact, there has to be a little bit of remorse in that brief free fall. Do they look at the ground as it rushes toward them and think, “Well, crap. This was a bad idea.” Somehow, I think not. I think about death a lot. Particularly today, considering I just—twelve hours earlier—gave one of the most epic eulogies the people of Plethora, Maine, have ever witnessed. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most epic. It very well could be considered the most disastrous. I guess that would depend on whether you were asking my mother or me. My mother, who probably won’t speak to me for a solid year after today. Don’t get me wrong; the eulogy I delivered wasn’t profound enough to make history, like the one Brooke Shields delivered at Michael Jackson’s funeral. Or the one delivered by Steve Jobs’s sister. Or Pat Tillman’s brother. But it was epic in its own way. I was nervous at first. It was the funeral of the prodigious Andrew Bloom, after all. Adored mayor of my hometown of Plethora, Maine. Owner of the most successful real-estate agency within city limits. Husband of the highly adored Jenny Bloom, the most revered teaching assistant in all of Plethora. And father of Lily Bloom—that strange girl with the erratic red hair who once fell in love with a homeless guy and brought great shame upon her entire family. That would be me. I’m Lily Bloom, and Andrew was my father. As soon as I finished delivering his eulogy today, I caught a flight straight back to Boston and hijacked the first roof I could find. Again, not because I’m suicidal. I have no plans to scale off this roof. I just really needed fresh air and silence, and dammit if I can’t get that from my third floor apartment with absolutely no rooftop access and a roommate who likes to hear herself sing. I didn’t account for how cold it would be up here, though. It’s not unbearable, but it’s not comfortable, either. At least I can see the stars. Dead fathers and exasperating roommates and questionable eulogies don’t feel so awful when the night sky is clear enough to literally feel the grandeur of the universe. I love it when the sky makes me feel insignificant. I like tonight. Well . . . let me rephrase this so that it more appropriately reflects my feelings in past tense. I liked tonight. But unfortunately for me, the door was just shoved open so hard, I expect the stairwell to spit a human out onto the rooftop. The door slams shut again and footsteps move swiftly across the deck. I don’t even bother looking up. Whoever it is more than likely won’t even notice me back here straddling the ledge to the left of the door. They came out here in such a hurry, it isn’t my fault if they assume they’re alone. I sigh quietly, close my eyes and lean my head against the stucco wall behind me, cursing the universe for ripping this peaceful, introspective moment out from under me. The least the universe could do for me today is ensure that it’s a woman and not a man. If I’m going to have company, I’d rather it be a female. I’m tough for my size and can probably hold my own in most cases, but I’m too comfortable right now to be on a rooftop alone with a strange man in the middle of the night. I might fear for my safety and feel the need to leave, and I really don’t want to leave. As I said before . . . I’m comfortable. I finally allow my eyes to make the journey to the silhouette leaning over the ledge. As luck would have it, he’s definitely male. Even leaning over the rail, I can tell he’s tall. Broad shoulders create a strong contrast to the fragile way he’s holding his head in his hands. I can barely make out the heavy rise and fall of his back as he drags in deep breaths and forces them back out when he’s done with them. He appears to be on the verge of a breakdown. I contemplate speaking up to let him know he has company, or clearing my throat, but between thinking it and actually doing it, he spins around and kicks one of the patio chairs behind him. I flinch as it screeches across the deck, but being as though he isn’t even aware he has an audience, the guy doesn’t stop with just one kick. He kicks the chair repeatedly, over and over. Rather than give way beneath the blunt force of his foot, all the chair does is scoot farther and farther away from him. That chair must be made from marine-grade polymer. I once watched my father back over an outdoor patio table made of marine-grade polymer, and it practically laughed at him. Dented his bumper, but didn’t even put a scratch on the table. This guy must realize he’s no match for such a high-quality material, because he finally stops kicking the chair. He’s now standing over it, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. To be honest, I’m a little envious. Here this guy is, taking his aggression out on patio furniture like a champ. He’s obviously had a shitty day, as have I, but whereas I keep my aggression pent up until it manifests in the form of passive-aggressiveness, this guy actually has an outlet. My outlet used to be gardening. Any time I was stressed, I’d just go out to the backyard and pull every single weed I could find. But since the day I moved to Boston two years ago, I haven’t had a backyard. Or a patio. I don’t even have weeds. Maybe I need to invest in a marine-grade polymer patio chair. I stare at the guy a moment longer, wondering if he’s ever going to move. He’s just standing there, staring down at the chair. His hands aren’t in fists anymore. They’re resting on his hips, and I notice for the first time how his shirt doesn’t fit him very well around his biceps. It fits him everywhere else, but his arms are huge. He begins fishing around in his pockets until he finds what he’s looking for and—in what I’m sure is probably an effort to release even more of his aggression—he lights up a joint. I’m twenty-three, I’ve been through college and have done this very same recreational drug a time or two. I’m not going to judge this guy for feeling the need to toke up in private. But that’s the thing—he’s not in private. He just doesn’t know that yet. He takes in a long drag of his joint and starts to turn back toward the ledge. He notices me on the exhale. He stops walking the second our eyes meet. His expression holds no shock, nor does it hold amusement when he sees me. He’s about ten feet away, but there’s enough light from the stars that I can see his eyes as they slowly drag over my body without revealing a single thought. This guy holds his cards well. His gaze is narrow and his mouth is drawn tight, like a male version of the Mona Lisa. “What’s your name?” he asks. I feel his voice in my stomach. That’s not good. Voices should stop at the ears, but sometimes—not very often at all, actually—a voice will penetrate past my ears and reverberate straight down through my body. He has one of those voices. Deep, confident, and a little bit like butter. When I don’t answer him, he brings the joint back to his mouth and takes another hit. “Lily,” I finally say. I hate my voice. It sounds too weak to even reach his ears from here, much less reverberate inside his body. He lifts his chin a little and nudges his head toward me. “Will you please get down from there, Lily?” It isn’t until he says this that I notice his posture. He’s standing straight up now, rigid even. Almost as if he’s nervous I’m going to fall. I’m not. This ledge is at least a foot wide, and I’m mostly on the roof side. I could easily catch myself before I fell, not to mention I’ve got the wind in my favor. I glance down at my legs and then back up at him. “No, thanks. I’m quite comfortable where I am.” He turns a little, like he can’t look straight at me. “Please get down.” It’s more of a demand now, despite his use of the word please. “There are seven empty chairs up here.” “Almost six,” I correct, reminding him that he just tried to murder one of them. He doesn’t find the humor in my response. When I fail to follow his orders, he takes a couple of steps closer. “You are a mere three inches from falling to your death. I’ve been around enough of that for one day.” He motions for me to get down again. “You’re making me nervous. Not to mention ruining my high.” I roll my eyes and swing my legs over. “Heaven forbid a joint go to waste.” I hop down and wipe my hands across my jeans. “Better?” I say as I walk toward him. He lets out a rush of air, as if seeing me on the ledge actually had him holding his breath. I pass him to head for the side of the roof with the better view, and as I do, I can’t help but notice how unfortunately cute he is. No. Cute is an insult. This guy is beautiful. Well-manicured, smells like money, looks to be several years older than me. His eyes crinkle in the corners as they follow me, and his lips seem to frown, even when they aren’t. When I reach the side of the building that overlooks the street, I lean forward and stare down at the cars below, trying not to appear impressed by him. I can tell by his haircut alone that he’s the kind of man people are easily impressed by, and I refuse to feed into his ego. Not that he’s done anything to make me think he even has one. But he is wearing a casual Burberry shirt, and I’m not sure I’ve ever been on the radar of someone who could casually afford one. I hear footsteps approaching from behind, and then he leans against the railing next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he takes another hit of his joint. When he’s finished, he offers it to me, but I wave it off. The last thing I need is to be under the influence around this guy. His voice is a drug in itself. I kind of want to hear it again, so I throw a question in his direction. “So what did that chair do to make you so angry?” He looks at me. Like really looks at me. His eyes meet mine and he just stares, hard, like all my secrets are right there on my face. I’ve never seen eyes as dark as his. Maybe I have, but they seem darker when they’re attached to such an intimidating presence. He doesn’t answer my question, but my curiosity isn’t easily put to rest. If he’s going to force me down from a very peaceful, comfortable ledge, then I expect him to entertain me with answers to my nosy questions. “Was it a woman?” I inquire. “Did she break your heart?” He laughs a little with that question. “If only my issues were as trivial as matters of the heart.” He leans into the wall so that he can face me. “What floor do you live on?” He licks his fingers and pinches the end of his joint, then puts it back in his pocket. “I’ve never noticed you before.” “That’s because I don’t live here.” I point in the direction of my apartment. “See that insurance building?” He squints as he looks in the direction I’m pointing. “Yeah.” “I live in the building next to it. It’s too short to see from here. It’s only three stories tall.” He’s facing me again, resting his elbow on the ledge. “If you live over there, why are you here? Your boyfriend live here or something?” His comment somehow makes me feel cheap. It was too easy—an amateurish pickup line. From the looks of this guy, I know he has better skills than that. It makes me think he saves the more difficult pickup lines for the women he deems worthy. “You have a nice roof,” I tell him. He lifts an eyebrow, waiting for more of an explanation. “I wanted fresh air. Somewhere to think. I pulled up Google Earth and found the closest apartment complex with a decent rooftop patio.” He regards me with a smile. “At least you’re economical,” he says. “That’s a good quality to have.” At least? I nod, because I am economical. And it is a good quality to have. “Why did you need fresh air?” he asks. Because I buried my father today and gave an epically disastrous eulogy and now I feel like I can’t breathe. I face forward again and slowly exhale. “Can we just not talk for a little while?” He seems a bit relieved that I asked for silence. He leans over the ledge and lets an arm dangle as he stares down at the street. He stays like this for a while, and I stare at him the entire time. He probably knows I’m staring, but he doesn’t seem to care. “A guy fell off this roof last month,” he says. I would be annoyed at his lack of respect for my request for silence, but I’m kind of intrigued. “Was it an accident?” He shrugs. “No one knows. It happened late in the evening. His wife said she was cooking dinner and he told her he was coming up here to take some pictures of the sunset. He was a photographer. They think he was leaning over the ledge to get a shot of the skyline, and he slipped.” I look over the ledge, wondering how someone could possibly put themselves in a situation where they could fall by accident. But then I remember I was just straddling the ledge on the other side of the roof a few minutes ago. “When my sister told me what happened, the only thing I could think about was whether or not he got the shot. I was hoping his camera didn’t fall with him, because that would have been a real waste, you know? To die because of your love of photography, but you didn’t even get the final shot that cost you your life?” His thought makes me laugh. Although I’m not sure I should have laughed at that. “Do you always say exactly what’s on your mind?” He shrugs. “Not to most people.” This makes me smile. I like that he doesn’t even know me, but for whatever reason, I’m not considered most people to him. He rests his back against the ledge and folds his arms over his chest. “Were you born here?” I shake my head. “No. Moved here from Maine after I graduated college.” He scrunches up his nose, and it’s kind of hot. Watching this guy—dressed in his Burberry shirt with his two-hundred-dollar haircut—making silly faces. “So you’re in Boston purgatory, huh? That’s gotta suck.” “What do you mean?” I ask him. The corner of his mouth curls up. “The tourists treat you like a local; the locals treat you like a tourist.” I laugh. “Wow. That’s a very accurate description.” “I’ve been here two months. I’m not even in purgatory yet, so you’re doing better than I am.” “What brought you to Boston?” “My residency. And my sister lives here.” He taps his foot and says, “Right beneath us, actually. Married a tech-savvy Bostonian and they bought the entire top floor.” I look down. “The entire top floor?” He nods. “Lucky bastard works from home. Doesn’t even have to change out of his pajamas and makes seven figures a year.” Lucky bastard, indeed. “What kind of residency? Are you a doctor?” He nods. “Neurosurgeon. Less than a year left of my residency and then it’s official.” Stylish, well spoken, and smart. And smokes pot. If this were an SAT question, I would ask which one didn’t belong. “Should doctors be smoking weed?” He smirks. “Probably not. But if we didn’t indulge on occasion, there would be a lot more of us taking the leap over these ledges, I can promise you that.” He’s facing forward again with his chin resting on his arms. His eyes are closed now, like he’s enjoying the wind against his face. He doesn’t look as intimidating like this. “You want to know something that only the locals know?” “Of course,” he says, bringing his attention back to me. I point to the east. “See that building? The one with the green roof?” He nods. “There’s a building behind it on Melcher. There’s a house on top of the building. Like a legit house, built right on the rooftop. You can’t see it from the street, and the building is so tall that not many people even know about it.” He looks impressed. “Really?” I nod. “I saw it when I was searching Google Earth, so I looked it up. Apparently a permit was granted for the construction in 1982. How cool would that be? To live in a house on top of a building?” “You’d get the whole roof to yourself,” he says. I hadn’t thought of that. If I owned it I could plant gardens up there. I’d have an outlet. “Who lives there?” he asks. “No one really knows. It’s one of the great mysteries of Boston.” He laughs and then looks at me inquisitively. “What’s another great mystery of Boston?” “Your name.” As soon as I say it, I slap my hand against my forehead. It sounded so much like a cheesy pickup line; the only thing I can do is laugh at myself. He smiles. “It’s Ryle,” he says. “Ryle Kincaid.” I sigh, sinking into myself. “That’s a really great name.” “Why do you sound sad about it?” “Because, I’d give anything for a great name.” “You don’t like the name Lily?” I tilt my head and cock an eyebrow. “My last name . . . is Bloom.” He’s quiet. I can feel him trying to hold back his pity. “I know. It’s awful. It’s the name of a two-year-old little girl, not a twenty-three-year-old woman.” “A two-year-old girl will have the same name no matter how old she gets. Names aren’t something we eventually grow out of, Lily Bloom.” “Unfortunately for me,” I say. “But what makes it even worse is that I absolutely love gardening. I love flowers. Plants. Growing things. It’s my passion. It’s always been my dream to open a florist shop, but I’m afraid if I did, people wouldn’t think my desire was authentic. They would think I was trying to capitalize off my name and that being a florist isn’t really my dream job.” “Maybe so,” he says. “But what’s that matter?” “It doesn’t, I suppose.” I catch myself whispering, “Lily Bloom’s” quietly. I can see him smiling a little bit. “It really is a great name for a florist. But I have a master’s degree in business. I’d be downgrading, don’t you think? I work for the biggest marketing firm in Boston.” “Owning your own business isn’t downgrading,” he says. I raise an eyebrow. “Unless it flops.” He nods in agreement. “Unless it flops,” he says. “So what’s your middle name, Lily Bloom?” I groan, which makes him perk up. “You mean it gets worse?” I drop my head in my hands and nod. “Rose?” I shake my head. “Worse.” “Violet?” “I wish.” I cringe and then mutter, “Blossom.” There’s a moment of silence. “Goddamn,” he says softly. “Yeah. Blossom is my mother’s maiden name and my parents thought it was fate that their last names were synonyms. So of course when they had me, a flower was their first choice.” “Your parents must be real assholes.” One of them is. Was. “My father died this week.” He glances at me. “Nice try. I’m not falling for that.” “I’m serious. That’s why I came up here tonight. I think I just needed a good cry.” He stares at me suspiciously for a moment to make sure I’m not pulling his leg. He doesn’t apologize for the blunder. Instead, his eyes grow a little more curious, like his intrigue is actually authentic. “Were you close?” That’s a hard question. I rest my chin on my arms and look down at the street again. “I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “As his daughter, I loved him. But as a human, I hated him.” I can feel him watching me for a moment, and then he says, “I like that. Your honesty.” He likes my honesty. I think I might be blushing. We’re both quiet again for a while, and then he says, “Do you ever wish people were more transparent?” “How so?” He picks at a piece of chipped stucco with his thumb until it breaks loose. He flicks it over the ledge. “I feel like everyone fakes who they really are, when deep down we’re all equal amounts of screwed up. Some of us are just better at hiding it than others.” Either his high is setting in, or he’s just very introspective. Either way, I’m okay with it. My favorite conversations are the ones with no real answers. “I don’t think being a little guarded is a negative thing,” I say. “Naked truths aren’t always pretty.” He stares at me for a moment. “Naked truths,” he repeats. “I like that.” He turns around and walks to the middle of the rooftop. He adjusts the back on one of the patio loungers behind me and lowers himself onto it. It’s the kind you lie on, so he pulls his hands behind his head and looks up at the sky. I claim the one next to him and adjust it until I’m in the same position as him. “Tell me a naked truth, Lily.” “Pertaining to what?” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Something you aren’t proud of. Something that will make me feel a little less screwed up on the inside.” He’s staring up at the sky, waiting on me to answer. My eyes follow the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheeks, the outline of his lips. His eyebrows are drawn together in contemplation. I don’t understand why, but he seems to need conversation right now. I think about his question and try to find an honest answer. When I come up with one, I look away from him and back up to the sky. “My father was abusive. Not to me—to my mother. He would get so angry when they fought that sometimes he would hit her. When that happened, he would spend the next week or two making up for it. He would do things like buy her flowers or take us out to a nice dinner. Sometimes he would buy me stuff because he knew I hated it when they fought. When I was a kid, I found myself looking forward to the nights they would fight. Because I knew if he hit her, the two weeks that followed would be great.” I pause. I’m not sure I’ve ever admitted that to myself. “Of course if I could, I would have made it to where he never touched her. But the abuse was inevitable with their marriage, and it became our norm. When I got older, I realized that not doing something about it made me just as guilty. I spent most of my life hating him for being such a bad person, but I’m not so sure I’m much better. Maybe we’re both bad people.” Ryle looks over at me with a thoughtful expression. “Lily,” he says pointedly. “There is no such thing as bad people. We’re all just people who sometimes do bad things.” I open my mouth to respond, but his words strike me silent. We’re all just people who sometimes do bad things. I guess that’s true in a way. No one is exclusively bad, nor is anyone exclusively good. Some are just forced to work harder at suppressing the bad. “Your turn,” I tell him. Based on his reaction, I think he might not want to play his own game. He sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair. He opens his mouth to speak, but then clamps it shut again. He thinks for a bit, and then finally speaks. “I watched a little boy die tonight.” His voice is despondent. “He was only five years old. He and his little brother found a gun in his parents’ bedroom. The younger brother was holding it and it went off by accident.” My stomach flips. I think this may be a little too much truth for me. “There was nothing that could be done by the time he made it to the operating table. Everyone around—nurses, other doctors—they all felt so sorry for the family. ‘Those poor parents,’ they said. But when I had to walk into the waiting room and tell those parents that their child didn’t make it, I didn’t feel an ounce of sorrow for them. I wanted them to suffer. I wanted them to feel the weight of their ignorance for keeping a loaded gun within access of two innocent children. I wanted them to know that not only did they just lose a child, they just ruined the entire life of the one who accidentally pulled the trigger.” Jesus Christ. I wasn’t prepared for something so heavy. I can’t even conceive how a family moves past that. “That poor boy’s brother,” I say. “I can’t imagine what that’s going to do to him—seeing something like that.” Ryle flicks something off the knee of his jeans. “It’ll destroy him for life, that’s what it’ll do.” I turn on my side to face him, lifting my head up onto my hand. “Is it hard? Seeing things like that every day?” He gives his head a slight shake. “It should be a lot harder, but the more I’m around death, the more it just becomes a part of life. I’m not sure how I feel about that.” He makes eye contact with me again. “Give me another one,” he says. “I feel like mine was a little more twisted than yours.” I disagree, but I tell him about the twisted thing I did a mere twelve hours ago. “My mother asked me two days ago if I would deliver the eulogy at my father’s funeral today. I told her I didn’t feel comfortable—that I might be crying too hard to speak in front of a crowd—but that was a lie. I just didn’t want to do it because I feel like eulogies should be delivered by those who respected the deceased. And I didn’t much respect my father.” “Did you do it?” I nod. “Yeah. This morning.” I sit up and pull my legs beneath me as I face him. “You want to hear it?” He smiles. “Absolutely.” I fold my hands in my lap and inhale a breath. “I had no idea what to say. About an hour before the funeral, I told my mother I didn’t want to do it. She said it was simple and that my father would have wanted me to do it. She said all I had to do was walk up to the podium and say five great things about my father. So . . . that’s exactly what I did.” Ryle lifts up onto his elbow, appearing even more interested. He can tell by the look on my face that it gets worse. “Oh, no, Lily. What did you do?” “Here. Let me just reenact it for you.” I stand up and walk around to the other side of my chair. I stand tall and act like I’m looking out over the same crowded room I was met with this morning. I clear my throat. “Hello. My name is Lily Bloom, daughter of the late Andrew Bloom. Thank you all for joining us today as we mourn his loss. I wanted to take a moment to honor his life by sharing with you five great things about my father. The first thing . . .” I look down at Ryle and shrug. “That’s it.” He sits up. “What do you mean?” I take a seat on my lounge chair and lie back down. “I stood up there for two solid minutes without saying another word. There wasn’t one great thing I could say about that man—so I just stared silently at the crowd until my mother realized what I was doing and had my uncle remove me from the podium.” Ryle tilts his head. “Are you kidding me? You gave the anti-eulogy at your own father’s funeral?” I nod. “I’m not proud of it. I don’t think. I mean, if I had my way, he would have been a much better person and I would have stood up there and talked for an hour.” Ryle lies back down. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re kind of my hero. You just roasted a dead guy.” “That’s tacky.” “Yeah, well. Naked truth hurts.” I laugh. “Your turn.” “I can’t top that,” he says. “I’m sure you can come close.” “I’m not sure I can.” I roll my eyes. “Yes you can. Don’t make me feel like the worst person out of the two of us. Tell me the most recent thought you’ve had that most people wouldn’t say out loud.” He pulls his hands up behind his head and looks me straight in the eye. “I want to fuck you.” My mouth falls open. Then I clamp it shut again. I think I might be speechless. He shoots me a look of innocence. “You asked for the most recent thought, so I gave it to you. You’re beautiful. I’m a guy. If you were into one-night stands, I would take you downstairs to my bedroom and I would fuck you.” I can’t even look at him. His statement makes me feel a multitude of things all at once. “Well, I’m not into one-night stands.” “I figured as much,” he says. “Your turn.” He’s so nonchalant; he acts as if he didn’t just stun me into silence. “I need a minute to regroup after that one,” I say with a laugh. I try to think of something with a little shock value, but I can’t get over the fact that he just said that. Out loud. Maybe because he’s a neurosurgeon and I never pictured someone so educated throwing around the word fuck so casually. I gather myself . . . somewhat . . . and then say, “Okay. Since we’re on the subject . . . the first guy I ever had sex with was homeless.” He perks up and faces me. “Oh, I’m gonna need more of this story.” I stretch my arm out and rest my head on it. “I grew up in Maine. We lived in a fairly decent neighborhood, but the street behind our house wasn’t in the best condition. Our backyard butted up to a condemned house adjacent to two abandoned lots. I became friends with a guy named Atlas who stayed in the condemned house. No one knew he was living there other than me. I used to take him food and clothes and stuff. Until my father found out.” “What’d he do?” My jaw tightens. I don’t know why I brought this up when I still force myself not to think about it on a daily basis. “He beat him up.” That’s as naked as I want to get about that subject. “Your turn.” He regards me silently for a moment, as if he knows there’s more to that story. But then he breaks eye contact. “The thought of marriage repulses me,” he says. “I’m almost thirty years old and I have no desire for a wife. I especially don’t want children. The only thing I want out of life is success. Lots of it. But if I admit that out loud to anyone, it makes me sound arrogant.” “Professional success? Or social status?” He says, “Both. Anyone can have children. Anyone can get married. But not everyone can be a neurosurgeon. I get a lot of pride out of that. And I don’t just want to be a great neurosurgeon. I want to be the best in my field.” “You’re right. It does make you sound arrogant.” He smiles. “My mother fears I’m wasting my life away because all I do is work.” “You’re a neurosurgeon and your mother is disappointed in you?” I laugh. “Good lord, that’s insane. Are parents ever really happy with their children? Will they ever be good enough?” He shakes his head. “My children wouldn’t be. Not many people have the drive I do, so I’d only be setting them up for failure. That’s why I’ll never have any.” “I actually think that’s respectable, Ryle. A lot of people refuse to admit they might be too selfish to have children.” He shakes his head. “Oh, I’m way too selfish to have children. And I’m definitely way too selfish to be in a relationship.” “So how do you avoid it? You just don’t date?” He cuts his eyes to me, and there’s a slight grin affixed to his face. “When I have time, there are girls who satisfy those needs. I don’t lack for anything in that department, if that’s what you’re asking. But love has never appealed to me. It’s always been more of a burden than anything.” I wish I looked at love like that. It would make my life a hell of a lot easier. “I envy you. I have this idea that there’s a perfect man out there for me. I tend to become jaded easily, because no one ever meets my standards. I feel like I’m on an infinite search for the Holy Grail.” “You should try my method,” he says. “Which is?” “One-night stands.” He raises an eyebrow, like it’s an invitation. I’m glad it’s dark, because my face is on fire. “I could never sleep with someone if I didn’t see it going anywhere.” I say this out loud, but my words lack conviction when I say it to him. He drags in a long, slow breath, and then rolls onto his back. “Not that kind of girl, huh?” He says this with a trace of disappointment in his voice. I match his disappointment. I’m not sure I’d even want to turn him down if he made a move, but I might have just thwarted that possibility. “If you wouldn’t sleep with someone you just met . . .” His eyes meet mine again. “Exactly how far would you go?” I don’t have an answer for that. I roll onto my back because the way he’s looking at me makes me want to rethink one-night stands. I’m not necessarily against them, I suppose. I’ve just never been propositioned for one by someone I would consider it with. Until now. I think. Is he even propositioning me? I’ve always been terrible at flirting. He reaches out and grabs the edge of my lounge chair. In one swift movement and with very minimal effort, he drags my chair closer to him until it bumps his. My whole body stiffens. He’s so close now, I can feel the warmth of his breath cutting through the cold air. If I were to look at him, his face would be mere inches from mine. I refuse to look at him, because he’d probably kiss me and I know absolutely nothing about this guy, other than a couple of naked truths. But that doesn’t weigh on my conscience at all when he rests a heavy hand on my stomach. “How far would you go, Lily?” His voice is decadent. Smooth. It travels straight to my toes. “I don’t know,” I whisper. His fingers begin to crawl toward the hem of my shirt. He begins to slowly inch it upward until a slither of my stomach is showing. “Oh, Jesus,” I whisper, feeling the warmth from his hand as he slides it up my stomach. Against my better judgment, I face him again and the look in his eyes completely captivates me. He looks hopeful and hungry and completely confident. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as his hand begins to tease its way up my shirt. I know he can feel my heart thrashing around in my chest. Hell, he can probably hear it. “Is this too far?” he asks. I don’t know where this side of me is coming from, but I shake my head and say, “Not even close.” With a grin, his fingers brush the underneath of my bra, lightly trickling over my skin that is now covered in chills. As soon as my eyelids fall shut, the piercing of a ring rips through the air. His hand stiffens when we both realize it’s a phone. His phone. He drops his forehead to my shoulder. “Dammit.” I frown when his hand slips out from beneath my shirt. He fumbles in his pocket for his phone, standing up and walking several feet away from me to take the call. “Dr. Kincaid,” he says. He listens intently, his hand gripping the back of his neck. “What about Roberts? I’m not even supposed to be on call right now.” More silence is followed with, “Yeah, give me ten minutes. On my way.” He ends the call and slides his phone back in his pocket. When he turns to face me, he looks a little disappointed. He points to the door that leads to the stairwell. “I have to . . .” I nod. “It’s fine.” He considers me for a moment, and then holds up a finger. “Don’t move,” he says, reaching for his phone again. He walks closer and holds it up as if he’s about to snap a picture of me. I almost object, but I don’t even know why. I’m fully clothed. It just doesn’t feel that way for some reason. He snaps a picture of me lying in the lounge chair, my arms relaxed above my head. I have no idea what he plans to do with that picture, but I like that he took it. I like that he had the urge to remember what I look like, even though he knows he’ll never see me again. He stares at the photo on his screen for a few seconds and smiles. I’m half-tempted to take a picture of him in return, but I’m not sure I want a reminder of someone I’ll never see again. The thought of that is a little depressing. “It was nice meeting you, Lily Bloom. I hope you defy the odds of most dreams and actually accomplish yours.” I smile, equally saddened and confused by this guy. I’m not sure that I’ve ever spent time with someone like him before—someone of a completely different lifestyle and tax bracket. I probably never will again. But I’m pleasantly surprised to see that we aren’t all that different. Misconception confirmed. He looks down at his feet for a moment as he stands in somewhat of an unsure pose. It’s as if he’s suspended between the desire to say something else to me and the need to leave. He glances at me one last time—this time without so much of a poker face. I can see the disappointment in the set of his mouth before he turns and walks in the other direction. He opens the door and I can hear his footsteps fade as he rushes down the stairwell. I’m alone on the rooftop once again, but to my surprise, I’m a little saddened by that now. Chapter Two Lucy—the roommate who loves to hear herself sing—is rushing around the living room, gathering keys, shoes, a pair of sunglasses. I’m seated on the couch, opening up shoeboxes stuffed with some of my old things from when I lived at home. I grabbed them when I was home for my father’s funeral this week. “You work today?” Lucy asks. “Nope. I have bereavement leave until Monday.” She stops in her tracks. “Monday?” She scoffs. “Lucky bitch.” “Yes, Lucy. I’m so lucky my father died.” I say it sarcastically, of course, but I cringe when I realize it’s not actually very sarcastic. “You know what I mean,” she mutters. She grabs her purse as she balances on one foot while sliding her shoe onto the other. “I’m not coming home tonight. Staying over at Alex’s house.” The door slams behind her. We have a lot in common on the surface, but beyond wearing the same size clothes, being the same age, and both having four-letter names that start with an L and end with a Y, there’s not much else there that makes us more than just roommates. I’m okay with that, though. Other than the incessant singing, she’s pretty tolerable. She’s clean and she’s gone a lot. Two of the most important qualities in a roommate. I’m pulling the lid off the top of one of the shoeboxes when my cell phone rings. I reach across the couch and grab it. When I see that it’s my mother, I press my face into the couch and fake-cry into a throw pillow. I bring the phone to my ear. “Hello?” There’s three seconds of silence, and then—“Hello, Lily.” I sigh and sit back up on the couch. “Hey, Mom.” I’m really surprised she’s speaking to me. It’s only been one day since the funeral. That’s 364 days sooner than I expected to hear from her. “How are you?” I ask. She sighs dramatically. “Fine,” she says. “Your aunt and uncle went back to Nebraska this morning. It’ll be my first night alone since . . .” “You’ll be fine, Mom,” I say, trying to sound confident. She’s quiet for too long, and then she says, “Lily. I just want you to know that you shouldn’t be embarrassed about what happened yesterday.” I pause. I wasn’t. Not even the slightest bit. “Everyone freezes up once in a while. I shouldn’t have put that kind of pressure on you, knowing how hard the day was on you already. I should have just had your uncle do it.” I close my eyes. Here she goes again. Covering up what she doesn’t want to see. Taking blame that isn’t even hers to take. Of course she convinced herself that I froze up yesterday, and that’s why I refused to speak. Of course she did. I have half a mind to tell her it wasn’t a mistake. I didn’t freeze up. I just had nothing great to say about the unremarkable man she chose to be my father. But part of me does feel guilty for what I did—specifically because it’s not something I should have done in the presence of my mother—so I just accept what she’s doing and go along with it. “Thanks, Mom. Sorry I choked.” “It’s fine, Lily. I need to go, I have to run to the insurance office. We have a meeting about your father’s policies. Call me tomorrow, okay?” “I will,” I tell her. “Love you, Mom.” I end the call and toss the phone across the couch. I open the shoebox on my lap and pull out the contents. On the very top is a small wooden, hollow heart. I run my fingers over it and remember the night I was given this heart. As soon as the memory begins to sink in, I set it aside. Nostalgia is a funny thing. I move a few old letters and newspaper clippings aside. Beneath all of it, I find what I was hoping was inside these boxes. And also sort of hoping wasn’t. My Ellen Diaries. I run my hands over them. There are three of them in this box, but I’d say there are probably eight or nine total. I haven’t read any of these since the last time I wrote in them. I refused to admit that I kept a diary when I was younger because that was so clich?. Instead, I convinced myself that what I was doing was cool, because it wasn’t technically a diary. I addressed each of my entries to Ellen DeGeneres, because I began watching her show the first day it aired in 2003 when I was just a little girl. I watched it every day after school and was convinced Ellen would love me if she got to know me. I wrote letters to her regularly until I turned sixteen, but I wrote them like one would write entries in a diary. Of course I knew the last thing Ellen DeGeneres probably wanted was a random girl’s journal entries. Luckily, I never actually sent any in. But I still liked addressing all the entries to her, so I continued to do that until I stopped writing in them altogether. I open another shoebox and find more of them. I sort through them until I grab the one from when I was fifteen years old. I flip it open, searching for the day I met Atlas. There wasn’t much that happened in my life worth writing about before he entered it, but somehow I filled six journals full before he ever came into the picture. I swore I’d never read these again, but with the passing of my father, I’ve been thinking about my childhood a lot. Maybe if I read through these journals I’ll somehow find a little strength for forgiveness. Although I fear I’m running the risk of building up even more resentment. I lie back on the couch and I begin reading. Dear Ellen, Before I tell you what happened today, I have a really good idea for a new segment on your show. It’s called, “Ellen at home.” I think lots of people would like to see you outside of work. I always wonder what you’re like at your home when it’s just you and Portia and the cameras aren’t around. Maybe the producers can give her a camera and sometimes she can just sneak up on you and film you doing normal things, like watching TV or cooking or gardening. She could film you for a few seconds without you knowing and then she could scream, “Ellen at home!” and scare you. It’s only fair, since you love pranks. Okay, now that I told you that (I keep meaning to and have been forgetting) I’ll tell you about my day yesterday. It was interesting. Probably my most interesting day to write about yet, if you don’t count the day Abigail Ivory slapped Mr. Carson for looking at her cleavage. You remember a while back when I told you about Mrs. Burleson who lived behind us? She died the night of that big snowstorm? My dad said she owed so much in taxes that her daughter wasn’t able to take ownership of the house. Which is fine by her, I’m sure, because the house was starting to fall apart anyway. It probably would have been more of a burden than anything. The house has been empty since Mrs. Burleson died, which has been about two years. I know it’s been empty because my bedroom window looks out over the backyard, and there hasn’t been a single soul that goes in or out of that house since I can remember. Until last night. I was in bed shuffling cards. I know that sounds weird, but it’s just something I do. I don’t even know how to play cards. But when my parents get into fights, shuffling cards just calms me down sometimes and gives me something to focus on. Anyway, it was dark outside, so I noticed the light right away. It wasn’t bright, but it was coming from that old house. It looked more like candlelight than anything, so I went to the back porch and found Dad’s binoculars. I tried to see what was going on over there, but I couldn’t see anything. It was way too dark. Then after a little while, the light went out. This morning, when I was getting ready for school, I saw something moving behind that house. I crouched down at my bedroom window and saw someone sneaking out the back door. It was a guy and he had a backpack. He looked around like he was making sure no one saw him, and then he walked between our house and the neighbor’s house and went and stood at the bus stop. I’d never seen him before. It was the first time he rode my bus. He sat in the back and I sat in the middle, so I didn’t talk to him. But when he got off the bus at school, I saw him walk into the school, so he must go there. I have no idea why he was sleeping in that house. There’s probably no electricity or running water. I thought maybe he did it as a dare, but today he got off the bus at the same stop as me. He walked down the street like he was going somewhere else, but I ran straight to my room and watched out the window. Sure enough, a few minutes later, I saw him sneaking back inside that empty house. I don’t know if I should say something to my mother. I hate to be nosy, because it’s none of my business. But if that guy doesn’t have anywhere to go, I feel like my mother would know how to help him since she works at a school. I don’t know. I might wait a couple days before I say something and see if he goes back home. He might just need a break from his parents. Same as I wish I could have sometimes. That’s all. I’ll let you know what happens tomorrow. —Lily Dear Ellen, I fast-forward through all your dancing when I watch your show. I used to watch the beginning when you danced through the audience, but I get a little bored with it now and would rather just hear you talk. I hope that doesn’t make you mad. Okay, so I found out who the guy is, and yes, he’s still going over there. It’s been two days now and I still haven’t told anyone. His name is Atlas Corrigan and he’s a senior, but that’s all I know. I asked Katie who he was when she sat next to me on the bus. She rolled her eyes and told me his name. But then she said, “I don’t know anything else about him, but he smells.” She scrunched up her nose like it grossed her out. I wanted to yell at her and tell her he can’t help it, that he doesn’t have any running water. But instead, I just looked back at him. I might have stared a little too much, because he caught me looking at him. When I got home I went to the backyard to do some gardening. My radishes were ready to be pulled, so I was out there pulling them. The radishes are the only thing left in my garden. It’s starting to get cold so there’s not much else I can plant right now. I probably could have waited a few more days to pull them, but I was also outside because I was being nosy. I noticed as I was pulling them that some were missing. It looked like they had just been dug up. I know I didn’t pull them and my parents never mess with my garden. That’s when I thought about Atlas, and how it was more than likely him. I hadn’t thought about how—if he doesn’t have access to a shower—he probably doesn’t have food, either. I went inside my house and made a couple of sandwiches. I grabbed two sodas out of the fridge and a bag of chips. I put them in a lunch bag and I ran it over to the abandoned house and set it on the back porch by the door. I wasn’t sure if he saw me, so I knocked real hard and then ran back to my house and went straight to my room. By the time I got to the window to see if he was going to come outside, the bag was already gone. That’s when I knew he’d been watching me. I’m kind of nervous now that he knows I know he’s staying there. I don’t know what I’ll say to him if he tries to talk to me tomorrow. —Lily Dear Ellen, I saw your interview with the presidential candidate Barack Obama today. Does that make you nervous? Interviewing people who could potentially run the country? I don’t know a lot about politics, but I don’t think I could be funny under that kind of pressure. Man. So much has happened to both of us. You just interviewed someone who might be our next president and I’m feeding a homeless boy. This morning when I got to the bus stop, Atlas was already there. It was just the two of us at first, and I’m not gonna lie, it was awkward. I could see the bus coming around the corner and I was wishing it would drive a little faster. Right when it pulled up, he took a step closer to me and, without looking up, he said, “Thank you.” The doors opened on the bus and he let me walk on first. I didn’t say You’re welcome because I was kind of shocked by my reaction. His voice gave me chills, Ellen. Has a boy’s voice ever done that to you? Oh, wait. Sorry. Has a girl’s voice ever done that to you? He didn’t sit by me or anything on the way there, but on the way back from school, he was the last one getting on. There weren’t any empty seats, but I could tell by the way he scanned all the people on the bus that he wasn’t looking for an empty seat. He was looking for me. When his eyes met mine, I looked down at my lap real quick. I hate that I’m not very confident around guys. Maybe that’s something I’ll grow into when I finally turn sixteen. He sat down next to me and dropped his backpack between his legs. That’s when I noticed what Katie was talking about. He did kind of smell, but I didn’t judge him for that. He didn’t say anything at first, but he was fidgeting with a hole in his jeans. It wasn’t the kind of hole that was there to make jeans look stylish. I could tell it was there because it was a genuine hole, due to his pants being old. They actually looked a little too small for him, because his ankles were showing. But he was skinny enough that they fit him just fine everywhere else. “Did you tell anyone?” he asked me. I looked at him when he spoke, and he was looking right back at me like he was worried. It was the first time I had actually gotten a good look at him. His hair was dark brown, but I thought maybe if he washed it, it wouldn’t be as dark as it looked right then. His eyes were bright, unlike the rest of him. Real blue eyes, like the kind you see on a Siberian husky. I shouldn’t compare his eyes to a dog, but that’s the first thing I thought when I saw them. I shook my head and looked back out the window. I thought he might get up and find another seat at that point, since I said I didn’t tell anyone, but he didn’t. The bus made a few stops, and the fact that he was still sitting by me gave me a little courage, so I made my voice a whisper. “Why don’t you live at home with your parents?” He stared at me for a few seconds, like he was trying to decide if he wanted to trust me or not. Then he said, “Because they don’t want me to.” That’s when he got up. I thought I’d made him mad, but then I realized he got up because we were at our stop. I grabbed my stuff and followed him off the bus. He didn’t try to hide where he was heading today like he usually does. Normally, he walks down the street and goes around the block so I don’t see him cut through my backyard. But today he started to walk toward my yard with me. When we got to where I would normally turn to go inside and he would keep walking, we both stopped. He kicked at the dirt with his foot and looked behind me at my house. “What time do your parents get home?” “Around five,” I said. It was 3:45. He nodded and looked like he was about to say something else, but he didn’t. He just nodded again and started walking toward that house with no food or electricity or water. Now, Ellen, I know what I did next was stupid, so you don’t have to tell me. I called out his name, and when he stopped and turned around I said, “If you hurry, you can take a shower before they get home.” My heart was beating so fast, because I knew how much trouble I could get into if my parents came home and found a homeless guy in our shower. I’d probably very well die. But I just couldn’t watch him walk back to his house without offering him something. He looked down at the ground again, and I felt his embarrassment in my own stomach. He didn’t even nod. He just followed me inside my house and never said a word. The whole time he was in the shower, I was panicking. I kept looking out the window and checking for either of my parents’ cars, even though I knew it would be a good hour before they got home. I was nervous one of the neighbors might have seen him come inside, but they didn’t really know me well enough to think having a visitor would be abnormal. I had given Atlas a change of clothes, and knew he not only needed to be out of the house when my parents got home, but he needed to be far away from our house. I’m sure my father would recognize his own clothes on some random teenager in the neighborhood. In between looking out the window and checking the clock, I was filling up one of my old backpacks with stuff. Food that didn’t need refrigerating, a couple of my father’s T-shirts, a pair of jeans that were probably going to be two sizes too big for him, and a change of socks. I was zipping up the backpack when he emerged from the hallway. I was right. Even wet, I could tell his hair was lighter than it looked earlier. It made his eyes look even bluer. He must have shaved while he was in there because he looked younger than he did before he got in the shower. I swallowed and looked back down at the backpack, because I was shocked at how different he looked. I was scared he might see my thoughts written across my face. I looked out the window one more time and handed him the backpack. “You might want to go out the back door so no one sees you.” He took the backpack from me and stared at my face for a minute. “What’s your name?” he said as he slung the pack over his shoulder. “Lily.” He smiled. It was the first time he’d smiled at me and I had an awful, shallow thought in that moment. I wondered how someone with such a great smile could have such shitty parents. I immediately hated myself for thinking it, because of course parents should love their kids no matter how cute or ugly or skinny or fat or smart or stupid they are. But sometimes you can’t control where your mind goes. You just have to train it not to go there anymore. He held out his hand and said, “I’m Atlas.” “I know,” I said, without shaking his hand. I don’t know why I didn’t shake his hand. It wasn’t because I was scared to touch him. I mean, I was scared to touch him. But not because I thought I was better than him. He just made me so nervous. He put his hand down and nodded once, then said, “I guess I better go.” I stepped aside so he could walk around me. He pointed past the kitchen, silently asking if that was the way to the back door. I nodded and walked behind him as he made his way down the hall. When he reached the back door, I saw him pause for a second when he saw my bedroom. I was suddenly embarrassed that he was seeing my bedroom. No one ever sees my bedroom, so I’ve never felt the need to give it a more mature look. I still have the same pink bedspread and curtains I’ve had since I was twelve. For the first time ever I felt like ripping down my poster of Adam Brody. Atlas didn’t seem to care how my room was decorated. He looked straight at my window—the one that looks out over the backyard—then he glanced back at me. Right before he walked out the back door he said, “Thank you for not being disparaging, Lily.” And then he was gone. Of course I’ve heard the term disparaging before, but it was weird hearing a teenage guy use it. What’s even weirder is how everything about Atlas seems so contradictory. How does a guy who is obviously humble, well-mannered, and uses words like disparaging end up homeless? How does any teenager end up homeless? I need to find out, Ellen. I’m going to find out what happened to him. You just wait and see. —Lily • • • I’m about to open another entry when my phone rings. I crawl across the couch for it and I’m not the least bit surprised to see it’s my mother again. Now that my father has passed and she’s alone, she’ll probably call me twice as much as she did before. “Hello?” “What do you think about my moving to Boston?” she blurts out. I grab the throw pillow next to me and shove my face into it, muffling a scream. “Um. Wow,” I say. “Really?” She’s quiet, and then, “It was just a thought. We can discuss it tomorrow. I’m almost to my meeting.” “Okay. Bye.” And just like that, I want to move out of Massachusetts. She can’t move here. She doesn’t know anyone here. She’d expect me to entertain her every day. I love my mother, don’t get me wrong, but I moved to Boston to be on my own, and having her in the same city would make me feel less independent. My father was diagnosed with cancer three years ago while I was still in college. If Ryle Kincaid were here right now, I’d tell him the naked truth that I was a little bit relieved when my father became too ill to physically hurt my mother. It completely changed the dynamic of their relationship and I no longer felt obligated to stay in Plethora to make sure she was okay. Now that my father is gone and I never have to worry about my mother again, I was looking forward to spreading my wings, so to speak. But now she’s moving to Boston? It feels like my wings were just clipped. Where is a marine-grade polymer chair when I need one?! I’m seriously stressing out and I have no idea what I’d do if my mother moves to Boston. I don’t have a garden, or a yard, or a patio, or weeds. I have to find another outlet. I decide to clean. I place all of my old shoeboxes full of journals and notes in my bedroom closet. Then I organize my entire closet. My jewelry, my shoes, my clothes . . . She cannot move to Boston. Chapter Three Six months later “Oh.” That’s all she says. My mother turns and assesses the building, running a finger over the windowsill next to her. She picks up a layer of dust and wipes it between her fingers. “It’s . . .” “It needs a lot of work, I know,” I interrupt. I point at the windows behind her. “But look at the storefront. It has potential.” She scrolls over the windows, nodding. There’s this sound she makes in the back of her throat sometimes, where she agrees with a little hum but her lips remain tight. It means she doesn’t actually agree. And she makes that sound. Twice. I drop my arms in defeat. “You think this was stupid?” She gives her head a slight shake. “That all depends on how it turns out, Lily,” she says. The building used to house a restaurant and it’s still full of old tables and chairs. My mother walks over to a nearby table and pulls out one of the chairs, taking a seat. “If things work out, and your floral shop is successful, then people will say it was a brave, bold, smart business decision. But if it fails and you lose your entire inheritance . . .” “Then people will say it was a stupid business decision.” She shrugs. “That’s just how it works. You majored in business, you know that.” She glances around the room, slowly, as if she’s seeing it the way it will look a month from now. “Just make sure it’s brave and bold, Lily.” I smile. I can accept that. “I can’t believe I bought it without asking you first,” I say, taking a seat at the table. “You’re an adult. It’s your right,” she says, but I can hear a trace of disappointment. I think she feels even lonelier now that I need her less and less. It’s been six months since my father died, and even though he wasn’t good company, it has to be weird for her, being alone. She got a job at one of the elementary schools, so she did end up moving here. She chose a small suburb on the outskirts of Boston. She bought a cute two-bedroom house on a cul-de-sac, with a huge backyard. I dream of planting a garden there, but that would require daily care. My limit is once-a-week visits. Sometimes twice. “What are you going to do with all this junk?” she asks. She’s right. There’s so much junk. It’ll take forever to clear this place out. “I have no idea. I guess I’ll be busting my ass for a while before I can even think about decorating.” “When’s your last day at the marketing firm?” I smile. “Yesterday.” She releases a sigh, and then shakes her head. “Oh, Lily. I certainly hope this works out in your favor.” We both begin to stand when the front door opens. There are shelves in the way of the door, so I careen my head around them and see a woman walk in. Her eyes briefly scan the room until she sees me. “Hi,” she says with a wave. She’s cute. She’s dressed well, but she’s wearing white capris. A disaster waiting to happen in this dust bowl. “Can I help you?” She tucks her purse beneath her arm and walks toward me, holding out her hand. “I’m Allysa,” she says. I shake her hand. “Lily.” She tosses a thumb over her shoulder. “There’s a help wanted sign out front?” I look over her shoulder and raise an eyebrow. “There is?” I didn’t put up a help wanted sign. She nods, and then shrugs. “It looks old, though,” she says. “It’s probably been there a while. I was just out for a walk and saw the sign. Was curious, is all.” I like her almost immediately. Her voice is pleasant and her smile seems genuine. My mother’s hand falls down on my shoulder and she leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “I have to go,” she says. “Open house tonight.” I tell her goodbye and watch her walk outside, then turn my attention back to Allysa. “I’m not really hiring yet,” I say. I wave my hand around the room. “I’m opening up a floral shop, but it’ll be a couple of months, at least.” I should know better than to hold preconceived judgments, but she doesn’t look like she’d be satisfied with a minimum wage job. Her purse probably cost more than this building. Her eyes light up. “Really? I love flowers!” She spins around in a circle and says, “This place has a ton of potential. What color are you painting it?” I cross my arm over my chest and grab my elbow. Rocking back on my heels, I say, “I’m not sure. I just got the keys to the building an hour ago, so I haven’t really come up with a design plan yet.” “Lily, right?” I nod. “I’m not going to pretend I have a degree in design, but it’s my absolute favorite thing. If you need any help, I’d do it for free.” I tilt my head. “You’d work for free?” She nods. “I don’t really need a job, I just saw the sign and thought, ‘What the heck?’ But I do get bored sometimes. I’d be happy to help you with whatever you need. Cleaning, decorating, picking out paint colors. I’m a Pinterest whore.” Something behind me catches her eye and she points. “I could take that broken door and make it magnificent. All this stuff, really. There’s a use for almost everything, you know.” I look around at the room, knowing full well I’m not going to be able to tackle this by myself. I probably can’t even lift half this stuff alone. I’ll eventually have to hire someone anyway. “I’m not going to let you work for free. But I could do $10 an hour if you’re really serious.” She starts clapping, and if she weren’t in heels, she might have jumped up and down. “When can I start?” I glance down at her white capris. “Will tomorrow work? You’ll probably want to show up in disposable clothes.” She waves me off and drops her Herm?s bag on a dusty table next to her. “Nonsense,” she says. “My husband is watching the Bruins play at a bar down the street. If it’s okay, I’ll just hang with you and get started right now.” • • • Two hours later, I’m convinced I’ve met my new best friend. And she really is a Pinterest whore. We write “Keep” and “Toss” on sticky notes, and slap them on everything in the room. She’s a fellow believer in upcycling, so we come up with ideas for at least 75 percent of the stuff left in the building. The rest she says her husband can throw out when he has free time. Once we know what we’re going to do with all the stuff, I grab a notebook and a pen and we sit at one of the tables to write down design ideas. “Okay,” she says, leaning back in her chair. I want to laugh, because her white capris are covered in dirt now, but she doesn’t seem to care. “Do you have a goal for this place?” she asks, glancing around. “I have one,” I say. “Succeed.” She laughs. “I have no doubt you’ll succeed. But you do need a vision.” I think about what my mother said. “Just make sure it’s brave and bold, Lily.” I smile and sit up straighter in my chair. “Brave and bold,” I say. “I want this place to be different. I want to take risks.” She narrows her eyes as she chews on the tip of the pen. “But you’re just selling flowers,” she says. “How can you be brave and bold with flowers?” I look around the room and try to envision what I’m thinking. I’m not even sure what I’m thinking. I’m just getting itchy and restless, like I’m on the verge of a brilliant idea. “What are some words that come to mind when you think of flowers?” I ask her. She shrugs. “I don’t know. They’re sweet, I guess? They’re alive, so they make me think of life. And maybe the color pink. And spring.” “Sweet, life, pink, spring,” I repeat. And then, “Allysa, you’re brilliant!” I stand up and begin pacing the floor. “We’ll take everything everyone loves about flowers, and we’ll do the complete opposite!” She makes a face to let me know she isn’t following. “Okay,” I say. “What if, instead of showcasing the sweet side of flowers, we showcased the villainous side? Instead of pink accents, we use darker colors, like a deep purple or even black. And instead of just spring and life, we also celebrate winter and death.” Allysa’s eyes are wide. “But . . . what if someone wants pink flowers, though?” “Well, we’ll still give them what they want, of course. But we’ll also give them what they don’t know they want.” She scratches her cheek. “So you’re thinking black flowers?” She looks concerned, and I don’t blame her. She’s only seeing the darkest side of my vision. I take a seat at the table again and try to get her on board. “Someone once told me that there is no such thing as bad people. We’re all just people who sometimes do bad things. That stuck with me, because it’s so true. We’ve all got a little bit of good and evil in us. I want to make that our theme. Instead of painting the walls a putrid sweet color, we paint them dark purple with black accents. And instead of only putting out the usual pastel displays of flowers in boring crystal vases that make people think of life, we go edgy. Brave and bold. We put out displays of darker flowers wrapped in things like leather or silver chains. And rather than put them in crystal vases, we’ll stick them in black onyx or . . . I don’t know . . . purple velvet vases lined with silver studs. The ideas are endless.” I stand up again. “There are floral shops on every corner for people who love flowers. But what floral shop caters to all the people who hate flowers?” Allysa shakes her head. “None of them,” she whispers. “Exactly. None of them.” We stare at each other for a moment, and then I can’t take it another second. I’m bursting with excitement and I just start laughing like a giddy child. Allysa starts laughing, too, and she jumps up and hugs me. “Lily, it’s so twisted, it’s brilliant!” “I know!” I’m full of renewed energy. “I need a desk so I can sit down and make a business plan! But my future office is full of old vegetable crates!” She walks toward the back of the store. “Well, let’s get them out of there and go buy you a desk!” We squeeze into the office and begin moving crates out one by one and into a back room. I stand on the chair to make the piles taller so we’ll have more room to move around. “These are perfect for the window displays I have in mind.” She hands me two more crates and walks away, and as I’m reaching on my tiptoes to stack them at the very top, the pile begins to tumble. I try to find something to grab hold of for balance, but the crates knock me off the chair. When I land on the floor, I can feel my foot bend in the wrong direction. It’s followed by a rush of pain straight up my leg and down to my toes. Allysa comes rushing back into the room and has to move two of the crates from on top of me. “Lily!” she says. “Oh my God, are you okay?” I pull myself up to a sitting position, but don’t even try to put weight on my ankle. I shake my head. “My ankle.” She immediately removes my shoe and then pulls her phone out of her pocket. She begins dialing a number and then looks up at me. “I know this is a stupid question, but do you happen to have a refrigerator here with ice in it?” I shake my head. “I figured,” she says. She puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the floor as she begins to roll up my pant leg. I wince, but not so much from the pain. I just can’t believe I did something so stupid. If I broke it, I’m screwed. I just spent my entire inheritance on a building that I won’t even be able to renovate for months. “Heeey, Issa,” a voice croons through her phone. “Where you at? The game’s over.” Allysa picks up her phone and brings it closer to her mouth. “At work. Listen, I need . . .” The guy cuts her off and says, “At work? Babe, you don’t even have a job.” Allysa shakes her head and says, “Marshall, listen. It’s an emergency. I think my boss broke her ankle. I need you to bring some ice to . . .” He cuts her off with a laugh. “Your boss? Babe, you don’t even have a job,” he repeats. Allysa rolls her eyes. “Marshall, are you drunk?” “It’s onesie day,” he slurs into the phone. “You knew that when you dropped us off, Issa. Free beer until . . .” She groans. “Put my brother on the phone.” “Fine, fine,” Marshall mumbles. There’s a rustling sound that comes from the phone, and then, “Yeah?” Allysa spits out our location into the phone. “Get here right now. Please. And bring a bag of ice.” “Yes ma’am,” he says. The brother sounds like he may be a little drunk, too. There’s laughter, and then one of the guys says, “She’s in a bad mood,” and then the line goes dead. Allysa puts her phone back in her pocket. “I’ll go wait outside for them, they’re just down the street. Will you be okay here?” I nod and reach for the chair. “Maybe I should just try to walk on it.” Allysa pushes my shoulders back until I’m leaning against the wall again. “No, don’t move. Wait until they get here, okay?” I have no idea what two drunken guys are going to be able to do for me, but I nod. My new employee feels more like my boss right now and I’m kind of scared of her at the moment. I wait in the back for about ten minutes when I finally hear the front door to the building open. “What in the world?” a man’s voice says. “Why are you all alone in this creepy building?” I hear Allysa say, “She’s back here.” She walks in, followed by a guy wearing a onesie. He’s tall, a little bit on the thin side, but boyishly handsome with big, honest eyes and a head full of dark, messy, way-past-due-for-a-haircut hair. He’s holding a bag of ice. Did I mention he was wearing a onesie? I’m talking a legit, full-grown man in a SpongeBob onesie. “This is your husband?” I ask her, cocking an eyebrow. Allysa rolls her eyes. “Unfortunately,” she says, glancing back at him. Another guy (also in a onesie) walks in behind them, but my attention is on Allysa as she explains why they’re wearing pajamas on a random Wednesday afternoon. “There’s a bar down the street that gives out free beer to anyone who shows up in a onesie during a Bruins game.” She makes her way over to me and motions for the guys to follow her. “She fell off the chair and hurt her ankle,” she says to the other guy. He steps around Marshall and the first thing I notice are his arms. Holy shit. I know those arms. Those are the arms of a neurosurgeon. Allysa is his sister? The sister that owns the entire top floor, with the husband who works in pajamas and brings in seven figures a year? As soon as my eyes lock with Ryle’s, his whole face morphs into a smile. I haven’t seen him in—God, how long ago was that—six months? I can’t say I haven’t thought about him during the past six months, because I’ve thought about him quite a few times. But I never actually thought I’d see him again. “Ryle, this is Lily. Lily, my brother, Ryle,” she says, motioning toward him. “And that’s my husband, Marshall.” Ryle walks over to me and kneels down. “Lily,” he says, regarding me with a smile. “Nice to meet you.” It’s obvious he remembers me—I can see it in his knowing smile. But like me, he’s pretending this is the first time we’ve met. I’m not sure I’m in the mood to explain how we already know each other. Ryle touches my ankle and inspects it. “Can you move it?” I try to move it, but a sharp pain shoots all the way up my leg. I suck in air through my teeth and shake my head. “Not yet. It hurts.” Ryle motions to Marshall. “Find something to put the ice in.” Allysa follows Marshall out of the room. When they’re both gone, Ryle looks at me and his mouth turns up into a grin. “I won’t charge you for this, but only because I’m slightly inebriated,” he says with a wink. I tilt my head. “The first time I met you, you were high. Now you’re drunk. I’m beginning to worry you aren’t going to make a very qualified neurosurgeon.” He laughs. “It would appear that way,” he says. “But I promise you, I rarely ever get high and this is my first day off in over a month, so I really needed a beer. Or five.” Marshall comes back with an old rag wrapped around some ice. He hands it to Ryle, who presses it against my ankle. “I’ll need that first aid kit out of your trunk,” Ryle says to Allysa. She nods and grabs Marshall’s hand, pulling him out of the room again. Ryle presses his palm against the bottom of my foot. “Push against my hand,” he says. I push down with my ankle. It hurts, but I’m able to move his hand. “Is it broken?” He moves my foot from side to side, and then says, “I don’t think so. Let’s give it a couple of minutes and I’ll see if you can put any weight on it.” I nod and watch as he adjusts himself across from me. He sits cross-legged and pulls my foot onto his lap. He looks around the room and then directs his attention back at me. “So what is this place?” I smile a little too big. “Lily Bloom’s. It’ll be a floral shop in about two months’ time.” I swear, his whole face lights up with pride. “No way,” he says. “You did it? You’re actually opening up your own business?” I nod. “Yep. I figured I might as well try it while I’m still young enough to bounce back from failure.” One of his hands is holding the ice against my ankle, but the other one is wrapped around my bare foot. He’s brushing his thumb back and forth, like it’s no big deal that he’s touching me. But his hand on my foot is way more noticeable than the pain in my ankle. “I look ridiculous, huh?” he asks, staring down at his solid red onesie. I shrug. “At least you went with a non-character choice. It gives it a bit more maturity than the SpongeBob option.” He laughs, and then his smile disappears as he leans his head into the door beside him. He stares at me appreciatively. “You’re even prettier in the daytime.” Moments like these are why I absolutely hate having red hair and fair skin. The embarrassment doesn’t only show up in my cheeks—my whole face, arms, and neck grow flushed. I rest my head against the wall behind me and stare at him just like he’s staring at me. “You want to hear a naked truth?” He nods. “I’ve wanted to go back to your roof on more than one occasion since that night. But I was too scared you’d be there. You make me kind of nervous.” His fingers pause their strokes against my foot. “My turn?” I nod. His eyes narrow as his hand moves to the underneath of my foot. He slowly traces his fingers from the tops of my toes, down to my heel. “I still very much want to fuck you.” Someone gasps, and it isn’t me. Ryle and I both look at the doorway and Allysa is standing there, wide-eyed. Her mouth is open as she points down at Ryle. “Did you just . . .” She looks at me and says, “I am so sorry about him, Lily.” And then she looks back at Ryle with venom in her eyes. “Did you just tell my boss you want to fuck her?” Oh, dear. Ryle pulls his bottom lip in and chews on it for a second. Marshall walks in behind Allysa and says, “What’s going on?” Allysa looks at Marshall and points at Ryle again. “He just told Lily he wants to fuck her!” Marshall looks from Ryle to me. I don’t know whether to laugh or crawl under the table and hide. “You did?” he says, looking back at Ryle. Ryle shrugs. “It appears that way,” he says. Allysa puts her head in her hands, “Jesus Christ,” she says, looking at me. “He’s drunk. They’re both drunk. Please don’t judge me because my brother is an asshole.” I smile at her and wave it off. “It’s fine, Allysa. Lots of people want to fuck me.” I glance back at Ryle and he’s still casually stroking my foot. “At least your brother speaks his mind. Not a lot of people have the courage to say what they’re actually thinking.” Ryle winks at me and then carefully moves my ankle off his lap. “Let’s see if you can put any weight on it,” he says. He and Marshall help me to my feet. Ryle points to a table a few feet away that’s pushed up against a wall. “Let’s try to make it to the table so I can wrap it.” His arm is secured around my waist, and he’s gripping my arm tightly to make sure I don’t fall. Marshall is more or less just standing next to me for support. I put a little weight on my ankle and it hurts, but it’s not excruciating. I’m able to hop all the way to the table with a lot of assistance from Ryle. He helps me pull myself up until I’m seated on top of it, leaning against the wall with my leg stretched out in front of me. “Well, the good news is that it isn’t broken.” “What’s the bad news?” I ask him. He opens the first aid kit and says, “You’ll need to stay off of it for a few days. Maybe even a week or more, depending on how it heals.” I close my eyes and lean my head against the wall behind me. “But I have so much to do,” I whine. He carefully begins to wrap my ankle. Allysa is standing behind him, watching him wrap it. “I’m thirsty,” Marshall says. “Anybody want something to drink? There’s a CVS across the street.” “I’m good,” Ryle says. “I’ll take a water,” I say. “Sprite,” Allysa says. Marshall grabs her hand. “You’re coming with.” Allysa pulls her hand from his and crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not going anywhere,” she says. “My brother can’t be trusted.” “Allysa, it’s fine,” I tell her. “He was making a joke.” She stares at me silently for a moment, and then says, “Okay. But you can’t fire me if he pulls more stupid shit.” “I promise I won’t fire you.” With that, she grabs Marshall’s hand again and leaves the room. Ryle is still wrapping my foot when he says, “My sister works for you?” “Yep. Hired her a couple of hours ago.” He reaches into the first aid kit and pulls out tape. “You do realize she’s never had a job in her entire life?” “She already warned me,” I say. His jaw is tight and he doesn’t look as relaxed as he did earlier. Then it hits me that he might think I hired her as a way to get closer to him. “I had no idea she was your sister until you walked in. I swear.” He glances at me, and then back down at my foot. “I wasn’t suggesting you knew.” He begins to tape over the ACE bandage. “I know you weren’t. I just didn’t want you to think I was trying to trap you somehow. We want two different things from life, remember?” He nods, and carefully sets my foot back on the table. “That is correct,” he says. “I specialize in one-night stands and you’re on the quest for your Holy Grail.” I laugh. “You have a good memory.” “I do,” he says. A languid smile stretches across his mouth. “But you’re also hard to forget.” Jesus. He has to stop saying things like that. I press my palms into the table and pull my leg down. “Naked truth coming.” He leans against the table next to me and says, “All ears.” I hold nothing back. “I’m very attracted to you,” I say. “There’s not much about you I don’t like. And being as though you and I both want different things, if we’re ever around each other again, I’d appreciate it if you could stop saying things that make me dizzy. It’s not really fair to me.” He nods once, and then says, “My turn.” He places his hand on the table next to me and leans in a little. “I’m very attracted to you, too. There’s not much about you I don’t like. But I kind of hope we’re never around each other again, because I don’t like how much I think about you. Which isn’t all that much—but it’s more than I’d like. So if you still aren’t going to agree to a one-night stand, then I think it’s best if we do what we can to avoid each other. Because it won’t do either of us any favors.” I don’t know how he ended up this close to me, but he’s only about a foot away. His proximity makes it hard to pay attention to words that come out of his mouth. His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, but as soon as we hear the front door open, he’s halfway across the room. By the time Allysa and Marshall make it to us, Ryle is busy restacking all the crates that fell. Allysa looks down at my ankle. “What’s the verdict?” she asks. I push my bottom lip out. “Your doctor brother says I have to stay off of it for a few days.” She hands me my water. “Good thing you have me. I can work and do what I can to clean up while you rest.” I take a drink of the water and then wipe my mouth. “Allysa, I’m declaring you employee of the month.” She grins and then turns to Marshall. “Did you hear that? I’m the best employee she has!” He puts his arm around her and kisses the top of her head. “I’m proud of you, Issa.” I like that he calls her Issa, which I’m assuming is short for Allysa. I think about my own name and if I’ll ever find a guy who could shorten it into a sickeningly cute nickname. Illy. Nope. Not the same. “Do you need help getting home?” she asks. I hop down and test my foot. “Maybe just to my car. It’s my left foot, so I can probably drive just fine.” She walks over and puts her arm around me. “If you want to leave the keys with me, I’ll lock up and come back tomorrow and start cleaning.” The three of them walk me to my car, but Ryle allows Allysa to do most of the work. He seems almost scared to touch me now for some reason. When I’m in the driver’s seat, Allysa puts my purse and other things in the floorboard and sits in the passenger seat. She takes my phone out and begins programming her number into it. Ryle leans into the window. “Make sure to keep ice on it as much as you can for the next few days. Baths help, too.” I nod. “Thanks for your help.” Allysa leans over and says, “Ryle? Maybe you should drive her home and take a cab back to the apartment, just to be safe.” Ryle looks down at me and then shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says. “She’ll be fine. I’ve had a few beers, probably shouldn’t be driving.” “You could at least help her home,” Allysa suggests. Ryle shakes his head and then pats the roof of the car as he turns and walks away. I’m still watching him when Allysa hands me back my phone and says, “Seriously. I’m really sorry about him. First he hits on you, then he’s a selfish asshole.” She climbs out of the car and closes the door, then leans through the window. “That’s why he’ll be single for the rest of his life.” She points to my phone. “Text me when you get home. And call me if you need anything. I won’t count favors as work-time.” “Thank you, Allysa.” She smiles. “No, thank you. I haven’t been this excited about my life since that Paolo Nutini concert I went to last year.” She waves goodbye and walks toward where Marshall and Ryle are standing. They begin walking down the street and I watch them in my rearview mirror. As they turn the corner, I see Ryle glance over his shoulder and look back in my direction. I close my eyes and exhale. The two times I’ve spent with Ryle were on days I’d probably rather forget. My father’s funeral and spraining my ankle. But somehow, him being present made them feel like less of the disasters they were. I hate that he’s Allysa’s brother. I have a feeling this isn’t the last time I’ll be seeing him. Chapter Four It takes me half an hour to make it from my car to my apartment. I called Lucy twice to see if she could help me, but she didn’t answer her phone. When I make it inside my apartment, I’m a little irritated to see her lying on the couch with the phone to her ear. I slam our front door behind me and she glances up. “What happened to you?” she asks. I use the wall for support as I hop toward the hallway. “Sprained my ankle.” When I make it to my bedroom door, she yells, “Sorry I didn’t answer the phone! I’m talking to Alex! I was gonna call you back!” “It’s fine!” I holler back at her, and then slam my bedroom door shut. I go to the bathroom and find some old pain pills I had stuffed into a cabinet. I swallow two of them and then fall onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling. I can’t believe I’ll be stuck in this apartment for an entire week. I grab my phone and text my mother. Sprained my ankle. I’m fine, but can I send you a list of things to grab for me at the store? I drop my phone onto my bed, and for the first time since she moved here, I’m thankful my mother lives fairly close to me. It actually hasn’t been that bad. I think I like her more now that my father has passed away. I know it’s because I held a lot of resentment toward her for never leaving him. Even though a lot of that resentment has faded when it comes to my mother, I still have the same feelings when I think of my father. It can’t be good, still holding on to so much bitterness toward my father. But dammit, he was awful. To my mother, to me, to Atlas. Atlas. I’ve been so busy with my mother’s move and secretly searching for a new building between work hours, I haven’t had time to finish reading the journals I started reading all those months ago. I hop pathetically to my closet, only tripping once. Luckily, I catch myself on my dresser. Once I have the journal in hand, I hop back to the bed and get comfortable. I have nothing better to do for the next week now that I can’t work. I might as well commiserate over my past while I’m forced to commiserate in the present. Dear Ellen, You hosting the Oscars was the greatest thing to happen to TV last year. I don’t think I ever told you that. The vacuuming skit made me piss my pants. Oh, and I recruited a new Ellen follower today in Atlas. Before you start judging me for allowing him inside my house again, let me explain how that came about. After I let him take a shower here yesterday, I didn’t see him again last night. But this morning, he sat by me on the bus again. He seemed a little happier than the day before, because he slid into the seat and actually smiled at me. I’m not gonna lie, it was a little weird seeing him in my dad’s clothes. But the pants fit him a lot better than I thought they were going to. “Guess what?” he said. He leaned forward and unzipped his backpack. “What?” He pulled out a bag and handed it to me. “I found these in the garage. I tried to clean them up for you because they were covered in old dirt, but I can’t do much without water.” I held the bag and stared at him suspiciously. It’s the most I’d ever heard him say at once. I finally looked down at the bag and opened it. It looked like a bunch of old gardening tools. “I saw you digging with that shovel the other day. I wasn’t sure if you had any actual gardening tools, and no one was using these, so . . .” “Thank you,” I said. I was kind of in shock. I used to have a trowel, but the plastic broke off the handle and it started giving me blisters. I asked my mother for gardening tools for my birthday last year and when she bought me a full-sized shovel and a hoe, I didn’t have the heart to tell her it’s not what I needed. Atlas cleared his throat and then, in a much quieter voice, he said, “I know it’s not like a real gift. I didn’t buy it or anything. But . . . I wanted to give you something. You know . . . for . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence, so I nodded and tied the bag back up. “Do you think you can hold them for me until after school? I don’t have any room in my backpack.” He grabbed the bag from me and then brought his backpack up to his lap and put the bag inside of it. He wrapped his arms around his backpack. “How old are you?” he asked. “Fifteen.” The look in his eyes made him seem a little bit sad about my age, but I don’t know why. “You’re in tenth grade?” I nodded, but honestly couldn’t think of anything to say to him. I haven’t really had much interaction with a lot of guys. Especially seniors. When I’m nervous, I kind of just clam up. “I don’t know how long I’ll be staying at that place,” he said, bringing his voice down again. “But if you ever need help with gardening or anything after school, it’s not like I have much going on there. Being as though I have no electricity.” I laughed, and then wondered if I should have laughed at his self-deprecating comment. We spent the rest of the bus ride talking about you, Ellen. When he made that comment about being bored, I asked him if he ever watched your show. He said he’d like to because he thinks you’re funny, but a TV would require electricity. Another comment I wasn’t sure if I should have laughed at. I told him he could watch your show with me after school. I always record it on the DVR and watch it while I do my chores. I figured I could just keep the front door dead bolted, and if my parents got home early, I’d just have Atlas run out the back door. I didn’t see him again until the ride home today. He didn’t sit by me this time because Katie got on the bus before him and sat next to me. I wanted to ask her to move, but then she’d think I had a crush on Atlas. Katie would have a field day with that one, so I just let her stay in my seat. Atlas was at the front of the bus, so he got off before I did. He just kind of awkwardly stood there at the bus stop and waited for me to get off. When I did, he opened his backpack and handed me the bag of tools. He didn’t say anything about my invitation to watch TV from earlier this morning, so I just acted like it was a given. “Come on,” I told him. He followed me inside and I locked the dead bolt. “If my parents come home early, run out the back door and don’t let them see you.” He nodded. “Don’t worry. I will,” he said, with kind of a laugh. I asked him if he wanted anything to drink and he said sure. I made us a snack and brought our drinks to the living room. I sat down on the couch and he sat down in my dad’s chair. I turned on your show and that’s about all that happened. We didn’t talk much, because I fast-forwarded through all the commercials. But I did notice he laughed at all the right times. I think good comedic timing is one of the most important things about a person’s personality. Every time he laughed at your jokes, it made me feel better about sneaking him into my house. I don’t know why. Maybe because if he’s actually someone I could be friends with, it’d make me feel less guilty. He left right after your show was over. I wanted to ask him if he needed to use our shower again, but that would have cut it real close to time for my parents getting home. The last thing I wanted was for him to have to run out of the shower and across my backyard naked. Then again, that’d be kind of hilarious and awesome. —Lily Dear Ellen, Come on, woman. Reruns? A full week of reruns? I get that you need time off, but let me make a suggestion. Instead of recording one show a day, you should record two. That way you’ll get twice as much done in half the time, and we’d never have to sit through reruns. I say “we” because I’m referring to Atlas and me. He’s become my regular Ellen-watching partner. I think he might love you as much as I do, but I’ll never tell him I write to you on a daily basis. That might seem a little too fan-girl. He’s been living in that house for two weeks now. He’s taken a few more showers at my house and I give him food every time he visits. I even wash his clothes for him while he’s here after school. He keeps apologizing to me, like he’s a burden. But honestly, I love it. He keeps my mind off things and I actually look forward to spending time with him after school every day. Dad got home late tonight, which means he went to the bar after work. Which means he’s probably going to instigate a fight with my mother. Which means he’ll probably do something stupid again. I swear, sometimes I get so mad at her for staying with him. I know I’m only fifteen and probably don’t understand all the reasons she chooses to stay, but I refuse to let her use me as her excuse. I don’t care if she’s too poor to leave him and we’d have to move into a crappy apartment and eat ramen noodles until I graduate. That would be better than this. I can hear him yelling at her right now. Sometimes when he gets like this, I walk into the living room, hoping it’ll calm him down. He doesn’t like to hit her when I’m in the room. Maybe I should go try that. —Lily Dear Ellen, If I had access to a gun or knife right now, I’d kill him. As soon as I walked into the living room, I saw him push her down. They were standing in the kitchen and she’d grabbed his arm, trying to calm him down, and he backhanded her and knocked her straight to the floor. I’m pretty sure he was about to kick her, but he saw me walk into the living room and he stopped. He muttered something under his breath to her and then walked to their bedroom and slammed the door. I rushed to the kitchen and tried to help her, but she never wants me to see her like this. She waved me away and said, “I’m fine, Lily. I’m fine, we just got into a stupid fight.” She was crying and I could already see the redness on her cheek from where he hit her. When I walked closer to her, wanting to make sure she was okay, she turned her back to me and gripped the counter. “I said I’m fine, Lily. Go back to your room.” I ran back down the hallway, but I didn’t go back to my room. I ran straight out the back door and across the backyard. I was so mad at her for being short with me. I didn’t even want to be in the same house as either of them, and even thought it was dark already, I went over to the house Atlas was staying in and I knocked on the door. I could hear him moving inside, like he accidentally knocked something over. “It’s me. Lily,” I whispered. A few seconds later the back door opened and he looked behind me, then to the left and right of me. It wasn’t until he looked at my face that he saw I was crying. “You okay?” he asked, stepping outside. I used my shirt to wipe away my tears, and noticed he came outside instead of inviting me in. I sat down on the porch step and he sat down next to me. “I’m fine,” I said. “I’m just mad. Sometimes I cry when I get mad.” He reached over and tucked my hair behind my ear. I liked it when he did that and I suddenly wasn’t nearly as mad anymore. Then he put his arm around me and pulled me to him so that my head was resting on his shoulder. I don’t know how he calmed me down without even talking, but he did. Some people just have a calming presence about them and he’s one of those people. Completely opposite of my father. We sat like that for a while, until I saw my bedroom light turn on. “You should go,” he whispered. We could both see my mom standing in my bedroom looking for me. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized what a perfect view he has of my bedroom. As I walked back home, I tried to think about the entire time Atlas has been in that house. I tried to recall if I’d walked around after dark with the light on at night, because all I normally wear in my room at night is a T-shirt. Here’s what’s crazy about that, Ellen: I was kind of hoping I had. —Lily I close the journal when the pain pills start to kick in. I’ll read more tomorrow. Maybe. Reading about the things my dad used to do to my mom kind of puts me in a bad mood. Reading about Atlas kind of puts me in a sad mood. I try to fall asleep and think about Ryle, but the whole situation with him kind of makes me mad and sad. Maybe I’ll just think about Allysa, and how happy I am that she showed up today. I could use a friend—not to mention help—during these next few months. I have a feeling it’s going to be more stressful than I bargained for. Chapter Five Ryle was correct. It only took a few days for my ankle to feel good enough that I could walk on it again. I waited a full week before attempting to leave my apartment, though. The last thing I need is to reinjure it. Of course the first place I went was to my floral shop. Allysa was there when I arrived today, and to say I was shocked when I walked through the front doors is an understatement. It looked like a totally different building than the one I bought. There’s still a ton of work that needs to be done, but she and Marshall had gotten rid of all the stuff we marked as trash. Everything else had been organized into piles. The windows had been washed, the floors had been mopped. She even had the area where I plan to put an office cleaned out. I helped her for a few hours today, but she wouldn’t let me do much that required walking at first, so I mostly drew out plans for the store. We picked out paint colors and set a goal date to open the store that’s approximately fifty-four days from now. After she left, I spent the next few hours doing all the stuff she wouldn’t let me do while she was there. It felt good to be back. But Jesus Christ, I’m tired. Which is why I’m debating on whether or not to get up from the couch and answer the knock at my front door. Lucy is at Alex’s again tonight and I just spoke to my mother five minutes ago on the phone, so I know it isn’t either of them. I walk to the door and check the peephole before opening it. I don’t recognize him at first, because his head is down, but then he looks up and to the right and my heart freaks the hell out! What is he doing here? Ryle knocks again, and I try to brush my hair out of my face and smooth it down with my hands, but it’s a lost cause. I worked my ass off today and I look like shit, so unless I have half an hour to take a shower, put on makeup, and throw on clothes before I open the door, he’ll pretty much have to deal with me as is. I open the door and his immediate reaction confuses me. “Jesus Christ,” he says, dropping his head against my door frame. He’s panting like he’s been working out, and that’s when I notice that he doesn’t look to be any more rested or clean than I am. He’s got a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his face—something I’ve never seen on him before—and his hair isn’t styled like it usually is. It’s a little erratic, like the look in his eye. “Do you have any idea how many doors I’ve knocked on to find you?” I shake my head, because I don’t. But now that he mentions it—how in the hell does he know where I live? “Twenty-nine,” he says. Then he holds up his hands and repeats the numbers with his fingers while he whispers, “Two . . . nine.” I let my gaze drop down to his clothes. He’s in scrubs, and I absolutely hate that he’s in scrubs right now. Holy hell. So much better than the onesie and way better than the Burberry. “Why did you knock on twenty-nine doors?” I ask with a tilt of my head. “You never told me which apartment was yours,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You said you lived in this building, but I couldn’t remember if you even said which floor. And for the record, I almost started with the third floor. I would have been here an hour ago if I went with my gut instinct.” “Why are you here?” He runs his hands down his face and then points over my shoulder. “Can I come in?” I glance over my shoulder and then open the door farther. “I guess. If you tell me what you want.” He walks inside and I close the door behind us. He glances around, wearing his stupid hot scrubs, and puts his hands on his hips as he faces me. He looks a little disappointed, but I’m not sure if it’s in me or himself. “There’s a really big naked truth coming, okay?” he says. “Brace yourself.” I fold my arms over my chest and watch as he inhales a breath, preparing to speak. “These next couple of months are the most important months in my entire career. I have to be focused. I’m closing in on the end of my residency, and then I’ll have to sit for my exams.” He’s pacing my living room, talking frantically with his hands. “But for the past week, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. I don’t know why. At work, at home. All I can think about is how crazy it feels when I’m near you, and I need you to make it stop, Lily.” He stops pacing and faces me. “Please make it stop. Just once—that’s all it’ll take. I swear.” My fingers are digging into the skin of my arms as I watch him. He’s still panting a little, and his eyes are still frantic, but he’s looking at me pleadingly. “When is the last time you’ve had sleep?” I ask him. He rolls his eyes like he’s frustrated that I’m not getting it. “I just got off a forty-eight-hour shift,” he says dismissively. “Focus, Lily.” I nod and replay his words in my head. If I didn’t know better . . . I’d almost think he was . . . I inhale a calming breath. “Ryle,” I say carefully. “Did you seriously just knock on twenty-nine doors so you could tell me that the thought of me is making your life hell and I should have sex with you so that you’ll never have to think of me again? Are you kidding me right now?” He folds his lips together and, after about five seconds of thought, he slowly nods his head. “Well . . . yeah, but . . . it sounds way worse when you say it.” I release an exasperated laugh. “That’s because it’s ridiculous, Ryle.” He bites his bottom lip and looks around the room, like he suddenly wants to escape. I open the door and motion for him to walk out. He doesn’t. His eyes fall to my foot. “Your ankle looks good,” he says. “How does it feel?” I roll my eyes. “Better. I was able to help Allysa at the store for the first time today.” He nods and then makes like he’s walking toward the door to leave. But as soon as he reaches me, he spins toward me and slaps his palms against the door on either side of my head. I gasp at both his proximity and his persistence. “Please?” he says. I shake my head, even though my body is starting to trade sides and beg my mind to cave to him. “I’m really good at it, Lily,” he says with a grin. “You’ll barely even have to do any work.” I try not to laugh, but his determination is as endearing as it is annoying. “Goodnight, Ryle.” His head drops between his shoulders and he shakes it back and forth. He pushes off the door and stands up straight. He half-turns, heading for the hallway, but then suddenly drops to his knees in front of me. He wraps his arms around my waist. “Please, Lily,” he says through self-deprecating laughter. “Please have sex with me.” He’s looking up at me with puppy dog eyes and a pathetic, hopeful grin. “I want you so, so bad and I swear, once you have sex with me you’ll never hear from me again. I promise.” There’s something about a neurosurgeon literally on his knees begging for sex that does me in. That’s pretty pathetic. “Get up,” I say, pushing his arms away from me. “You’re embarrassing yourself.” He slowly stands up, dragging his hands up the door on either side of me until he has me caged in between his arms. “Is that a yes?” His chest is barely touching mine and I hate how good it feels to be wanted this much. I should be turned off by it, but I can hardly breathe when I look at him. Especially when he has this suggestive smile on his face. “I don’t feel sexy right now, Ryle. I worked all day, I’m exhausted, I smell like sweat and probably taste like dust. If you give me a little while to shower first, I might feel sexy enough to have sex with you.” He’s nodding feverishly before I’m even finished speaking. “Shower. Take all the time you need. I’ll wait.” I push him away from me and close the front door. He follows me to the bedroom and I tell him to wait on the bed for me. Luckily, I cleaned my bedroom last night. Normally I have clothes lying around everywhere, books piled up on my nightstand, shoes and bras that don’t quite make it to my closet. But tonight it’s clean. My bed is even made up, complete with the ugly, quilted throw pillows my grandmother passed down to every person in our family. I make a quick glance around the room, just to make sure nothing embarrassing will catch his eye. He takes a seat on my bed and I watch as he scans the room. I stand in the doorway to my bathroom and try to give him one last out. “You say this will make it stop, but I’m warning you right now, Ryle. I’m like a drug. If you have sex with me tonight, it’s only going to make things worse for you. But once is all you’re getting. I refuse to become one of the many girls you use to—how did you word it that night? Satisfy your needs?” He leans back on his elbows. “You aren’t that kind of girl, Lily. And I’m not the kind of guy who needs someone more than once. We have nothing to worry about.” I close the door behind me, wondering how in the hell this guy talked me into this. It’s the scrubs. The scrubs are my weakness. It has nothing to do with him. I wonder if there’s a way he could leave them on during the sex? • • • I’ve never taken more than half an hour to get ready, but it’s almost an hour before I’m finished in the bathroom. I shaved more parts of me than was probably necessary, and then spent a good twenty minutes having a freak-out, and had to talk myself out of opening the door and telling him to leave. But now that my hair is dry and I’m cleaner than I’ve ever been, I think I might be able to do this. I can totally have a one-night stand. I’m twenty-three years old. I open the door and he’s still there on my bed. I’m a little disappointed to see that his scrub top is on the floor, but I don’t see his pants, so he must still be wearing them. He’s under the covers, though, so I can’t tell. I close the door behind me and wait for him to roll over and look at me, but he doesn’t. I take a few steps closer, and that’s when I notice he’s snoring. Not just a light—oh I just fell asleep—snore. It’s a middle of REM sleep kind of snore. “Ryle?” I whisper. He doesn’t even budge when I shake him. You’ve got to be kidding me. I drop down onto the bed, not even caring if I wake him. I just spent an entire hour getting ready for him after busting my ass today, and this is how he treats this night? I can’t be mad at him, though, especially seeing how peaceful he looks. I can’t imagine working a forty-eight-hour shift. Plus, my bed is really comfortable. It’s so comfortable, it could make a person fall right back to sleep after a full night of rest. I should have warned him about that. I check the time on my phone and it’s almost 10:30 p.m. I put the phone on silent and then lie down next to him. His phone is on the pillow next to his head, so I grab it and swipe up the camera option. I hold his phone above us and make sure my cleavage looks good and pushed together. I snap a picture so he’ll at least see what he missed out on. I turn off the light and laugh to myself, because I’m falling asleep next to a half-naked man that I’ve never even kissed. • • • I can feel his fingers trailing up my arm before I even open my eyes. I force back a tired smile and pretend I’m still sleeping. His fingers trail over my shoulder and stop at my collarbone, just before they reach my neck. I have a small tattoo there that I got in college. It’s a simple outline of a heart that’s slightly open at the top. I can feel his fingers circle around the tattoo, and then he leans forward and presses his lips against it. I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter. “Lily,” he whispers, wrapping an arm around my waist. I moan a little, trying to wake up, and then roll onto my back so that I can look up at him. When I open my eyes, he’s staring down at me. I can tell by the way the sunlight shines through my windows and across his face that it’s not even seven a.m. yet. “I am the most despicable man you’ve ever met. Am I right?” I laugh, and nod a little. “Pretty damn close.” He smiles and then brushes my hair off my face. He leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead, and I hate that he just did that. Now I’ll be the one plagued with sleepless nights, because I want to put this memory on repeat. “I have to go,” he says. “I’m really late. But one—I’m sorry. Two—I’ll never do this again. This is the last you’ll hear from me, I promise. And three—I’m really sorry. You have no idea.” I force a smile, but I want to frown because I absolutely hated his number two. I actually don’t mind if he tries this again, but then I remind myself that we want two different things from life. And it’s good that he fell asleep and we never even kissed, because if I would have had sex with him while he was wearing scrubs, I would have been the one showing up at his door on my knees, begging for more. This is good. Rip the Band-Aid off and let him leave. “Have a nice life, Ryle. I wish you all the success in the world.” He doesn’t respond to my goodbye. He silently stares down at me with somewhat of a frown, and then says, “Yeah. You too, Lily.” Then he rolls away from me and stands up. I can’t even look at him right now, so I roll onto my side so that my back is to him. I listen as he puts his shoes on and then reaches for his phone. There’s a long pause before he moves again, and I know it’s because he was staring at me. I squeeze my eyes shut until I hear the slam of the front door. My face immediately grows warm, and I refuse to allow myself to mope. I force myself off the bed. I have work to do. I can’t be upset that I’m not enough to make a guy want to remap all of his life goals. Besides, I have my own life goals to worry about now. And I’m really excited about them. So much so, that I really don’t have time for a guy in my life, anyway. No time. Nope. Busy girl, here. I am a brave and bold businesswoman with zero fucks to give for men in scrubs. Chapter Six It’s been fifty-three days since Ryle walked out of my apartment that morning. Which means it’s been fifty-three days since I’ve heard from him. But that’s okay, because for the last fifty-three days, I’ve been too busy to really give him much thought as I prepared for this moment. “Ready?” Allysa says. I nod, and she flips the sign to Open and we both hug and squeal like little kids. We rush around the counter and wait for our first customer. It’s a soft opening, so I haven’t really done a marketing push yet, but we just want to make sure there aren’t any kinks before our grand opening. “It’s really pretty in here,” Allysa says, admiring our hard work. I look around us, bursting with pride. Of course I want to succeed, but at this point I’m not even sure if that matters. I had a dream and I busted my ass to make it come true. Whatever happens after today is just icing on the cake. “It smells so good in here,” I say. “I love this smell.” I don’t know if we’ll get any customers today, but we’re both acting like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to us, so I don’t think that matters. Besides, Marshall will come in at some point today and my mother will come in after she gets off work. That’s two customers for sure. That’s plenty. Allysa squeezes my arm when the front door begins to open. I suddenly grow a little panicked, because what if something goes wrong? And then I do panic, because something just went wrong. Terribly wrong. My very first customer is none other than Ryle Kincaid. He stops when the door closes behind him and he looks around in awe. “What?” he says, turning in a circle. “How in the . . . ?” He looks over at me and Allysa. “This is incredible. It doesn’t even look like the same building!” Okay, maybe I’m fine with him being the first customer. It takes him a few minutes to actually make it to the counter because he can’t stop touching things and looking at things. When he finally does reach us, Allysa runs around the counter and hugs him. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she says. She waves her hand in my direction. “It was all her idea. All of it. I just helped with the dirty work.” Ryle laughs. “I find it hard to believe that your Pinterest skills didn’t play a little part.” I nod. “She’s being modest. Her skills were half of what brought this vision to life.” Ryle smiles at me and it might as well have been a knife to the chest, because ouch. He slaps his hands on the counter and says, “Am I the first official customer?” Allysa hands him one of our flyers. “You have to actually buy something to be considered a customer.” Ryle glances over the flyer and then sets it back down on the counter. He walks to one of the displays and grabs a vase full of purple lilies. “I want these,” he says, setting them on the counter. I smile, wondering if he realizes he just picked lilies. Kind of ironic. “Do you want us to deliver them somewhere?” Allysa says. “You guys deliver?” “Allysa and I don’t,” I reply. “We have a delivery driver on standby. We weren’t sure if we’d actually need him today.” “Are you actually buying these for a girl?” Allysa asks. She’s just prying into her brother’s love life like a sister would naturally do, but I catch myself stepping closer to her so I can hear his answer better. “I am,” he says. His eyes meet mine and he adds, “I don’t think about her very much, though. Hardly ever.” Allysa grabs a card and slides it to him. “Poor girl,” she says. “You are such a dick.” She taps her finger on the card. “Write your message to her on the front and the address you want them delivered to on the back.” I watch him as he bends over the card and writes on both sides. I know I don’t have a right, but I’m brimming with jealousy. “Are you bringing this girl to my birthday party Friday?” Allysa asks him. I watch his reaction closely. He just shakes his head and without looking up he says, “No. Are you going, Lily?” I can’t tell by his voice alone if he’s hoping I’ll be there or hoping I won’t. Considering the stress I seem to cause him, I’m guessing it’s the latter. “I haven’t decided yet.” “She’ll be there,” Allysa says, answering for me. She looks at me and narrows her eyes. “You’re coming to my party whether you like it or not. If you don’t show up, I’ll quit.” When Ryle is finished writing, he tucks the card into the envelope attached to the flowers. Allysa rings up his total and he pays in cash. He looks at me while he’s counting out his money. “Lily, do you know that it’s custom for a new business to frame the first dollar they make?” I nod. Of course I know that. He knows I know that. He’s just rubbing it in my face that his dollar will be the one framed on my wall for the life of this store. I almost encourage Allysa to give him a refund, but this is business. I have to leave my wounded pride out of it. Once he has his receipt in hand, he taps his fist on the counter to get my attention. He dips his head a little and, with a genuine smile, he says, “Congratulations, Lily.” He turns and walks out of the store. As soon as the door closes behind him, Allysa is grabbing for the envelope. “Who in the hell is he sending flowers to?” she says as she pulls the card out. “Ryle doesn’t send flowers.” She reads the front of the card out loud. “Make it stop.” Holy shit. She stares at it for a moment, repeating the phrase. “Make it stop? What in the hell does that even mean?” she asks. I can’t take it another second. I grab the card from her and flip it over. She leans over and reads the back of it with me. “He is such an idiot,” she says with a laugh. “He wrote the address to our floral shop on the back.” She takes the card out of my hands. Wow. Ryle just bought me flowers. Not just any flower. He bought me a bouquet of lilies. Allysa picks up her phone. “I’ll text him and tell him he screwed up.” She shoots him a text and then laughs as she stares at the flowers. “How can a neurosurgeon be such an idiot?” I can’t stop grinning. I’m relieved she’s staring at the flowers and not at me or she may put two and two together. “I’ll keep them in my office until we figure out where he intended for them to go.” I scoop up the vase and whisk away my flowers. Chapter Seven “Stop fidgeting,” Devin says. “I’m not fidgeting.” He loops his arm through mine as he walks me toward the elevator. “Yes, you are. And if you pull that top up over your cleavage one more time, it’ll defeat the whole purpose of your little black dress.” He grabs my top and yanks it back down, and then proceeds to reach inside to adjust my bra. “Devin!” I slap his hand away and he laughs. “Relax, Lily. I’ve touched way better boobs than yours and I’m still gay.” “Yeah, but I bet those boobs were attached to people you probably hang out with more than once every six months.” Devin laughs. “True, but that’s half your fault. You’re the one who left us high and dry to play with flowers.” Devin was one of my favorite people at the marketing firm I worked at, but we weren’t close enough to where we actively became friends outside of work. He stopped by the floral shop this afternoon and Allysa took to him almost immediately. She begged him to come to the party with me and since I didn’t really want to show up alone, I ended up begging him to come, too. I smooth my hands over my hair and try to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the elevator walls. “Why are you so nervous?” he asks. “I’m not nervous. I just hate showing up to places where I don’t know anyone.” Devin smirks knowingly and then says, “What’s his name?” I release a pent-up breath. Am I that transparent? “Ryle. He’s a neurosurgeon. And he wants to have sex with me really, really bad.” “How do you know he wants to have sex with you?” “Because he literally got down on his knees and said, ‘Please, Lily. Please have sex with me.’ ” Devin raises an eyebrow. “He begged?” I nod. “It wasn’t as pathetic as it sounds. He’s usually more composed.” The elevator dings and the doors begin to open. I can hear music pouring from down the hallway. Devin takes both of my hands in his and says, “So what’s the plan? Do I need to make this guy jealous?” “No,” I say, shaking my head. “That wouldn’t be right.” But . . . Ryle does make it a point every time he sees me to tell me he hopes he never sees me again. “Maybe just a little?” I say, scrunching up my nose. “A smidge?” Devin pops his jaw and says, “Consider it done.” He puts his hand on my lower back as he walks me out of the elevator. There’s only one visible door in the hallway, so we make our way over and ring the doorbell. “Why is there only one door?” he says. “She owns the whole top floor.” He chuckles. “And she works for you? Damn, your life just keeps getting more and more interesting.” The door begins to open, and I’m extremely relieved to see Allysa standing in front of me. There’s music and laughter pouring out of the apartment behind her. She’s holding a champagne glass in one hand and a riding crop in the other. She sees me staring at the riding crop with a confused look on my face, so she tosses it over her shoulder and grabs my hand. “It’s a long story,” she says, laughing. “Come in, come in!” She pulls me in and I squeeze Devin’s hand and drag him behind me. She continues pulling us through a crowd of people until we reach the other side of the living room. “Hey!” she says, tugging on Marshall’s arm. He turns around and smiles at me, then pulls me in for a hug. I glance behind him, and around us, but there’s no sign of Ryle. Maybe I got lucky and he got called in to work tonight. Marshall reaches out for Devin’s hand and shakes it. “Hey, man! Good to meet you!” Devin wraps an arm around my waist. “I’m Devin!” he yells over the music. “I’m Lily’s sexual partner!” I laugh and elbow him, then lean in to his ear. “That’s Marshall. Wrong guy, but nice effort.” Allysa grabs my arm and starts to pull me away from Devin. Marshall begins speaking to him, and my hand is reaching out behind me as I’m being pulled in the opposite direction. “You’ll be fine!” Devin yells. I follow Allysa into the kitchen, where she shoves a glass of champagne in my hand. “Drink,” she says. “You deserve it!” I take a sip of the champagne, but I can’t even appreciate it now that I’m getting a look at her industrial-sized kitchen with two full stovetops and a fridge bigger than my apartment. “Holy shit,” I whisper. “You actually live here?” She giggles. “I know,” she says. “And to think, I didn’t even have to marry him for money. Marshall had seven bucks and drove a Ford Pinto when I fell in love with him.” “Doesn’t he still drive a Ford Pinto?” She sighs. “Yeah, but we have a lot of good memories in that car.” “Gross.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “So . . . Devin is cute.” “And probably more into Marshall than me.” “Ah, man,” she says. “That’s a bummer. I thought I was playing matchmaker when I invited him to the party tonight.” The kitchen door opens and Devin walks in. “Your husband is looking for you,” he says to Allysa. She twirls her way out of the kitchen, giggling the whole time. “I really like her,” Devin says. “She’s great, huh?” He leans against the island and says, “So. I think I just met The Beggar.” My heart flutters down my chest. I think The Neurosurgeon has a better ring to it. I take another sip of my champagne. “How do you know it was him? Did he introduce himself?” He shakes his head. “Nah, but he overheard Marshall introducing me to someone as ‘Lily’s date.’ I thought the look he gave me was going to set me on fire. That’s why I came in here. I like you, but I’m not willing to die for you.” I laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m sure that death glare he gave you was really his smile. They’re superimposed most of the time.” The door swings open again and I immediately stiffen, but it’s only a caterer. I sigh with relief. Devin says, “Lily,” like my name is a disappointment. “What?” “You look like you’re about to puke,” he says, accusingly. “You really like him.” I roll my eyes. But then I let my shoulders drop and I fake cry. “I do, Devin. I do, I just don’t want to.” He takes my glass of champagne and downs the remainder of it, then locks his arm in mine again. “Let’s go mingle,” he says, pulling me out of the kitchen against my will. The room is even more crowded now. There have to be more than a hundred people here. I’m not even sure I know that many people. We walk around and work the room. I stand back while Devin does most of the talking. He knows someone in common with every person he’s met so far, and after about half an hour of following him around, I’m convinced he’s made it a personal game to find someone in common with everyone here. The whole time I mingle with him, my attention is half on him and half on the room, searching for traces of Ryle. I don’t see him anywhere and I begin to wonder if the guy Devin saw was even Ryle to begin with. “Well, that’s odd,” a woman says. “What do you suppose it is?” I look up and see that she’s staring at a piece of art on the wall. It looks like a photograph blown up on canvas. I tilt my head to inspect it. The woman turns her nose up and says, “I don’t know why anyone would bother turning that photograph into wall art. It’s awful. It’s so blurry, you can’t even tell what it is.” She walks away in a huff, and I’m relieved. I mean . . . it’s a bit weird, but who am I to judge Allysa’s taste? “What do you think?” His voice is low, deep, and right behind me. I close my eyes briefly and inhale a steadying breath before quietly exhaling, hoping he doesn’t notice his voice has any effect on me whatsoever. “I like it. I’m not quite sure what it is, but it’s interesting. Your sister has good taste.” He steps around me so that he’s at my side, facing me. He takes a step closer until he’s so close, he brushes my arm. “You brought a date?” He’s asking it like it’s a casual question, but I know it isn’t. When I fail to respond, he leans in until he’s whispering in my ear. He repeats himself, but this time it isn’t a question. “You brought a date.” I find the courage to look over at him and instantly wish I hadn’t. He’s in a black suit that makes the scrubs look like child’s play. First I swallow the unexpected lump in my throat and then I say, “Is it a problem that I brought a date?” I look away from him and back at the photograph hanging on the wall. “I was trying to make things easier on you. You know. Just trying to make it stop.” He smirks and then downs the rest of his wine. “How thoughtful of you, Lily.” He tosses his empty wineglass toward a trash can in the corner of the room. He makes the shot, but the glass shatters when it hits the bottom of the empty container. I glance around me, but no one saw what just happened. When I look back at Ryle, he’s halfway down a hallway. He disappears into a room and I stand here, looking at the picture again. That’s when I see it. The picture is blurred, so it was hard to make out at first. But I can recognize that hair from anywhere. That’s my hair. It’s hard to miss, along with the marine-grade polymer lounge chair I’m lying on. This is the picture he took on the rooftop the first night we met. He must have had it blown up and distorted so no one would notice what it was. I bring my hand to my neck, because my blood feels like it’s bubbling. It’s really warm in here. Allysa appears at my side. “It’s weird, huh?” she says, looking at the picture. I scratch at my chest. “It’s really hot in here,” I say. “Don’t you think?” She glances around the room. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed, but I’m a little drunk. I’ll tell Marshall to turn on the air.” She disappears again, and the more I stare at the picture, the angrier I get. The man has a picture of me hanging in the apartment. He bought me flowers. He’s giving me attitude because I brought a date to his sister’s party. He’s acting like there’s actually something between us, and we’ve never even kissed! It all hits me at once. The anger . . . the irritation . . . the half glass of champagne I had in the kitchen. I’m so mad, I can’t even think straight. If the guy wants to have sex with me so bad . . . he shouldn’t have fallen asleep! If he doesn’t want me to swoon, he shouldn’t buy me flowers! He shouldn’t hang cryptic pictures of me where he lives! All I want is fresh air. I need fresh air. Luckily, I know just where to find it. Moments later, I burst through the door to the rooftop. There are stragglers from the party up here. Three of them, seated on the patio furniture. I ignore them and walk to the ledge with the good view and lean over it. I suck in several deep breaths and try to calm myself down. I want to go downstairs and tell him to make up his damn mind, but I know I need to have a clear head before I do that. The air is cold, and for some reason, I blame that on Ryle. Everything is his fault tonight. All of it. Wars, famine, gun violence—it all somehow links back to Ryle. “Can we have a few minutes alone?” I spin around, and Ryle is standing near the other guests. Immediately, all three of them nod and begin to stand up to give us privacy. I hold up my hands and say, “Wait,” but none of them look at me. “It’s not necessary. Really, you don’t have to leave.” Ryle stands stoically with his hands in his pockets while one of the guests mutters, “It’s fine, we don’t mind.” They begin to file back down the stairwell. I roll my eyes and spin back toward the ledge once I’m alone with him. “Does everyone always do what you say?” I ask, irritated. He doesn’t respond. His footsteps are slow and deliberate as he closes in on me. My heart begins to beat like it’s on a speed-date, and I start scratching at my chest again. “Lily,” he says from behind me. I turn around and grip the ledge behind me with both hands. His eyes journey down to my cleavage. As soon as they do, I yank at the top of my dress so he can’t see it, and then I grip the ledge again. He laughs and takes another step closer. We’re almost touching now, and my brain is mush. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. “I feel like you have a lot to say,” he says. “So I’d like to give you the opportunity to speak your naked truth.” “Hah!” I say with a laugh. “Are you sure about that?” He nods, so I prepare to let him have it. I push against his chest and make my way around him so that he’s the one leaning against the ledge now. “I can’t tell what you want, Ryle! And every time I get to the point where I start to not give a shit, you show up again out of the blue! You show up at my work, you show up at my apartment door, you show up at parties, you . . .” “I live here,” he says, excusing the last one. That pisses me off even more. I clench my fists. “Ugh! You’re driving me crazy! Do you want me or do you not?” He stands up straight and takes a step toward me. “Oh, I want you, Lily. Make no mistake about that. I just don’t want to want you.” My whole body sighs at that comment. Partly out of frustration and partly because everything he says makes me shiver and I hate that I allow him to make me feel like this. I shake my head. “You don’t get it, do you?” I say, softening my voice. I feel too defeated right now to keep yelling at him. “I like you, Ryle. And knowing that you only want me for one night makes me really, really sad. And maybe if this were a few months ago, we could have had sex and it would have been fine. You would have walked away and I could have easily moved on with my life. But it’s not a few months ago. You waited too long, and too many pieces of me are invested in you now, so please. Stop flirting with me. Stop hanging pictures of me in your apartment. And stop sending me flowers. Because when you do those things, it doesn’t feel good, Ryle. It actually kind of hurts.” I feel deflated and exhausted and I’m ready to leave. He regards me silently, and I respectfully give him time to make his rebuttal. But he doesn’t. He just turns around, leans over the ledge, and stares down at the street like he didn’t hear a single word I said. I walk across the roof and open the door, half expecting him to call out my name or ask me not to leave. I get all the way back to the apartment before I finally lose all hope of that happening. I push through the crowd and make it through three different rooms before I spot Devin. When he sees the look on my face, he just nods and begins to make his way across the room toward me. “Ready to go?” he asks, looping his arm through mine. I nod. “Yes. So ready.” We find Allysa in the main living room. I tell her and Marshall goodnight, using the excuse that I’m just exhausted from opening week and I’d like to get some sleep before work tomorrow. Allysa gives me a hug and walks us to the front door. “I’ll be back on Monday,” she says to me, kissing me on the cheek. “Happy birthday,” I say to her. Devin opens the door, but right before we step into the hallway, I hear someone yell my name. I turn around and Ryle is pushing through the crowd on the other side of the room. “Lily, wait!” he yells, still trying to make his way over to me. My heart is erratic. He’s walking quickly, stepping around people, growing more frustrated with every person in his way. He finally reaches a break in the crowd and makes eye contact with me again. He holds my gaze as he marches toward me. He doesn’t slow down. Allysa has to step out of his way as he walks straight up to me. At first, I think he might kiss me, or at least give a rebuttal to everything I said to him upstairs. But instead, he does something I’m not at all prepared for. He scoops me up into his arms. “Ryle!” I yell, gripping him around the neck, afraid he might drop me. “Put me down!” He has an arm wrapped under my legs and one under my back. “I need to borrow Lily for the night,” he says to Devin. “That okay?” I look at Devin and shake my head, wide-eyed. Devin just smirks and says, “Be my guest.” Traitor! Ryle starts to turn and walk back toward the living room. I look at Allysa as I pass her. Her eyes are wide with confusion. “I’m going to kill your brother!” I yell at her. Everyone in the entire room is staring now. I’m so embarrassed, I just press my face against Ryle’s chest as he walks me down the hallway and into his bedroom. Once the door is shut behind us, he slowly lowers my feet back to the floor. I immediately start to yell at him and try to push him out of the way of the bedroom door, but he spins me and shoves me against the door, grabbing both of my wrists. He presses them against the wall above my head and says, “Lily?” He’s looking at me so intently, I stop trying to fight him off of me and I hold my breath. His chest is pressing against mine, my back is pressed to the door. And then his mouth is on mine. Warm pressure against my lips. Despite the strength behind them, his lips are like silk. I’m shocked at the moan that rushes through me, and even more shocked when I part my lips and want more. His tongue slides against mine and he releases my wrists to grab my face. His kiss grows deeper and I grasp at his hair, pulling him closer, feeling the kiss in my entire body. Both of us become a medley of moans and gasps as the kiss brings us over the edge, our bodies wanting more than our mouths can deliver. I feel his hands as he reaches down and grabs my legs, lifting me up and hooking them around his waist. My God, this man can kiss. It’s as if he takes kissing as seriously as he takes his profession. He begins to pull me away from the door when I’m hit with the realization that yes, his mouth is capable of a lot. But what his mouth has failed to do is respond to everything I told him upstairs. For all I know, I’ve just given in. I’m giving him what he wants: a one-night stand. And that’s the last thing he deserves right now. I pull my mouth from his and push on his shoulders. “Put me down.” He keeps walking toward his bed, so I say it again. “Ryle, put me down right now.” He stops walking and lowers me to the floor. I have to back away and face the other direction to gather my thoughts. Looking at him while I still feel his lips on mine is more than I can deal with right now. I feel his arms go around my waist, and he rests his head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. He turns me around and brings a hand up to my face and brushes his thumb across my cheek. “It’s my turn now, okay?” I don’t respond to his touch. I keep my arms folded across my chest and wait to hear what he has to say before I allow myself to respond to his touch. “I had that picture made the day after I took it,” he says. “It’s been in my apartment for months now, because you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen and I wanted to look at it every single day.” Oh. “And that night I showed up at your door? I went searching for you because no one in the history of my life has ever crawled under my skin and refused to leave like you did. I didn’t know how to handle it. And the reason I sent you flowers this week is because I am really, really proud of you for following your dream. But if I sent you flowers every time I’ve had the urge to send you flowers, you wouldn’t even be able to fit inside your apartment. Because that’s how much I think about you. And yes, Lily. You’re right. I’m hurting you, but I’m hurting, too. And until tonight . . . I didn’t know why.” I have no idea how I even possibly find the strength to speak after that. “Why are you hurting?” He drops his forehead to mine and says, “Because. I have no idea what I’m doing. You make me want to be a different person, but what if I don’t know how to be what you need? This is all new to me and I want to prove to you that I want you for so much more than just one night.” He looks so vulnerable right now. I want to believe the genuine look in his eye, but he’s been so adamant since the day that I met him that he wants the exact opposite of what I want. And it terrifies me that I’ll give in to him and he’ll walk away. “How do I prove myself to you, Lily? Tell me and I’ll do it.” I don’t know. I barely know the guy. I know him enough to know that sex with him won’t be enough for me, though. But how do I know sex won’t be the only thing he wants? My eyes instantly lock with his. “Don’t have sex with me.” He stares at me for a moment, completely unreadable. But then he starts to nod his head like he’s finally getting it. “Okay,” he says, still nodding. “Okay. I will not have sex with you, Lily Bloom.” He walks around me to his bedroom door and he locks it. He flips off the light, leaving only a lamp on, and then takes off his shirt as he walks toward me. “What are you doing?” He tosses his shirt on a chair and then slips off his shoes. “We’re going to sleep.” I glance at his bed. Then at him. “Right now?” He nods and walks over to me. In one swift movement, he lifts my dress up and over my head, until I’m standing in the middle of his bedroom floor in my bra and panties. I cover myself, but he doesn’t even look twice. He pulls me toward the bed and lifts the covers for me to crawl in. As he’s walking over to his side of the bed he says, “It’s not like we haven’t slept together before without having sex. Piece of cake.” I laugh. He reaches his dresser and plugs his phone in to a charger. I take a moment to skim his bedroom. This certainly isn’t the type of spare bedroom I’m used to. Three of my bedrooms could fit in here. There’s a couch against the other wall, a chair facing a television and a full office off the bedroom that looks complete with a floor-to-ceiling library. I’m still trying to see everything around me when the lamp goes off. “Your sister is really rich,” I say as I feel him pull the covers over both of us. “What the hell does she do with the ten bucks an hour I pay her? Wipe her ass with it?” He laughs and grabs my hand, sliding his fingers through mine. “She probably doesn’t even cash the checks,” he says. “Have you ever checked?” I haven’t. Now I’m curious. “Goodnight, Lily,” he says. I can’t stop smiling, because this is kind of ridiculous. And so great. “Goodnight, Ryle.” • • • I think I might be lost. Everything is so white and so clean, it’s blinding. I shuffle through one of the living rooms and try to find my way to the kitchen. I have no idea where my dress ended up last night, so I pulled on one of Ryle’s shirts. It falls past my knees, and I wonder if he has to buy shirts that are too big for him just so they’ll fit his arms. There are too many windows and way too much sun, so I’m forced to shield my eyes as I go in search of coffee. I push through the kitchen doors and find a coffeemaker. Thank you, Jesus. I set it to brew and then go in search for a mug when the kitchen door opens behind me. I spin around and I’m relieved to see that Allysa isn’t always a perfect concoction of makeup and jewelry. Her hair is in a messy topknot and mascara is smeared down her cheeks. She points at the coffeemaker. “I’m gonna need me some of that,” she says. She pulls herself up on the island and then slouches forward. “Can I ask you a question?” I say. She barely has the energy to nod. I wave my hand around the kitchen. “How did this happen? How in the hell did your entire house become spotless between the party last night and me waking up just now? Did you stay up and clean?” She laughs. “We have people for that,” she says. “People?” She nods. “Yep. There are people for everything,” she says. “You’d be surprised. Think of something. Anything. We probably have people for it.” “Groceries?” “People,” she says. “Christmas d?cor?” She nods. “People for that, too.” “What about birthday gifts? Like for family members?” She grins. “Yep. People. Everyone in my family receives a gift and a card for every occasion and I never have to lift a finger.” I shake my head. “Wow. How long have you been this rich?” “Three years,” she says. “Marshall sold a few apps he developed to Apple for a lot of money. Every six months, he creates updates and sells those, too.” The coffee transitions into a slow drip, so I grab a mug and fill it up. “You want anything in yours?” I ask. “Or do you have people for that?” She laughs. “Yes. I have you, and I’d like sugar, please.” I stir some sugar into her cup and walk it over to her, then pour myself a cup. It grows quiet for a while as I mix in creamer, waiting for her to say something about me and Ryle. The conversation is inevitable. “Can we just get the awkwardness out of the way?” she says. I sigh, relieved. “Please. I hate this.” I face her and take a sip of my coffee. She sets hers down beside her and then grips the countertop. “How did that even happen?” I shake my head, trying my best not to smile like I’m love-struck. I don’t want her to think I’m weak, or a fool for giving in to him. “We met before I knew you.” She tilts her head. “Wait,” she says. “Before we got to know each other better or before we knew each other at all?” “At all,” I say. “We had a moment one night, about six months before I met you.” “A moment?” she says. “As in . . . a one-night stand?” “No,” I say. “No, we never even kissed until last night. I don’t know, I can’t explain it. We just had this sort of flirtation thing going on for a really long time and it finally came to a head last night. That’s all.” She picks up her coffee again and takes a slow drink from it. She stares down at the floor for a while and I can’t help but notice she looks a little sad. “Allysa? You’re not mad at me, are you?” She immediately shakes her head. “No, Lily. I just . . .” She sets down her coffee cup again. “I just know my brother. And I love him. I really do. But . . .” “But what?” Allysa and I both look in the direction of the voice. Ryle is standing in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest. He’s wearing a pair of gray jogging pants that are barely hanging on to his hips. No shirt. I’ll be adding this outfit to all the other ones I’ve catalogued in my head. Ryle pushes off the door and makes his way into the kitchen. He walks over to me and takes my cup of coffee out of my hands. He leans in and kisses me on the forehead, then takes a drink as he leans against the counter. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says to Allysa. “By all means, continue your conversation.” Allysa rolls her eyes and says, “Stop.” He hands me back my cup of coffee and turns around to grab his own mug. He begins to pour from the pot. “It sounded to me like you were about to give Lily a warning. I’m just curious as to what you have to say.” Allysa hops off the counter and carries her mug to the sink. “She’s my friend, Ryle. You don’t have the best track record when it comes to relationships.” She washes out the mug and then leans her hip into the sink, facing us. “As her friend, I have the right to give her my opinion when it comes to the guys she dates. That’s what friends do.” I’m suddenly feeling uncomfortable as the tension grows thicker between the two of them. Ryle doesn’t even take a drink of his coffee. He walks toward Allysa and pours it out in the sink. He’s standing right in front of her, but she won’t even look at him. “Well, as your brother, I would hope you had a little more faith in me than you do. That’s what siblings do.” He walks out of the kitchen, shoving the door open. When he’s gone, Allysa takes a deep breath. She shakes her head and pulls her hands up to her face. “Sorry about that,” she says, forcing a smile. “I need to shower.” “You don’t have people for that?” She laughs as she exits the kitchen. I wash my mug in the sink and head back to Ryle’s bedroom. When I open the door, he’s sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He doesn’t look up at me when I walk in and for a second, I think he might be mad at me, too. But then he tosses his phone aside and leans back into the couch. “Come here,” he says. He grabs my hand and pulls me down on top of him so that I’m straddling him. He brings my mouth to his and kisses me so hard, it makes me wonder if he’s trying to prove his sister wrong. Ryle pulls away from my mouth and slowly rakes his eyes down my body. “I like you in my clothes.” I smile. “Well I have to get to work, so unfortunately, I can’t keep them on.” He brushes the hair from my face and says, “I have a really important surgery coming up that I need to prepare for. Which means I probably won’t see you for a few days.” I try to hide my disappointment, but I have to get used to it if he really wants to try and make something work between us. He’s already warned me that he works too much. “I’m busy, too. Grand opening is on Friday.” He says, “Oh, I’ll see you before Friday. Promise.” I don’t hide my grin this time. “Okay.” He kisses me again, this time for a solid minute. He starts to lower me to the couch, but then he shoves away from me and says. “Nope. I like you too much to make out with you.” I lie down on the couch and watch him get dressed for work. To my enjoyment, he puts on scrubs. Chapter Eight “We need to talk,” Lucy says. She’s sitting on the couch, mascara streaked down her cheeks. Oh, shit. I drop my purse and rush over to her. As soon as I sit down next to her, she starts crying. “What’s wrong? Did Alex break up with you?” She starts shaking her head and then I really start freaking out. Please don’t say cancer. I grab her hand, and that’s when I see it. “Lucy! You’re engaged?” She nods. “I’m sorry. I know we still have six months left on the lease, but he wants me to move in with him.” I stare at her for a minute. Is that why she’s crying? Because she wants out of her lease? She reaches for a tissue and starts dabbing at her eyes. “I feel awful, Lily. You’re going to be all alone. I’m moving and you won’t have anyone.” What the . . . “Lucy? Um . . . I’ll be fine. I promise.” She looks up at me with hope in her expression. “Really?” Why in the world does she have this impression of me? I nod again. “Yes. I’m not mad, I’m happy for you.” She throws her arms around me and hugs me. “Oh, thank you, Lily!” She starts giggling in between bouts of tears. When she releases me, she jumps up and says, “I have to go tell Alex! He was so worried you wouldn’t let me out of my lease!” She grabs her purse and shoes and disappears out the front door. I lie back on the couch and stare up at the ceiling. Did she just play me? I start laughing, because until this moment, I had no idea how much I’ve been waiting for this to happen. The whole place to myself! What’s even better, is when I do decide to have sex with Ryle, we can have it over here all the time and not have to worry about being quiet. The last time I spoke to Ryle was when I left his apartment on Saturday. We agreed on a trial run. No commitments yet. Just a relationship feeler to see if it’s something we both want. It’s now Monday night and I’m a little disappointed I haven’t heard from him. I gave him my phone number before we parted Saturday, but I don’t really know texting etiquette, especially for trial runs. Regardless, I’m not texting him first. I decide to occupy my time with teenage angst and Ellen DeGeneres, instead. I’m not about to wait around to be beckoned by a guy I’m not even having sex with. But I don’t know why I assume that reading about the first guy I had sex with will somehow get my mind off the guy I’m not having sex with. Dear Ellen, My great-grandfather’s name is Ellis. My entire life, I thought that was a really cool name for such an old guy. After he died, I was reading the obituary. Would you believe that Ellis wasn’t even his real name? His real name was Levi Sampson and I had no idea. I asked my grandmother where the name Ellis came from. She said his initials were L.S. and everyone called him by his initials for so long, they just started sounding them out over the years. Which is why they referred to him as Ellis. I was looking at your name just now and it made me think of that. Ellen. Is that even your real name? You could be just like my great-grandfather and using your initials as a disguise. L.N. I’m onto you, “Ellen.” Speaking of names, do you think Atlas is a weird name? It is, isn’t it? Yesterday while I was watching your show with him, I asked him where he got his name from. He said he didn’t know. Without even thinking, I told him he should ask his mother why she named him that. He just looked over at me for a second and said, “It’s a little too late for that.” I don’t know what he meant by that. I don’t know if his mom died, or if she gave him up for adoption. We’ve been friends for a few weeks now and I still don’t really know anything about him or why he doesn’t have a place to live. I would just ask him, but I’m not sure if he really trusts me yet. He seems to have trust issues and I guess I can’t blame him. I’m worried about him. It started getting really cold this week and it’s supposed to be even colder next week. If he doesn’t have electricity, that means he doesn’t have a heater. I hope he at least has blankets. Do you know how awful I would feel if he froze to death? Pretty freaking awful, Ellen. I’ll find some blankets this week and give them to him. —Lily Dear Ellen, It’s going to start snowing soon so I decided to harvest my garden today. I had already pulled the radishes so I just wanted to put some mulch and compost down, which wouldn’t have taken me long, but Atlas insisted on helping. He asked me a lot of questions about gardening and I liked that he seemed interested in my interests. I showed him how to lay the compost and mulch to cover the ground so that the snow wouldn’t do too much damage. My garden is small compared to most gardens. Maybe ten feet by twelve feet. But it’s all my dad will let me use of the backyard. Atlas covered the whole thing while I sat cross-legged in the grass and watched him. I wasn’t being lazy, he just took over and wanted to do it so I let him. I can tell he’s a hard worker. I wonder if maybe keeping himself busy takes his mind off of things and that’s why he always wants to help me so much. When he was finished, he walked over and dropped down next to me on the grass. “What made you want to grow things?” he asked. I glanced over at him and he was sitting cross-legged, looking at me curiously. I realized in that moment that he’s probably the best friend I’ve ever had, and we barely know anything about each other. I have friends at school, but they’re never allowed to come over to my house for obvious reasons. My mother is always worried something might happen with my father and word might get out about his temper. I also never really get to go to other people’s houses but I’m not sure why. Maybe my father doesn’t want me staying over at friends’ houses because I might witness how a good husband is supposed to treat his wife. He probably wants me to believe the way he treats my mother is normal. Atlas is the first friend I’ve ever had that’s ever been inside my house. He’s also the first friend to know how much I like to garden. And now he’s the first friend to ever ask me why I garden. I reached down and pulled at a weed and started tearing it into little pieces while I thought about his question. “When I was ten, my mother got me a subscription to a website called Seeds Anonymous,” I said. “Every month I would get an unmarked package of seeds in the mail with instructions on how to plant them and care for them. I wouldn’t know what I was growing until it came up out of the ground. Every day after school I’d run straight to the backyard to see the progress. It gave me something to look forward to. Growing things felt like a reward.” I could feel Atlas staring at me when he asked, “A reward for what?” I shrugged. “For loving my plants the right way. Plants reward you based on the amount of love you show them. If you’re cruel to them or neglect them, they give you nothing. But if you care for them and love them the right way, they reward you with gifts in the form of vegetables or fruits or flowers.” I looked down at the weed I was tearing apart in my hands and there was barely an inch left of it. I wadded it up between my fingers and flicked it. I didn’t want to look over at Atlas because I could still feel him staring, so instead, I just stared out over my mulch-covered garden. “We’re just alike,” he said. My eyes flicked to his. “Me and you?” He shook his head. “No. Plants and humans. Plants need to be loved the right way in order to survive. So do humans. We rely on our parents from birth to love us enough to keep us alive. And if our parents show us the right kind of love, we turn out as better humans overall. But if we’re neglected . . .” His voice grew quiet. Almost sad. He wiped his hands on his knees, trying to get some of the dirt off. “If we’re neglected, we end up homeless and incapable of anything meaningful.” His words made my heart feel like the mulch he had just laid out. I didn’t even know what to say to that. Does he really think that about himself? He acted like he was about to get up, but before he did I said his name. He sat back down in the grass. I pointed at the row of trees that lined the fence to the left of the yard. “You see that tree over there?” In the middle of the row of trees was an oak tree that stood taller than all the rest of the trees. Atlas glanced over at it and dragged his eyes all the way up to the top of the tree. “It grew on its own,” I said. “Most plants do need a lot of care to survive. But some things, like trees, are strong enough to do it by just relying on themselves and nobody else.” I had no idea if he knew what I was trying to say without me coming out and saying it. But I just wanted him to know that I thought he was strong enough to survive whatever was going on in his life. I didn’t know him well, but I could tell he was resilient. Way more than I would ever be if I were in his situation. His eyes were glued to the tree. It was a long time before he even blinked. When he finally did, he just nodded a little and looked down at the grass. I thought with the way his mouth twitched that he was about to frown, but instead he actually smiled a little. Seeing that smile made my heart feel like I had just startled it right out of a dead sleep. “We’re just alike,” he said, repeating himself from earlier. “Plants and humans?” I asked. He shook his head. “No. Me and you.” I gasped, Ellen. I hope he didn’t notice, but I definitely sucked in a rush of air. Because what the heck was I supposed to say to that? I just sat there, really awkward and quiet until he stood up. He turned like he was about to walk home. “Atlas, wait.” He glanced back down at me. I pointed at his hands and said, “You might want to take a quick shower before you go back. Compost is made from cow manure.” He lifted his hands and looked down at them and then he looked down at his compost-covered clothes. “Cow manure? Seriously?” I grinned and nodded. He laughed a little and then before I knew it, he was on the ground next to me, wiping his hands all over me. We were both laughing as he reached to the bag next to us and stuck his hand inside, then smeared it down my arms. Ellen, I am confident that the next sentence I am about to write has never been written or spoken aloud before. When he was wiping that cow shit on me, it was quite possibly the most turned-on I have ever been. After a few minutes, we were both lying on the ground, breathing hard, still laughing. He finally stood up and pulled me to my feet, knowing he couldn’t waste minutes if he wanted a shower before my parents came home. Once he was in the shower, I washed my hands in the sink and just stood there, wondering what he meant earlier when he said we were just alike. Was it a compliment? It sure felt like one. Was he saying that he thought I was strong, too? Because I certainly didn’t feel strong most of the time. In that moment, just thinking about him made me feel weak. I wondered what I was going to do about the way I was starting to feel when I was around him. I also wondered how long I can keep hiding him from my parents. And how long he’ll be staying at that house. Winters in Maine are unbearably cold and he won’t survive without a heater. Or blankets. I gathered myself and went in search of all the spare blankets I could find. I was going to give them to him when he got out of the shower, but it was already five and he left in a hurry. I’ll give them to him tomorrow. —Lily Dear Ellen, Harry Connick Jr. is freaking hilarious. I’m not sure if you’ve ever had him on your show, because I hate to admit I’ve probably missed an episode or two since you’ve been on the air, but if you’ve never had him, you should. Actually, have you ever watched Late Night with Conan O’Brien? He has this guy named Andy who sits on the couch for every episode. I wish Harry could sit on your couch for every episode. He just has the best one-liners, and the two of you toget.her would be epic. I just want to say thank you. I know that you don’t have a show on TV for the sole purpose of making me laugh, but sometimes it feels that way. Sometimes my life just makes me feel like I’ve lost the ability to laugh or smile, but then I turn on your show and no matter what mood I’m in when I turn on the TV, I always feel better by the time your show is over. So yeah. Thanks for that. I know you probably want an update on Atlas, and I’ll give you one in a second. But first I need to tell you about what happened yesterday. My mother is a teaching assistant over at Brimer Elementary. It’s a bit of a drive and that’s why she never gets home until around five o’clock. My dad works two miles from here, so he’s always home right after five. We have a garage, but only one car can fit in it because of all my dad’s stuff. My dad keeps his car in the garage and my mom keeps her car in the driveway. Well, yesterday my mom got home a little bit early. Atlas was still at the house and we were almost finished watching your show when I heard the garage door start to open. He ran out the back door and I rushed around the living room cleaning up our soda cans and snacks. It had started snowing really hard around lunchtime yesterday and my mother had a lot of stuff to carry in, so she pulled up in the garage so she could bring it all in through the kitchen door. It was work stuff and a few groceries. I was helping her bring everything inside when my dad pulled up in the driveway. He started honking his horn because he was mad that my mom was parked in the garage. I guess he didn’t want to have to get out of his car in the snow. That’s the only thing I can think of that would make him want her to move her car right then and there, instead of just waiting until she was finished unloading it. Come to think of it, why does my father always get the garage? You would think a man wouldn’t want the woman he loves to get the shittier parking spot. Anyway, my mother got that real scared look in her eye when he started honking and she told me to take all her stuff to the table while she moved her car out. I’m not sure what happened when she went back outside. I heard a crash, and then I heard her scream, so I ran to the garage thinking maybe she had slipped on ice. Ellen . . . I don’t even want to describe what happened next. I’m still a little shocked by the whole thing. I opened the garage door and didn’t see my mom. I just saw my dad behind the car doing something. I took a step closer and realized why I couldn’t see my mom. He had her pushed down on the hood with his hands around her throat. He was choking her, Ellen! I might cry just thinking about it. He was yelling at her, staring down at her with so much hatred. Something about not having respect for how hard he works. I don’t know why he was mad, really, because all I could hear was her silence while she struggled to breathe. The next few minutes are a blur, but I know I started screaming at him. I jumped on his back and I was hitting him on the side of his head. Then I wasn’t. I don’t really know what happened, but I’m guessing he threw me off of him. I just remembered one second I was on his back and the next second I was on the ground and my forehead hurt like you wouldn’t believe. My mom was sitting next to me, holding my head and telling me she was sorry. I looked around for my dad, but he wasn’t there. He’d gotten into his car and drove off after I hit my head. My mom gave me a rag and told me to hold it to my head because it was bleeding and then she helped me to her car and drove me to the hospital. On the way there she only said one thing to me. “When they ask you what happened, tell them you slipped on the ice.” When she said that, I just looked out my window and started crying. Because I thought for sure this was the final straw. That she would leave him now that he had hurt me. That was the moment I realized that she’d never leave him. I felt so defeated, but I was too scared to say anything to her about it. I had to get nine stitches in my forehead. I’m still not sure what I hit my head on, but it doesn’t really matter. The fact is, my father was the reason I was hurt and he didn’t even stay and check on me. He just left us both there on the floor of the garage and left. I got home really late last night and fell right to sleep because they had given me some kind of pain pill. This morning when I walked to the bus, I tried not to look directly at Atlas so he wouldn’t see my forehead. I had fixed my hair so that you couldn’t really see it and he didn’t notice right away. When we sat down next to each other on the bus, our hands touched when we were putting our stuff on the floor. His hands were like ice, Ellen. Ice. That’s when I realized that I forgot to give him the blankets I had pulled out for him yesterday because my mother got home sooner than I expected. The incident in the garage sort of took over all my thoughts and I completely forgot about him. It had snowed and iced all night and he had been over there at that house in the dark all by himself. And now he was so cold, I didn’t know how he was even functioning. I grabbed both of his hands in mine and said, “Atlas. You’re freezing.” He didn’t say anything. I just started rubbing his hands in mine to warm them up. I laid my head on his shoulder and then I did the most embarrassing thing. I just started to cry. I don’t cry very much, but I was still so upset by what happened yesterday and then I was feeling so guilty that I forgot to take him blankets and it all hit me right there on the ride to school. He didn’t say anything. He just pulled his hands from mine so I’d stop rubbing them and then he laid his hands on top of mine. We just sat there like that the whole ride to school with our heads leaned together and his hands on top of mine. I might have thought it was sweet if it wasn’t so sad. On the ride home from school is when he finally noticed my head. Honestly, I had forgotten about it. No one at school even asked me about it and when he sat down next to me on the bus, I wasn’t even trying to hide it with my hair. He looked right at me and said, “What happened to your head?” I didn’t know what to say to him. I just touched it with my fingers and then looked out the window. I’ve been trying to get him to trust me more in hopes he would tell me why he doesn’t have a place to live, so I didn’t want to lie to him. I just didn’t want to tell him the truth, either. When the bus started moving, he said, “Yesterday after I left your house, I heard something going on over there. I heard yelling. I heard you scream, and then I saw your father leave. I was going to come check on you to make sure everything was okay, but as I was walking over I saw you leaving in the car with your mother.” He must have heard the fight in the garage and saw her leaving to take me to get the stitches. I couldn’t believe he came over to our house. Do you know what my dad would do to him if he saw him wearing his clothes? I got so worried for him because I don’t think he knows what my father is capable of. I looked at him and said, “Atlas, you can’t do that! You can’t come to my house when my parents are home!” Atlas got real quiet and then said, “I heard you scream, Lily.” He said it like me being in danger trumped anything else. I felt bad because I know he was just trying to help, but that would have made things so much worse. “I fell,” I said to him. As soon as I said it, I felt bad for lying. And to be honest, he looked a little disappointed in me, because I think we both knew in that moment that it wasn’t as simple as a fall. Then he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and held out his arm. Ellen, my stomach dropped. It was so bad. All over his arm he had these small scars. Some of the scars looked just like someone had stuck a cigarette to his arm and held it there. He twisted his arm around so I could see that it was on the other side, too. “I used to fall a lot, too, Lily.” Then he pulled his shirtsleeve down and didn’t say anything else. For a second I wanted to tell him it wasn’t like that—that my dad never hurts me and that he was just trying to get me off of him. But then I realized I’d be using the same excuses my mom uses. I felt a little embarrassed that he knows what goes on at my house. I spent the whole rest of the bus ride looking out the window because I didn’t know what to say to him. When we got home, my mom’s car was there. In the driveway, of course. Not the garage. That meant Atlas couldn’t come over and watch your show with me. I was gonna tell him I would bring him blankets later, but when he got off the bus he didn’t even tell me bye. He just started walking down the street like he was mad. It’s dark now and I’m waiting on my parents to go to sleep. But in a little while I’m gonna take him some blankets. —Lily Dear Ellen, I’m in way over my head. Do you ever do things you know are wrong, but are somehow also right? I don’t know how to put it in simpler terms than that. I mean, I’m only fifteen and I certainly shouldn’t have boys spending the night in my bedroom. But if a person knows someone needs a place to stay, isn’t it that person’s responsibility as a human to help them? Last night after my parents went to sleep, I snuck out the back door to take Atlas those blankets. I took a flashlight with me because it was dark. It was still snowing really hard, so by the time I made it to that house, I was freezing. I beat on the back door and as soon as he opened it, I pushed past him to get out of the cold. Only . . . I didn’t get out of the cold. Somehow, it felt even colder inside that old house. I still had my flashlight on and I shined it around the living room and kitchen. There wasn’t anything in there, Ellen! No couch, no chair, no mattress. I handed the blankets off to him and kept looking around me. There was a big hole in the roof over the kitchen and wind and snow were just pouring in. When I shined my light around the living room, I saw his stuff in one of the corners. His backpack, plus the backpack I’d given him. There was a little pile of other stuff I’d given him, like some of my dad’s clothes. And then there were two towels on the floor. One I guess he laid on and one he covered up with. I put my hand over my mouth because I was so horrified. He’d been there living like that for weeks! Atlas put his hand on my back and tried to walk me back out the door. “You shouldn’t be over here, Lily,” he said. “You could get in trouble.” That’s when I grabbed his hand and said, “You shouldn’t be here, either.” I started to pull him out the front door with me, but he yanked his hand back. That’s when I said, “You can sleep on my floor tonight. I’ll keep my bedroom door locked. You can’t sleep here, Atlas. It’s too cold and you’ll get pneumonia and die.” He looked like he didn’t know what to do. I’m sure the thought of being caught in my bedroom was just as scary as getting pneumonia and dying. He looked back at his spot in the living room and then he just nodded his head once and said, “Okay.” So you tell me, Ellen. Was I wrong letting him sleep in my room last night? It doesn’t feel wrong. It felt like the right thing to do. But I sure would get in a lot of trouble if we had been caught. He slept on the floor, so it’s not like it was anything more than me just giving him somewhere warm to sleep. I did learn a little more about him last night. After I snuck him in the back door and to my room, I locked my door and made a pallet for him on the floor next to my bed. I set the alarm for 6 a.m. and told him he’d have to get up and leave before my parents woke up, since sometimes my mom wakes me up in the mornings. I crawled in my bed and scooted over to the edge of it so I could look down at him while we talked for a little while. I asked him how long he thought he might stay there and he said he didn’t know. That’s when I asked him how he ended up there. My lamp was still on, and we were whispering, but he got real quiet when I said that. He just stared up at me with his hands behind his head for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t know my real dad. He never had anything to do with me. It’s always just been me and my mom, but she got remarried about five years ago to a guy who never really liked me much. We fought a lot. When I turned eighteen a few months ago, we got in a big fight and he kicked me out of the house.” He took a deep breath like he didn’t want to tell me any more. But then he started talking again. “I’ve been staying with a friend of mine and his family since then, but his dad got a transfer to Colorado and they moved. They couldn’t take me with them, of course. His parents were just being nice by letting me stay with them and I knew that, so I told them I talked to my mom and that I was moving back home. The day they left, I didn’t have anywhere to go. So I went back home and told my mom I’d like to move back in until I graduated. She wouldn’t let me. Said it would upset my stepfather.” He turned his head and looked at the wall. “So I just wandered around for a few days until I saw that house. Figured I would just stay there until something better came along or until I graduated. I’m signed up to go to the Marines come May, so I’m just trying to hang on until then.” May is six months away, Ellen. Six. I had tears in my eyes when he finished telling me all that. I asked him why he didn’t just ask someone if they could help him. He said he tried, but it’s harder for an adult than a kid, and he’s already eighteen. He said someone gave him a number for some shelters who might help him. There were three shelters in a twenty-mile radius of our town, but two of them were for battered women. The other one was a homeless shelter, but they only had a few beds and it was too far away for him to walk there if he wanted to go to school every day. Plus, you have to wait in a long line to try and get a bed. He said he tried it once, but he feels safer in that old house than he did at the shelter. Like the na?ve girl I am when it comes to situations like his, I said, “But aren’t there other options? Can’t you just tell the school counselor what your mom did?” He shook his head and said he’s too old for foster care. He’s eighteen, so his mother can’t get in trouble for not allowing him to go back home. He said he called about getting food stamps last week, but he didn’t have a ride or money to get to his appointment. Not to mention he doesn’t have a car, so he can’t very well find a job. He said he’s been looking, though. After he leaves my house in the afternoons he goes and applies at places, but he doesn’t have an address or a phone number to put down on the applications so that makes it harder for him. I swear, Ellen, every question I threw at him, he had an answer for. It’s like he’s tried everything not to be stuck in the situation he’s in, but there isn’t enough help out there for people like him. I got so mad at his whole situation, I told him he was crazy for wanting to go into the military. I wasn’t so much whispering when I said, “Why in the heck would you want to serve a country that has allowed you to end up in this kind of situation?” You know what he said next, Ellen? His eyes grew sad and he said, “It’s not this country’s fault my mother doesn’t give a shit about me.” Then he reached up and turned off my lamp. “Goodnight, Lily,” he said. I didn’t sleep much after that. I was too mad. I’m not even sure who I’m mad at. I just kept thinking about our country and the whole world and how screwed up it is that people don’t do more for each other. I don’t know when humans started only looking out for themselves. Maybe it’s always been this way. It made me wonder how many people out there were just like Atlas. It made me wonder if there were other kids at our school who might be homeless. I go to school every day and internally complain about it most of the time, but I’ve never once thought that school might be the only home some kids have. It’s the only place Atlas can go and know he’ll have food. I’ll never be able to respect rich people now, knowing they willingly choose to spend their money on materialistic things rather than using it to help other people. No offense, Ellen. I know you’re rich, but I guess I’m not referring to people like you. I’ve seen all the stuff you’ve done for others on your show and all the charities you support. But I know there are a lot of rich people out there who are selfish. Hell, there are even selfish poor people. And selfish middle-class people. Look at my parents. We aren’t rich, but we certainly aren’t too poor to help other people. Yet, I don’t think my dad has ever done anything for a charity. I remember one time we were walking into a grocery store and an old man was ringing a bell for the Salvation Army. I asked my dad if we could give him some money and he told me no, that he works hard for his money and he wasn’t about to let me give it away. He said it isn’t his fault that other people don’t want to work. He spent the whole time we were in the grocery store telling me about how people take advantage of the government and until the government stops helping those people by giving them handouts, the problem won’t ever go away. Ellen, I believed him. That was three years ago and all this time I thought homeless people were homeless because they were lazy or drug addicts or just didn’t want to work like other people. But now I know that’s not true. Sure, some of what he said was true to an extent, but he was using the worst-case scenarios. Not everyone is homeless because they choose to be. They’re homeless because there isn’t enough help to go around. And people like my father are the problem. Instead of helping others, people use the worst-case scenarios to excuse their own selfishness and greed. I’ll never be like that. I swear to you, when I grow up, I’m going to do everything I can to help other people. I’ll be like you, Ellen. Just probably not as rich. —Lily Chapter Nine I drop the journal on my chest. I’m surprised to feel tears running down my cheeks. Every time I pick up this journal I think I’ll be fine—that it all happened so long ago and I won’t still feel what I felt back then. I’m such a sap. It gives me this longing to hug so many people from my past. Especially my mother because for the past year, I haven’t really thought about everything she had to go through before my father died. I know it probably still hurts her. I grab my phone to call her and look at the screen. There are four missed texts from Ryle. My heart immediately skips. I can’t believe I had it on silent! Then I roll my eyes, annoyed with myself, because I should not be this excited. Ryle: Are you asleep? Ryle: I guess so. Ryle: Lily . . . Ryle. : ( The sad face was sent ten minutes ago. I hit Reply and type, “Nope. Not asleep.” About ten seconds later, I get another text. Ryle: Good. I’m walking up your stairs right now. Be there in twenty seconds. I grin and jump out of bed. I go to the bathroom and check my face. Good enough. I run to the front door and open it as soon as Ryle makes it up the stairwell. He practically drags himself up the top step, and then stops to rest when he finally reaches my door. He looks so tired. His eyes are red and there are dark circles under them. His arms slip around my waist and he pulls me to him, burying his face in my neck. “You smell so good,” he says. I pull him inside the apartment. “Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat.” He shakes his head as he wrestles out of his jacket, so I skip the kitchen and head for the bedroom. He follows me, and then throws his jacket over the back of the chair. He kicks off his shoes and pushes them against the wall. He’s wearing scrubs. “You look exhausted,” I say. He smiles and puts his hands on my hips. “I am. I just assisted in an eighteen-hour surgery.” He bends down and kisses the heart tattoo on my collarbone. No wonder he’s exhausted. “How is that even possible?” I say. “Eighteen hours?” He nods and then walks me to the side of the bed where he pulls me down next to him. We adjust ourselves until we’re facing each other, sharing a pillow. “Yeah, but it was amazing. Groundbreaking. They’ll write about it in medical journals, and I got to be there, so I’m not complaining. I’m just really tired.” I lean in and give him a peck on the mouth. He brings his hand to the side of my head and pulls back. “I know you’re probably ready to have hot, sweaty sex, but I don’t have the energy tonight. I’m sorry. But I’ve missed you and for some reason I sleep better when I sleep next to you. Is it okay that I’m here?” I smile. “It’s more than okay.” He leans in and kisses my forehead. He grabs my hand and then holds it between us on the pillow. His eyes close, but I keep mine open and stare at him. He has the type of face that people shy away from, because you could get lost in it. And to think, I get to look at this face all the time. I don’t have to be modest and look away, because he’s mine. Maybe. This is a trial run. I have to remember that. After a minute, he releases my hand and begins to flex his fingers. I look down at his hand and wonder what that must be like . . . to have to stand for so long and use your fine motor skills for eighteen hours straight. I can’t think of much else that would match that level of exhaustion. I slide out of the bed and retrieve some lotion out of my bathroom. I go back to the bed and sit cross-legged next to him. I squirt some lotion on my hand and then pull his arm to my lap. He opens his eyes and looks up at me. “What are you doing?” he mumbles. “Shh. Go back to sleep,” I say. I press my thumbs into the palm of his hand and rotate them upward and then out. His eyes fall shut and he groans into the pillow. I continue massaging his hand for about five minutes before switching to his other hand. He keeps his eyes closed the whole time. When I’m finished with his hands, I roll him onto his stomach and straddle his back. He assists me in pulling off his shirt, but his arms are like noodles. I massage his shoulders and his neck and his back and his arms. When I’m finished, I roll off of him and lie down beside him. I’m running my fingers through his hair and massaging his scalp when he opens his eyes. “Lily?” he whispers, looking at me sincerely. “You just might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Those words wrap around me like a warm blanket. I don’t know what to say in response. He lifts a hand and gently cups my cheek, and I feel his stare deep in my stomach. Slowly, he leans forward and presses his lips to mine. I expect a peck, but he doesn’t pull back. The tip of his tongue slides across my lips, parting them softly. His mouth is so warm, I moan as his kiss grows deeper. He rolls me onto my back and then drags his hand down my body, straight to my hip. He moves closer, sliding his hand down my thigh. He pushes against me and a surge of heat shoots inside me. I grab a fistful of his hair and whisper against his mouth. “I think we’ve waited long enough. I would very much like for you to fuck me now.” He practically growls with a renewed sense of energy and begins to pull my shirt off. It becomes an interlude of hands and moans and tongues and sweat. I feel like this is the first time I’ve ever been touched by a man. The few who came before him were all boys—nervous hands and timid mouths. But Ryle is all confidence. He knows exactly where to touch me and exactly how to kiss me. The only time he’s not giving my body his undivided attention is when he reaches to the floor and fishes a condom out of his wallet. Once he’s back under the covers and the condom is in place, he doesn’t even hesitate. He takes me brazenly in one swift thrust and I gasp into his mouth, every muscle in me tensing. His mouth is fierce and needy, kissing me everywhere he can reach. I grow so dizzy, I can do nothing but succumb to him. He’s unapologetic in the way he fucks me. His hand comes between my headboard and the top of my head as he pushes harder and harder, the bed crashing against the wall with every push. My fingernails dig into the skin of his back as he buries his face against my neck. “Ryle,” I whisper. “Oh, God,” I say. “Ryle!” I scream. And then I bite down on his shoulder to muffle every sound that comes after it. My whole body feels it—from my head to my toes and back up again. I’m afraid I might literally pass out for a moment, so I tighten my legs around him and he tenses. “Jesus, Lily.” His body ripples with tremors, and he shoves against me one last time. He groans, stilling himself on top of me. His body jerks with his release and my head falls back against the pillow. It’s a full minute before either of us is able to move. And even then, we choose not to. He presses his face into the pillow and lets out a deep sigh. “I can’t . . .” He pulls back and looks down at me. His eyes are full of something . . . I don’t know what. He presses his lips to mine and then says, “You were so right.” “About what?” He slowly pulls out of me, coming down on his forearms. “You warned me. You said one time with you wouldn’t be enough. You said you were like a drug. But you failed to tell me you were the most addictive kind.” Chapter Ten “Can I ask you a personal question?” Allysa nods as she perfects a bouquet of flowers about to go out for delivery. We’re three days away from our grand opening, and it just keeps getting busier by the day. “What is it?” Allysa asks, facing me. She leans into the counter and starts picking at her fingernails. “You don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to,” I warn. “Well I can’t answer it if you don’t ask it.” That’s a good point. “Do you and Marshall donate to charity?” Confusion crosses her face and she says, “Yeah. Why?” I shrug. “I was just curious. I wouldn’t judge you or anything. I’ve just been thinking lately about how I might like to start a charity.” “What kind of charity?” she asks. “We donate to a few different ones now that we have money, but my favorite is this one we got involved with last year. They build schools in other countries. We’ve funded three new constructions in the past year alone.” I knew I liked her for a reason. “I don’t have that kind of money, obviously, but I’d like to do something. I just don’t know what yet.” “Let’s get through this grand opening first and then you can start thinking about philanthropy. One dream at a time, Lily.” She walks around the counter and grabs the trash can. I watch as she pulls the full bag out of it and ties it in a knot. It makes me wonder why—if she has people for everything—she would even want a job where she had to take out the trash and get her hands dirty. “Why do you work here?” I ask her. She glances up at me and smiles. “Because I like you,” she says. But then I notice the smile completely leave her eyes right before she turns and walks toward the back to throw out the trash. When she comes back, I’m still watching her curiously. I say it again. “Allysa? Why do you work here?” She stops what she’s doing and takes in a slow breath like maybe she’s contemplating being honest with me. She walks back to the counter and leans against it, crossing her feet at her ankles. “Because,” she says, looking down at her feet. “I can’t get pregnant. We’ve been trying for two years but nothing has worked. I was tired of sitting at home crying all the time, so I decided I should find something to keep my mind busy.” She stands up straight and wipes her hands across her jeans. “And you, Lily Bloom, are keeping me very busy.” She turns and starts messing with the same bouquet of flowers again. She’s been perfecting them for half an hour. She picks up a card and stuffs it in the flowers, and then turns around and hands me the vase. “These are for you, by the way.” It’s obvious Allysa wants to change the subject, so I take the flowers from her. “What do you mean?” She rolls her eyes and waves me off to my office. “It’s on the card. Go read it.” I can tell by her annoyed reaction that they’re from Ryle. I grin and run to my office. I take a seat at my desk and pull out the card. Lily, I’m having serious withdrawals. —Ryle I smile and put the card back in the envelope. I grab my phone and snap a picture of me holding the flowers with my tongue sticking out. I text it to Ryle. Me: I tried to warn you. He immediately starts texting me back. I watch anxiously as the dots on my phone move back and forth. Ryle: I need my next fix. I’ll be finished here in about thirty minutes. Can I take you to dinner? Me: Can’t. Mom wants me to try a new restaurant with her tonight. She’s an obnoxious foodie. : ( Ryle: I like food. I eat food. Where are you taking her? Me: A place called Bib’s on Marketson. Ryle: Is there room for one more? I stare at his text for a moment. He wants to meet my mother? We aren’t even officially dating. I mean . . . I don’t care if he meets my mother. She would love him. But he went from not wanting anything to do with relationships, to possibly agreeing to test-drive one, to meeting the parents, all within five days? Good God. I really am a drug. Me: Sure. Meet us there in half an hour. I walk out of my office and straight up to Allysa. I hold my phone in front of her face. “He wants to meet my mother.” “Who?” “Ryle.” “My brother?” she says, looking as shocked as I feel. I nod. “Your brother. My mother.” She grabs my phone and looks at the texts. “Huh. That’s so weird.” I take my phone from her hands. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She laughs and says, “You know what I mean. It’s Ryle we’re talking about here. He’s never, in the history of being Ryle Kincaid, met a girl’s parents.” Of course hearing her say that makes me smile, but then I wonder if maybe he’s doing this just to please me. If maybe he’s doing things he doesn’t really want to do just because he knows I want a relationship. And then I smile even bigger, because isn’t that what it’s all about? Sacrificing for the person you like so that you can see them happy? “Your brother must really like me,” I say teasingly. I look back up at Allysa, expecting her to laugh, but there’s a solemn look on her face. She nods and says, “Yeah. I’m afraid he does.” She grabs her purse from beneath the counter and says, “I’m gonna head out now. Let me know how it goes, okay?” She moves past me and I watch her as she makes her way out the door, and then I just stare at the door for a long time. It bothers me that she doesn’t seem excited about the prospect of me dating Ryle. It makes me wonder if that has more to do with her feelings toward me or her feelings toward him. • • • Twenty minutes later, I flip the sign to closed. Just a few more days. I lock the door and walk to my car, but stop short when I see someone leaning against it. It takes me a moment to recognize him. He’s facing the other direction, talking on his cell phone. I thought he was meeting me at the restaurant, but okay. The horn beeps on my car when I hit the Unlock button, and Ryle spins around. He grins when he sees me. “Yes, I agree,” he says into the phone. He wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me against him, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” he says. “Something really important just came up.” He hangs up the phone and slides it into his pocket, then he kisses me. It’s not a hello kiss. It’s an I’ve-been-thinking-about-you-nonstop kiss. He wraps both arms around me and spins me until I’m backed up against my car, where he continues to kiss me until I start to feel dizzy again. When he pulls back, he’s looking down at me appreciatively. “You know which part of you drives me the craziest?” He brings his fingers to my mouth and traces my smile. “These,” he says. “Your lips. I love how they’re as red as your hair and you don’t even have to wear lipstick.” I grin and kiss his fingers. “I better watch you around my mom, then, because everyone says we have the same mouth.” He pauses his fingers against my lips and he stops smiling. “Lily. Just . . . no.” I laugh and open my door. “Are we taking separate cars?” He pulls the door open for me the rest of the way and says, “I took an Uber here from work. We’ll ride together.” • • • My mother is already seated at a table when we arrive. Her back is to the door as I lead the way. I’m instantly impressed by the restaurant. My eyes are drawn to the warm, neutral colors painted on the walls and the almost full-sized tree in the middle of the restaurant. It looks like it’s growing straight out of the floor, almost as if the entire restaurant was designed around the tree. Ryle follows closely behind me with his hand on my lower back. Once we reach the table, I begin to pull off my jacket. “Hey, Mom.” She looks up from her phone and says, “Oh, hey, honey.” She drops her phone in her purse and waves her hand around the restaurant. “I already love it. Look at the lighting,” she says, pointing up. “The fixtures look like something you’d grow in one of your gardens.” That’s when she notices Ryle, who is standing patiently next to me as I slide into the booth. My mother smiles at him and says, “We’ll take two waters for now, please.” My eyes dart to Ryle and then back to my mother. “Mom. He’s with me. He’s not the waiter.” She looks up at Ryle again with confusion. He just smiles and reaches out his hand. “Honest mistake, ma’am. I’m Ryle Kincaid.” She returns the handshake, looking back and forth between us. He releases her hand and slides into the booth. She looks a little flustered when she finally says, “Jenny Bloom. Nice to meet you.” She places her attention back on me and raises an eyebrow. “A friend of yours, Lily?” I can’t believe I’m not better prepared for this moment. What in the heck do I introduce him as? My trial run? I can’t say boyfriend, but I can’t very well say friend. Prospect seems a little dated. Ryle notices my pause, so he puts his hand on my knee and squeezes reassuringly. “My sister works for Lily,” he says. “Have you met her? Allysa?” My mother leans forward in her booth and says, “Oh! Yes! Of course. You two look so much alike now that you mention it,” she says. “It’s the eyes, I think. And the mouth.” He nods. “We both favor our mother.” My mother smiles at me. “People always say they think Lily favors me.” “Yes,” he says. “Identical mouths. Uncanny.” Ryle squeezes my knee under the table again while I try and suppress my laughter. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I need to head to the gentlemen’s room.” He leans in and kisses me on the side of the head before standing. “If the waiter comes, I’ll just take water.” My mother’s eyes follow Ryle as he walks away, and then she slowly turns back to me. She points at me and then to his empty seat. “How come I haven’t heard about this guy?” I smile a little. “Things are kind of . . . it’s not really . . .” I have no idea how to explain our situation to my mother. “He works a lot, so we haven’t really spent that much time together. At all. This is actually the first time we’ve been to dinner together.” My mother raises an eyebrow. “Really?” she says, leaning back in her seat. “He sure doesn’t treat it like that. I mean—he seems comfortably affectionate with you. Not normal behavior with someone you’ve just met.” “We didn’t just meet,” I say. “It’s been almost a year since the first time I met him. And we’ve spent time together, just not on a date. He works a lot.” “Where does he work?” “Massachusetts General Hospital.” My mother leans forward and her eyes practically bulge from her head. “Lily!” she hisses. “He’s a doctor?” I nod, suppressing my grin. “A neurosurgeon.” “Can I get you ladies something to drink?” a waiter asks. “Yeah,” I say. “We’ll take three . . .” And then I clamp my mouth shut. I stare at the waiter and the waiter stares back at me. My heart is in my throat. I can’t remember how to speak. “Lily?” my mother says. She flicks her hand toward the waiter. “He’s waiting for your drink order.” I shake my head and begin to stutter. “I’ll . . . um . . .” “Three waters,” my mother says, interrupting my fumbled words. The waiter snaps out of his trance long enough to tap his pencil on his pad of paper. “Three waters,” he says. “Got it.” He turns and walks away, but I watch as he glances back at me before pushing through the doors to the kitchen. My mother leans forward and says, “What in the world is wrong with you?” I point over my shoulder. “The waiter,” I say, shaking my head. “He looked exactly like . . .” I’m about to say, “Atlas Corrigan,” when Ryle walks up and slides back into the seat. He glances back and forth between us. “What’d I miss?” I swallow hard, shaking my head. Surely that wasn’t really Atlas. But those eyes—his mouth. I know it’s been years since I saw him, but I’ll never forget what he looked like. It had to be him. I know it was and I know he recognized me, too, because the second our eyes met . . . it looked like he’d seen a ghost. “Lily?” Ryle says, squeezing my hand. “You okay?” I nod and force a smile, then clear my throat. “Yep. We were just talking about you,” I say, glancing back at my mother. “Ryle assisted in an eighteen-hour surgery this week.” My mother leans forward with interest. Ryle begins to tell her all about the surgery. Our water arrives, but it’s a different waiter this time. He asks if we’ve had a chance to go over the menu and then tells us the chef’s specials. The three of us order our food and I’m doing everything I can to focus, but my attention is all over the restaurant looking for Atlas. I need to regroup. After a few minutes, I lean over to Ryle. “I need to run to the restroom.” He stands up to let me out and my eyes are scanning the face of every waiter as I make my way across the room. I push through the door to the hallway that leads to the restrooms. As soon as I’m alone, my back meets the wall of the hallway. I lean forward and release a huge breath. I decide to take a moment and regain my composure before heading back out there. I bring my hands up to my forehead and close my eyes. For nine years I’ve wondered what happened to him. Years. “Lily?” I glance up and suck in a breath. He’s standing at the end of the hallway like a ghost straight out of the past. My eyes travel to his feet to make sure he’s not suspended in the air. He isn’t. He’s real, and he’s standing right in front of me. I stay pressed against the wall, not sure what to say to him. “Atlas?” As soon as I say his name, he blows out a quick breath of relief and then takes three huge steps forward. I catch myself doing the same. We meet in the middle and throw our arms around each other. “Holy shit,” he says, holding me in a tight embrace. I nod. “Yeah. Holy shit.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and takes a step back to look at me. “You haven’t changed at all.” I cover my mouth with my hand, still in shock, and give him the once-over. His face looks the same, but he’s no longer the scrawny teenager I remember. “I can’t say the same for you.” He looks down at himself and laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Eight years in the military will do that to ya.” We’re both in shock, so nothing is said right after that. We just keep shaking our heads in disbelief. He laughs and then I laugh. Finally, he releases my shoulders and folds his arms over his chest. “What brings you to Boston?” he asks. He says it so casually, and I’m thankful for that. Maybe he doesn’t remember our conversation all those years ago about Boston, which would save me a lot of embarrassment. “I live here,” I say, forcing my answer to sound as casual as his question. “I own a flower shop over on Park Plaza.” He smiles knowingly, like it doesn’t at all surprise him. I glance toward the door, knowing I should get back out there. He notices and then takes another step back. He holds my gaze for a moment and it gets really quiet. Way too quiet. There’s so much to say but neither of us even knows where to start. The smile leaves his eyes for a moment and then he motions toward the door. “You should probably get back to your company,” he says. “I’ll look you up sometime. You said Park Plaza, right?” I nod. He nods. The door swings open and a woman walks in holding a toddler. She moves between us, which puts even more distance between us. I take a step toward the door, but he remains in the same spot. Before I walk out, I turn back to him and smile. “It was really good to see you, Atlas.” He smiles a little, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “Yeah. You too, Lily.” • • • I’m mostly quiet for the rest of the meal. I’m not sure Ryle or my mother even notice, though, because she’s having no issue firing question after question at him. He takes it like a champ. He’s very charming with my mother in all the right ways. Unexpectedly running into Atlas tonight put such a wrinkle in my emotions, but by the end of dinner, Ryle has smoothed them back out again. My mother takes her napkin and wipes her mouth, then points at me. “New favorite restaurant,” she says. “Incredible.” Ryle nods. “I agree. I need to bring Allysa here. She loves trying new restaurants.” The food really is good, but the last thing I need is for either of these two to want to come back here. “It was okay,” I say. He pays for our meals, of course, and then insists we walk my mother to her car. I can already tell she’ll be calling me about him tonight, simply by the prideful look on her face. Once she’s gone, Ryle walks me to my car. “I requested an Uber so you wouldn’t have to go out of your way to take me home. We have approximately . . .” He looks down at his phone. “One and a half minutes to make out.” I laugh. He wraps his arms around me and kisses my neck first, and then my cheek. “I would invite myself over, but I have an early surgery tomorrow and I’m sure my patient would appreciate it if I didn’t spend the majority of the night inside you.” I kiss him back, both disappointed and relieved he’s not coming over. “I have a grand opening in a few days. I should probably sleep, too.” “When’s your next day off?” he says. “Never. When’s yours?” “Never.” I shake my head. “We’re doomed. There’s just too much drive and success between the two of us.” “That means the honeymoon phase will last until we’re eighty,” he says. “I’ll come to your grand opening Friday and then the four of us will go out and celebrate.” A car pulls up beside us and he wraps his hand in my hair and kisses me goodbye. “Your mother is wonderful, by the way. Thank you for letting me come to dinner.” He backs away and climbs inside the car. I watch as it pulls out of the parking lot. I have a really good feeling about that man. I smile and turn toward my car, but throw a hand up to my chest and gasp when I see him. Atlas is standing at the rear of my car. “Sorry. Wasn’t trying to scare you.” I blow out a breath. “Well, you did.” I lean against the car and Atlas stays where he is, three feet away from me. He looks out at the street. “So? Who’s the lucky guy?” “He’s . . .” My voice falters. This is all so weird. My chest is still constricted and my stomach is flipping, and I can’t tell if it’s leftover nerves from kissing Ryle or if it’s the presence of Atlas. “His name is Ryle. We met about a year ago.” I instantly regret saying we met that long ago. It makes it sound like Ryle and I have been dating that long and we aren’t even officially dating. “What about you? Married? Have a girlfriend?” I’m not sure if I’m asking to extend the conversation he started, or if I’m genuinely curious. “I do, actually. Her name is Cassie. We’ve been together almost a year now.” Heartburn. I think I have heartburn. A year? I place my hand on my chest and nod. “That’s good. You seem happy.” Does he seem happy? I have no idea. “Yeah. Well . . . I’m really glad I got to see you, Lily.” He turns around to walk away, but then spins and faces me again, his hands shoved in his back pockets. “I will say . . . I kind of wish this could have happened a year ago.” I wince at his words, trying not to let them penetrate. He turns and walks back toward the restaurant. I fumble with my keys and hit the button to unlock the car. I slide in and pull the door shut, gripping the steering wheel. For whatever reason, a huge tear falls down my cheek. A huge, pathetic, what-the-hell-is-this-wetness tear. I swipe at it and push the button to start my car. I didn’t expect to feel this much hurt after seeing him. But it’s good. This happened for a reason. My heart needed closure so I can give it to Ryle, but maybe I couldn’t do that until this happened. This is good. Yes, I’m crying. But it’ll feel better. This is just human nature, healing an old wound to prepare for a fresh new layer. That’s all. Chapter Eleven I curl up in my bed and stare at it. I’m almost finished with it. There aren’t very many more entries. I pick up the journal and place it on the pillow beside me. “I’m not going to read you,” I whisper. Although, if I read what’s left, I’ll be finished. Having seen Atlas tonight and knowing he has a girlfriend and a job and more than likely a home is enough closure I need on that chapter. And if I just finish the damn journal, I can put it back in the shoebox and never have to open it again. I finally pick it up and roll onto my back. “Ellen DeGeneres, you are such a bitch.” Dear Ellen, “Just keep swimming.” Recognize that quote, Ellen? It’s what Dory says to Marlin in Finding Nemo. “Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming.” I’m not a huge fan of cartoons, but I’ll give you props for that one. I like cartoons that can make you laugh, but also make you feel something. After today, I think that’s my favorite cartoon. Because I’ve been feeling like drowning lately, and sometimes people need a reminder that they just need to keep swimming. Atlas got sick. Like really sick. He’s been crawling through my window and sleeping on the floor for a few nights in a row now, but last night, I knew something was wrong as soon as I looked at him. It was a Sunday, so I hadn’t seen him since the night before, but he looked awful. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin was pale, and even though it was cold, his hair was sweaty. I didn’t even ask if he was feeling okay, I already knew he wasn’t. I put my hand on his forehead and he was so hot, I almost yelled for my mother. He said, “I’ll be fine, Lily,” and then he started to make his pallet on the floor. I told him to wait there and then I went to the kitchen and poured him a glass of water. I found some medicine in the cabinet. It was flu medicine and I wasn’t even sure if that’s what was wrong with him, but I made him take some anyway. He laid there on the floor, curled up into a ball, when, about half an hour later he said, “Lily? I think I’m gonna need a trash can.” I jumped up and grabbed the trash can from under my desk and knelt down in front of him. As soon as I set it down, he hunched over it and started throwing up. God, I felt bad for him. Being so sick and not having a bathroom or a bed or a house or a mother. All he had was me and I didn’t even know what to do for him. When he was finished, I made him drink some water and then I told him to get on the bed. He refused, but I wasn’t having it. I put the trash can on the floor next to the bed and made him move to the bed. He was so hot and shaking so bad I was just scared to leave him on the floor. I laid down next to him and every hour for the next six hours he continued getting sick. I kept having to take the trash can to the bathroom to empty it out. I’m not gonna lie, it was gross. The grossest night I’ve ever had, but what else could I do? He needed me to help him and I was all he had. When it came time for him to leave my room this morning, I told him to go back to his house and I’d be over to check on him before school. I’m surprised he even had the energy to crawl out of my window. I left the trash can next to my bed and waited for my mom to come wake me up. When she did, she saw the trash can and immediately held her hand to my forehead. “Lily, are you okay?” I groaned and shook my head. “No. I was up all night sick. I think it’s over now, but I haven’t slept.” She picked up the trash can and told me to stay in bed, that she’d call the school and let them know I wasn’t coming. After she left for work, I went and got Atlas and told him he could stay with me at the house all day. He was still getting sick, so I let him use my room to sleep. I’d check on him every half hour or so and finally around lunch he stopped throwing up. He went and took a shower and then I made him some soup. He was too tired to even eat it. I got a blanket and we both sat down on the couch and covered up together. I don’t know when I started feeling comfortable enough to snuggle up to him, but it just felt right. A few minutes later, he leaned over a little and pressed his lips against my collarbone, right between my shoulder and my neck. It was a quick kiss and I don’t think he meant for it to be romantic. It was more like a thank-you gesture, without using actual words. But it made me feel all kinds of things. It’s been a few hours now and I keep touching that spot with my fingers because I can still feel it. I know it was probably the worst day of his life, Ellen. But it was one of my favorites. I feel really bad about that. We watched Finding Nemo and when that part came up where Marlin was looking for Nemo and he was feeling really defeated, Dory said to him, “When life gets you down do you wanna know what you’ve gotta do? . . . Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming.” Atlas grabbed my hand when Dory said that. He didn’t hold it like a boyfriend holds his girlfriend’s hand. He squeezed it, like he was saying that was us. He was Marlin and I was Dory, and I was helping him swim. “Just keep swimming,” I whispered to him. —Lily Dear Ellen, I’m scared. So scared. I like him a lot. He’s all I think about when we’re together and I feel worried sick about him when we’re not. My life is beginning to revolve around him and that’s not good, I know. But I can’t help it and I don’t know what to do about it, and now he might leave. He left after we finished watching Finding Nemo yesterday and then when my parents went to bed, he crawled in my window last night. He had slept in my bed the night before because he was sick, and I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I put his blankets in the washing machine right before I went to bed. He asked where his pallet was and I told him he’d have to sleep on the bed again because I wanted to wash his blankets and make sure they were clean so he wouldn’t get sick again. For a minute, it looked like he was going to go back out the window. But then he shut it and took off his shoes and crawled in the bed with me. He wasn’t sick anymore, but when he laid down I thought maybe I had gotten sick because my stomach felt queasy. But I wasn’t sick. I just always feel queasy when he’s that close to me. We were facing each other on the bed when he said, “When do you turn sixteen?” “Two more months,” I whispered. We just kept staring at each other, and my heart was beating faster and faster. “When do you turn nineteen?” I asked, just trying to make conversation so he couldn’t hear how hard I was breathing. “Not until October,” he said. I nodded. I wondered why he was curious about my age and it made me wonder what he thought about fifteen-year-olds. Did he look at me like I was just a little kid? Like a little sister? I was almost sixteen, and two and a half years apart in age isn’t that bad. Maybe when two people are fifteen and eighteen, it might seem a little too far apart. But once I turn sixteen, I bet no one would even think twice about a two-and-a-half-year age difference. “I need to tell you something,” he said. I held my breath, not knowing what he was going to say. “I got in touch with my uncle today. My mom and I used to live with him in Boston. He told me once he gets back from his work trip I can stay with him.” I should have been so happy for him in that moment. I should have smiled and told him congratulations. But I felt all of the immaturity of my age when I closed my eyes and felt sorry for myself. “Are you going?” I asked. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I wanted to talk to you about it first.” He was so close to me on the bed, I could feel the warmth of his breath. I also noticed he smelled like mint, and it made me wonder if he uses bottled water to brush his teeth before he comes over here. I always send him home every day with lots of water. I brought my hand up to the pillow and started pulling at a feather sticking out of it. When I got it all the way out, I twisted it between my fingers. “I don’t know what to say, Atlas. I’m happy you have a place to stay. But what about school?” “I could finish down there,” he said. I nodded. It sounded like he already made up his mind. “When are you leaving?” I wondered how far away Boston is. It’s probably a few hours, but that’s a whole world away when you don’t own a car. “I don’t know for sure that I am.” I dropped the feather back onto the pillow and brought my hand to my side. “What’s stopping you? Your uncle is offering you a place to stay. That’s good, right?” He tightened his lips together and nodded. Then he picked up the feather I’d been playing with and he started twisting it between his fingers. He laid it back down on the pillow and then he did something I wasn’t expecting. He moved his fingers to my lips and he touched them. God, Ellen. I thought I was gonna die right then and there. It was the most I’d ever felt inside my body at one time. He kept his fingers there for a few seconds, and he said, “Thank you, Lily. For everything.” He moved his fingers up and through my hair, and then he leaned forward and planted a kiss on my forehead. I was breathing so hard, I had to open my mouth to catch more air. I could see his chest moving just as hard as mine was. He looked down at me and I watched as his eyes went right to my mouth. “Have you ever been kissed, Lily?” I shook my head no and tilted my face up to his because I needed him to change that right then and there or I wasn’t gonna be able to breathe. Then—almost as if I were made of eggshells—he lowered his mouth to mine and just rested it there. I didn’t know what to do next, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care if we just stayed like that all night and never even moved our mouths, it was everything. His lips closed over mine and I could kind of feel his hand shaking. I did what he was doing and started to move my lips like he was. I felt the tip of his tongue brush across my lips once and I thought my eyes were about to roll back in my head. He did it again, and then a third time, so I finally did it, too. When our tongues touched for the first time, I kind of smiled a little, because I’d thought about my first kiss a lot. Where it would be, who it would be with. Never in a million years did I imagine it would feel like this. He pushed me on my back and pressed his hand against my cheek and kept kissing me. It just got better and better as I grew more comfortable. My favorite moment was when he pulled back for a second and looked down at me, then came back even harder. I don’t know how long we kissed. A long time. So long, my mouth started to hurt and my eyes couldn’t stay open. When we fell asleep, I’m pretty sure his mouth was still touching mine. We didn’t talk about Boston again. I still don’t know if he’s leaving. —Lily • • • Dear Ellen, I need to apologize to you. It’s been a week since I’ve written to you and a week since I’ve watched your show. Don’t worry, I still record it so you’ll get the ratings, but every day we get off the bus, Atlas takes a quick shower and then we make out. Every day. It’s awesome. I don’t know what it is about him, but I feel so comfortable with him. He’s so sweet and thoughtful. He never does anything I don’t feel comfortable with, but so far he hasn’t tried anything I don’t feel comfortable with. I’m not sure how much I should divulge here, since you and I have never met in person. But let me just say that if he’s ever wondered what my boobs feel like . . . Now he knows. I can’t for the life of me figure out how people function from day to day when they like someone this much. If it were up to me, we would kiss all day and all night and do nothing in between except maybe talk a little. He tells funny stories. I love it when he’s in a talkative mood because it doesn’t happen very often, but he uses his hands a lot. He smiles a lot, too, and I love his smile even more than I love his kiss. And sometimes I just tell him to shut up and stop smiling or kissing or talking so I can stare at him. I like looking at his eyes. They’re so blue that he could be standing across a room and a person could tell how blue his eyes were. The only thing I don’t like about kissing him sometimes is when he closes his eyes. And no. We still haven’t talked about Boston. —Lily Dear Ellen, Yesterday afternoon when we were riding the bus, Atlas kissed me. It wasn’t anything new to us because we had kissed a lot by this point, but it’s the first time he ever did it in public. When we’re together everything else just seems to fade away, so I don’t think he even thought about other people noticing. But Katie noticed. She was sitting in the seat behind us and I heard her say, “Gross,” as soon as he leaned over and kissed me. She was talking to the girl next to her when she said, “I can’t believe Lily lets him touch her. He wears the same clothes almost every day.” Ellen, I was so mad. I also felt awful for Atlas. He pulled away from me and I could tell what she said bothered him. I started to turn around to yell at her for judging someone she doesn’t even know, but he grabbed my hand and shook his head no. “Don’t, Lily,” he said. So I didn’t. But for the rest of the bus ride, I was so angry. I was angry that Katie would say something so ignorant just to hurt someone she thought was beneath her. I was also hurt that Atlas appeared to be used to comments like that. I didn’t want him to think I was embarrassed that anyone saw him kiss me. I know Atlas better than any of them do, and I know what a good person he is, no matter what his clothes look like or that he used to smell before he started using my shower. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek and then rested my head on his shoulder. “You know what?” I said to him. He slid his fingers through mine and squeezed my hand. “What?” “You’re my favorite person.” I felt him laugh a little and it made me smile. “Out of how many people?” he asked. “All of them.” He kissed the top of my head and said, “You’re my favorite person, too, Lily. By a long shot.” When the bus came to a stop on my street, he didn’t let go of my hand when we started to walk off. He was in front of me in the aisle and I was walking behind him, so he didn’t see it when I turned around and flipped off Katie. I probably shouldn’t have done it, but the look on her face made it worth it. When we got to my house, he took the house key out of my hand and unlocked my front door. It was weird, seeing how comfortable he is at my house now. He walked in and locked the door behind us. That’s when we noticed the electricity in the house wasn’t working. I looked out the window and saw a utility truck down the street working on the power lines, so that meant we couldn’t watch your show. I wasn’t too upset because it meant we would probably just make out for an hour and a half. “Does your oven run off gas or electricity?” he asked. “Gas,” I said, a little confused that he was asking about our oven. He kicked off his shoes (which were really just a pair of my father’s old shoes) and he started walking toward the kitchen. “I’m going to make you something,” he said. “You know how to cook?” He opened the refrigerator and started moving things around. “Yep. I probably love to cook as much as you love to grow things.” He took a few things out of the refrigerator and preheated the oven. I leaned against the counter and watched him. He wasn’t even looking at a recipe. He was just pouring things into bowls and mixing them without even using a measuring cup. I had never seen my father lift a finger in the kitchen. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t even know how to preheat our oven. I kind of thought most men were like that, but watching Atlas work his way around my kitchen proved me wrong. “What are you making?” I asked him. I pushed my hands on the island and hoisted myself onto it. “Cookies,” he said. He walked the bowl over to me and stuck a spoon in the mixture. He brought the spoon up to my mouth and I tasted it. One of my weaknesses is cookie dough, and this was the best I’d ever tasted. “Oh, wow,” I said, licking my lips. He set the bowl down beside me and then leaned in and kissed me. Cookie dough and Atlas’s mouth mixed together is like heaven, in case you’re wondering. I made a noise deep in my throat that let him know how much I liked the combination, and it made him laugh. But he didn’t stop kissing me. He just laughed through the kiss and it completely melted my heart. A happy Atlas was near mind-blowing. It made me want to uncover every single thing about this world that he likes and give it all to him. When he was kissing me, I wondered if I loved him. I’ve never had a boyfriend before and have nothing to compare my feelings to. In fact, I’ve never really wanted a boyfriend or a relationship until Atlas. I’m not growing up in a household with a great example of how a man should treat someone he loves, so I’ve always held on to an unhealthy amount of distrust when it comes to relationships and other people. There have been times I’ve wondered if I could ever allow myself to trust a guy. For the most part, I hate men because the only example I have is my father. But spending all this time with Atlas is changing me. Not in a huge way, I don’t think. I still distrust most people. But Atlas is changing me enough to believe that maybe he’s an exception to the norm. He stopped kissing me and picked up the bowl again. He walked it over to the opposite counter and started spooning dough onto two cookie sheets. “You want to know a trick to cooking with a gas oven?” he asked. I’m not sure I really ever cared about cooking before, but he somehow made me want to know everything he knew. It might have been how happy he looked when he talked about it. “Gas ovens have hot spots,” he said as he opened the oven door and put the cookie sheets inside. “You have to be sure and rotate the pans so they’ll cook evenly.” He closed the door and pulled the oven mitt off his hand. He tossed it on the counter. “A pizza stone helps, too. If you just keep it in the oven, even when you aren’t baking pizza, it helps eliminate the hot spots.” He walked over to me and placed his hands on either side of me. The electricity kicked on right as he was pulling down the collar of my shirt. He kissed the spot on my shoulder he always loves kissing and slowly slid his hands up my back. I swear, sometimes when he’s not even here I can still feel his lips on my collarbone. He was about to kiss me on the mouth when we heard a car pull into the driveway and the garage door start to open. I jumped off the island, looking around the kitchen frantically. His hands went up to my cheeks and he made me look at him. “Keep an eye on the cookies. They’ll be finished in about twenty minutes.” He pressed his lips to mine and then released me, rushing to the living room to grab his backpack. He made it out the back door right when I heard the engine to my father’s car shut off. I started gathering all the ingredients together when my father walked into the kitchen from the garage. He looked around and then saw the light on in the oven. “Are you cooking?” he asked. I nodded because my heart was beating so fast, I was scared he’d hear the trembling in my voice if I responded out loud. I scrubbed for a moment at a spot on the counter that was perfectly clean. I cleared my throat and said, “Cookies. I’m baking cookies.” He set his briefcase down on the kitchen table and then walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. “The electricity has been out,” I said. “I was bored so I decided to bake while I waited for it to come back on.” My father sat down at the table and spent the next ten minutes asking me questions about school and if I’d thought about going to college. Occasionally when it was just the two of us, I saw glimpses of a how a normal relationship with a father could be. Sitting at the kitchen table with him discussing colleges and career choices and high school. As much as I hated him most of the time, I still longed for more of these moments with him. If he could just always be the guy he was capable of being in these moments, things would be so much different. For all of us. I rotated the cookies like Atlas had said to do and when they were finished, I pulled them out of the oven. I took one off the cookie sheet and handed it to my father. I hated that I was being nice to him. It almost felt like I was wasting one of Atlas’s cookies. “Wow,” my father said. “These are great, Lily.” I forced a thank-you, even though I didn’t make them. I couldn’t very well tell him that, though. “They’re for school so you can only have one,” I lied. I waited until the rest of them cooled and then I put them in a Tupperware container and took them to my room. I didn’t even want to try one without Atlas, so I waited until later last night when he came over. “You should have tried one when they were hot,” he said. “That’s when they’re the best.” “I didn’t want to eat them without you,” I said. We sat on the bed with our backs against the wall and proceeded to eat half the bowl of cookies. I told him they were delicious, but failed to tell him they were by far the greatest cookies I’d ever eaten. I didn’t want to inflate his ego. I kind of liked how humble he was. I tried to grab at another one, but he pulled the bowl away and put the lid back on it. “If you eat too many you’ll make yourself sick and you won’t like my cookies anymore.” I laughed. “Impossible.” He took a drink of water and then stood up, facing the bed. “I made you something,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “More cookies?” I asked. He smiled and shook his head, then held out a fist. I lifted my hand and he dropped something hard in the palm of my hand. It was a small, flat outline of a heart, about two inches long, carved out of wood. I rubbed my thumb over it, trying not to smile too big. It wasn’t an anatomically correct heart, but it also didn’t look like the hand-drawn hearts. It was uneven and hollow in the middle. “You made this?” I asked, looking up at him. He nodded. “I carved it with an old whittling knife I found at the house.” The ends of the heart weren’t connected. They just curved in a little, leaving a little space at the top of the heart. I didn’t even know what to say. I felt him sit back down on the bed but I couldn’t stop looking at it long enough to even thank him. “I carved it out of a branch,” he said, whispering. “From the oak tree in your backyard.” I swear, Ellen. I never thought I could love something so much. Or maybe what I was feeling wasn’t for the gift, but for him. I closed my fist around the heart and then leaned over and kissed him so hard, he fell back onto the bed. I threw my leg over him and straddled him and he grabbed my waist and grinned against my mouth. “I’m gonna carve you a damn house out of that oak tree if this is the reward I get,” he whispered. I laughed. “You have to stop being so perfect,” I told him. “You’re already my favorite person but now you’re making it really unfair to all the other humans because no one will ever be able to catch up to you.” He brought his hand to the back of my head and rolled me until I was on my back and he was the one on top. “Then my plan is working,” he said, right before kissing me again. I held on to the heart while we kissed, wanting to believe it was a gift for no reason at all. But part of me was scared it was a gift to remember him by when he leaves for Boston. I didn’t want to remember him. If I had to remember him, it would mean he wasn’t a part of my life anymore. I don’t want him to move to Boston, Ellen. I know that’s selfish of me because he can’t keep living in that house. I don’t know what I’m more afraid might happen. Watching him leave or selfishly begging him not to go. I know we need to talk about it. I’ll ask him about Boston tonight when he comes over. I just didn’t want to ask him last night because it was a really perfect day. —Lily Dear Ellen, Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. He’s moving to Boston. I don’t really feel like talking about it. —Lily Dear Ellen, This is going to be a big one for my mother to hide. My father is usually pretty cognizant of hitting her where it won’t leave a visible bruise. The last thing he probably wants is for people in the town to know what he does to her. I’ve seen him kick her a few times, choke her, hit her on the back and the stomach, pull her hair. The few times he’s hit her on the face, it’s always just been a slap, so the marks wouldn’t stay for long. But never have I seen him do what he did last night. It was really late when they got home. It was a weekend, so he and my mom went to some community function. My father has a real estate company and he’s also the town mayor, so they have to do things in the public a lot like go to charity dinners. Which is ironic, since my father hates charities. But I guess he has to save face. Atlas was already in my room when they got home. I could hear them fighting as soon as they walked through the front door. A lot of the conversation was muffled, but for the most part, it sounded like my father was accusing her of flirting with some man. Now I know my mother, Ellen. She would never do something like that. If anything, a guy probably looked at her and it made my father jealous. My mother is really beautiful. I heard him call her a whore and then I heard the first blow. I started to climb out of my bed but Atlas pulled me back and told me not to go in there, that I might get hurt. I told him it actually helps sometimes. That when I go in there, my father backs off. Atlas tried to talk me out of it, but finally I got up and went out into the living room. Ellen. I just . . . He was on top of her. They were on the couch and he had his hand around her throat, but his other hand was pulling up her dress. She was trying to fight him off and I just stood there, frozen. She kept begging him to get off her and then he hit her right across the face and told her to shut up. I’ll never forget his words when he said, “You want attention? I’ll give you some fucking attention.” And that’s when she got real still and stopped fighting him. I heard her crying, and then she said, “Please be quiet. Lily is here.” She said, “Please be quiet.” Please be quiet while you rape me, dear. Ellen, I didn’t know one human was capable of feeling so much hate inside one heart. And I’m not even talking about my father. I’m talking about me. I walked straight to the kitchen and I opened a drawer. I grabbed the biggest knife I could find and . . . I don’t know how to explain it. It was like I wasn’t even in my own body. I could see myself walking across the kitchen with the knife in my hand, and I knew I wasn’t going to use it. I just wanted something bigger than myself that could scare him away from her. But right before I made it out of the kitchen, two arms went around my waist and picked me up from behind. I dropped the knife, and my father didn’t hear it but my mother did. We locked eyes as Atlas carried me back to my bedroom. When we were back inside my room, I just started hitting him in the chest, trying to get back out there to her. I was crying and doing everything I could to get him out of my way, but he wouldn’t move. He just wrapped his arms around me and said, “Lily, calm down.” He kept saying it over and over, and he held me there for a long time until I accepted that he wasn’t gonna let me go back out there. He wasn’t gonna let me have that knife. He walked over to the bed and grabbed his jacket and started putting on his shoes. “We’ll go next door,” he said. “We’ll call the police.” The police. My mother had warned me not to call the police in the past. She said it could jeopardize my father’s career. But in all honesty, I didn’t care at that point. I didn’t care that he was the mayor or that everyone who loved him didn’t know the awful side of him. The only thing I cared about was helping my mother, so I pulled on my jacket and went to the closet for a pair of shoes. When I stepped out of my closet, Atlas was staring at my bedroom door. It was opening. My mother stepped inside and quickly shut it, locking it behind her. I’ll never forget what she looked like. She had blood coming down from her lip. Her eye was already starting to swell, and she had a clump of hair just resting on her shoulder. She looked at Atlas and then me. I didn’t even take a moment to feel scared that she caught me in my room with a boy. I didn’t care about that. I was just worried about her. I walked over to her and grabbed her hands and walked her to my bed. I brushed the hair off her shoulder and then from her forehead. “He’s gonna go call the police, Mom. Okay?” Her eyes grew real wide and she started shaking her head. “No,” she said. She looked over at Atlas and said, “You can’t. No.” He was already at the window about to leave, so he stopped and looked at me. “He’s drunk, Lily,” she said. “He heard your door shut, so he went to our bedroom. He stopped. If you call the police, it’ll just make it worse, believe me. Just let him sleep it off, it’ll be better tomorrow.” I shook my head and could feel the tears stinging my eyes. “Mom, he was trying to rape you!” She ducked her head and winced when I said that. She shook her head again and said, “It’s not like that, Lily. We’re married, and sometimes marriage is just . . . you’re too young to understand it.” It got really quiet for a minute, and then I said. “I hope to hell I never do.” That’s when she started to cry. She just held her head in her hands and she started to sob and all I could do was wrap my arms around her and cry with her. I’d never seen her this upset. Or this hurt. Or this scared. It broke my heart, Ellen. It broke me. When she was finished crying, I looked around the room and Atlas had left. We went to the kitchen and I helped her clean up her lip and her eye. She never did say anything about him being there. Not one thing. I waited for her to tell me I was grounded, but she never did. I realized that maybe she didn’t acknowledge it because that’s what she does. Things that hurt her just get swept under the rug, never to be brought up again. —Lily Dear Ellen, I think I’m ready to talk about Boston now. He left today. I’ve shuffled my deck of cards so many times, my hands hurt. I’m scared if I don’t get out how I feel on paper, I’ll go crazy holding it all in. Our last night didn’t go over so well. We kissed a lot at first, but we were both too sad to really care about it. For the second time in two days, he told me he changed his mind and that he wasn’t leaving. He didn’t want to leave me alone in this house. But I’ve lived with these parents for almost sixteen years. It was silly of him to turn down a home in favor of being homeless, just because of me. We both knew that, but it still hurt. I tried to not be so sad about it, so when we were lying there, I asked him to tell me about Boston. I told him maybe one day when I got out of school, I could go there. He got this look in his eye when he started talking about it. A look I’d never seen. Sort of like he was talking about heaven. He told me about how everyone has the greatest accents there. Instead of car, they say cah. He must not realize that he sometimes says his r’s like that, too. He said he lived there from the ages of nine until he was fourteen, so I guess maybe he picked up a little bit of the accent. He told me about how his uncle lives in an apartment building with the coolest rooftop deck. “A lot of apartments have them,” he said. “Some even have pools.” Plethora, Maine, probably didn’t even have a building that was tall enough for a rooftop deck. I wondered what it would feel like to be that high up. I asked him if he ever went up there and he said yes. That when he was younger, sometimes he would go to the roof and just sit up there and think while he looked out over the city. He told me about the food. I already knew he liked to cook but I had no idea how much passion he had for it. I guess because he doesn’t have a stove or a kitchen, so other than the cookies he baked me, he’s never really talked about cooking before. He told me about the harbor and how, before his mother remarried, she used to take him fishing out there. “I mean, Boston isn’t any different from any other big city, I guess,” he said. “There’s not a lot that makes it stand out. It’s just . . . I don’t know. There’s a vibe. A really good energy. When people say they live in Boston, they’re proud of it. I miss that sometimes.” I ran my fingers through his hair and said, “Well, you make it sound like the best place in the world. Like everything is better in Boston.” He looked at me and his eyes were sad when he said. “Everything is almost better in Boston. Except the girls. Boston doesn’t have you.” That made me blush. He kissed me real sweet and then I said to him, “Boston doesn’t have me yet. Someday I’ll move there and I’ll find you.” He made me promise. Said if I moved to Boston, everything really would be better there and it would be the best city in the world. We kissed some more. And did other things that I won’t bore you with. Although, that’s not to say they were boring. They were not. But then this morning I had to tell him goodbye. And he held me and kissed me so much, I thought I might die if he let go. But I didn’t die. Because he let go and here I am. Still living. Still breathing. Just barely. —Lily I flip to the next page, but then slam the book shut. There’s only one more entry and I don’t know that I really feel like reading it right now. Or ever. I put the journal back in my closet, knowing that my chapter with Atlas is over. He’s happy now. I’m happy now. Time can definitely heal all wounds. Or at least most of them. I turn off my lamp and then pick up my phone to plug it in. I have two missed text messages from Ryle and one from my mother. Ryle: Hey. Naked Truth commencing in 3 . . . 2 . . . Ryle: I was worried that being in a relationship would add to my responsibilities. That’s why I’ve avoided them my whole life. I already have enough on my plate, and seeing the stress my parents’ marriage seemed to cause them, and the failed marriages of some of my friends, I wanted no part in something like that. But after tonight, I realized that maybe a lot of people are just doing it wrong. Because what’s happening between us doesn’t feel like a responsibility. It feels like a reward. And I’ll fall asleep wondering what I did to deserve it. I pull my phone to my chest and smile. Then I screenshot the text because I’m keeping it forever. I open up the third text message. Mom: A doctor, Lily? AND your own business? I want to be you when I grow up. I screen-shot that one, too. Chapter Twelve “What are you doing to those poor flowers?” Allysa asks from behind me. I clamp another silver washer closed and slide it down the stem. “Steampunk.” We both stand back and admire the bouquet. At least . . . I hope she’s looking at it with admiration. It turned out better than I thought it would. I used florist dip dye to turn some white roses a deep purple. Then I decorated the stems with different steampunk elements, like tiny metal washers and gears, and even super-glued a small clock to the brown leather strap that’s holding the bouquet together. “Steampunk?” “It’s a trend. Kind of a subgenre of fiction, but it’s catching on in other areas. Art. Music.” I turn around and smile, holding up the bouquet. “And now . . . flowers.” Allysa takes the flowers from me and holds them up in front of her. “They’re so . . . weird. I love them so much.” She hugs them. “Can I have them?” I pull them away from her. “No, they’re our grand opening display. Not for sale.” I take the flowers from her and grab the vase I made yesterday. I found a pair of old button-up women’s boots at a flea market last week. They reminded me of the steampunk style, and the boots are actually where I got the idea for the flowers. I washed the boots last week, dried them, and then super-glued pieces of metal to them. Once I brushed them with Mod Podge, I was able to line the inside with a vase to hold water for the flowers. “Allysa?” I place the flowers on the center display table. “I’m pretty sure this is exactly what I was supposed to do with my life.” “Steampunk?” she asks. I laugh and spin around. “Create!” I say. And then I flip the sign to open, fifteen minutes early. We both spend the day busier than we thought we’d be. Between phone orders, Internet orders, and walk-ins, neither of us even has time to take a lunch break. “You need more employees,” Allysa says as she passes me, holding two bouquets of flowers. That is at one o’clock. “You need more employees,” she says to me at two o’clock, holding the phone to her ear and writing down an order while ringing someone up at the register. Marshall stops by after three o’clock and asks how it’s going. Allysa says, “She needs more employees.” I help a woman take a bouquet to her car at four o’clock, and as I’m walking back inside, Allysa is walking out, holding another bouquet. “You need more employees,” she says, exasperated. At six o’clock, she locks the door and flips the sign. She falls against the door and slides to the floor, looking up at me. “I know,” I tell her. “I need more employees.” She just nods. And then we laugh. I walk over to where she’s seated and I sit next to her. We lean our heads together and look at the store. The steampunk flowers are front and center, and although I refused to sell this particular bouquet, we had eight preorders for more of them. “I’m proud of you, Lily,” she says. I smile. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Issa.” We sit there for several minutes, enjoying the rest we’re finally giving our feet. This was honestly one of the best days I’ve ever had, but I can’t help but feel a nagging sadness that Ryle never stopped by. He also never texted. “Have you heard from your brother today?” I ask. She shakes her head. “No, but I’m sure he’s just busy.” I nod. I know he’s busy. We both look up when someone knocks on the door. I smile when I see him cupping his hands around his eyes with his face pressed to the window. He finally looks down and sees us sitting on the floor. “Speak of the devil,” Allysa says. I jump up and unlock the door to let him in. As soon as I open it, he’s pushing his way inside. “I missed it? I did. I missed it.” He hugs me. “I’m sorry, I tried to get here as soon as I could.” I hug him back and say, “It’s fine. You’re here. It was perfect.” I’m giddy with excitement that he made it at all. “You’re perfect,” he says, kissing me. Allysa brushes past us. “You’re perfect,” she mimics. “Hey Ryle, guess what?” Ryle releases me. “What?” Allysa grabs the trash can and drops it on the counter. “Lily needs to hire more employees.” I laugh at her constant repetition. Ryle squeezes my hand and says, “Sounds like business was good.” I shrug. “I can’t complain. I mean . . . I’m no brain surgeon, but I’m pretty good at what I do.” Ryle laughs. “You guys need any help cleaning up?” Allysa and I put him to work, helping us clean up after the big day. We get everything finished and prepped for tomorrow, and then Marshall arrives just as we’re finishing up. He’s carrying a bag when he walks inside and drops it on the counter. He begins to pull out huge lumps of some kind of material and tosses them at each of us. I catch mine and unfold it. It’s a onesie. With kittens all over it. “Bruins game. Free beer. Suit up, team!” Allysa groans and says, “Marshall, you made six million dollars this year. Do we really need free beer?” He shoves a finger against her lips, pushing them in opposite directions. “Shh! Don’t speak like a rich girl, Issa. Blasphemy.” She laughs and Marshall grabs the onesie out of her hand. He unzips it and helps her into it. Once we’re all suited up, we lock the door and head to the bar. I’ve never in my life seen so many men in onesies. Allysa and I are the only women wearing them, but I kind of like that. It’s loud. So loud, and each time the Bruins make a good play, Allysa and I have to cover our ears from the screams. After about half an hour, a booth on the top floor opens up and we all run upstairs to claim it. “Much better,” Allysa says as we slide in. It’s much quieter up here, although still loud compared to normal standards. A waitress comes over to take our drink order. I order red wine, and as soon as I do, Marshall practically jumps out of his seat. “Wine?” he yells. “You’re in a onesie! You don’t get free wine with a onesie!” He tells the waitress to bring me a beer, instead. Ryle tells her to bring me wine. Allysa wants water, and this upsets Marshall even more. He tells the waitress to bring four bottles of beer and then Ryle says, “Two beers, red wine, and a water.” The waitress is very confused by the time she leaves our table. Marshall throws his arm around Allysa and kisses her. “How am I supposed to try and knock you up tonight if you aren’t a little wasted?” The look on Allysa’s face changes, and I feel instantly bad for her. I know Marshall only said that in fun, but it has to bother her. She was just telling me a few days ago how depressed she is that she can’t get pregnant. “I can’t have beer, Marshall.” “Then drink wine, at least. You like me more when you’re tipsy.” He laughs at himself, but Allysa doesn’t. “I can’t have wine, either. I can’t have any alcohol, actually.” Marshall stops laughing. My heart does a flip-flop. Marshall turns in the booth and grabs her shoulders, making her face him straight-on. “Allysa?” She just starts nodding and I don’t know who starts crying first. Me or Marshall or Allysa. “I’m gonna be a dad?” he yells. She’s still nodding, and I’m just bawling like an idiot. Marshall jumps up in the booth and yells, “I’m gonna be a dad!” I can’t even explain what this moment is like. A grown man in a onesie, standing up in a booth at a bar, yelling to whoever will listen that he’s gonna be a dad. He pulls her up and they’re both standing in the booth now. He kisses her and it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. Until I look at Ryle and catch him chewing on his bottom lip like he’s trying to blink back a potential tear. He glances at me and sees me staring, so he looks away. “Shut up,” he says. “She’s my sister.” I smile and lean over and kiss him on the cheek. “Congratulations, Uncle Ryle.” Once the parents-to-be stop making out in the booth, Ryle and I both stand up and congratulate them. Allysa said she’s been feeling sick for a while, but just took a test this morning before our grand opening. She was going to wait and tell Marshall tonight when they got home, but she couldn’t hold it in for another second. Our drinks come and we order food. Once the waitress walks away, I look at Marshall. “How did you two meet?” He says, “Allysa tells the story better than I do.” Allysa perks up and leans forward. “I hated him,” she says. “He was Ryle’s best friend and he was always at the house. I thought he was so annoying. He had just moved to Ohio from Boston and he had that Boston accent. He thought it made him so cool but I just wanted to slap him every time he spoke.” “She’s so sweet,” Marshall says, sarcastically. “You were an idiot,” Allysa replies, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, one day Ryle and I had a few friends over. Nothing big, but our parents were out of town, so of course we had a little get-together.” “There were thirty people there,” Ryle says. “It was a party.” “Okay, a party,” Allysa says. “I walked into the kitchen and Marshall was standing there pressed up against some floozy.” “She wasn’t a floozy,” he says. “She was a nice girl. Tasted like Cheetos, but . . .” Allysa glares at him so he shuts up. She turns back to me. “I lost it,” she says. “I started yelling at him to take his whores to his own house. The girl was literally so terrified of me, she ran for the door and didn’t come back.” “Cock blocker,” Marshall says. Allysa punches him in the shoulder. “Anyway. After I cock blocked him, I ran to my room, embarrassed that I did that. It was out of pure jealousy, and I didn’t even realize I liked him that way until I saw his hands on some other girl’s ass. I threw myself on my bed and started crying. A few minutes later, he walked into my room and asked me if I was okay. I rolled over and yelled, ‘I like you, you stupid fuck-face!’ ” “And the rest is history . . .” Marshall says. I laugh. “Awe. Stupid fuck-face. How sweet.” Ryle holds up a finger and says, “You’re leaving out the best part.” Allysa shrugs. “Oh yeah. So Marshall walked over to me, pulled me off the bed, kissed me with the same mouth he was just kissing the floozy with, and we made out for half an hour. Ryle walked in on us and started screaming at Marshall. Then Marshall pushed Ryle out of my bedroom, locked the door, and made out with me for another hour.” Ryle is shaking his head. “Betrayed by my best friend.” Marshall pulls Allysa to him. “I like her, you stupid fuck-face.” I laugh, but Ryle turns to me with a serious look on his face. “I didn’t speak to him for an entire month, I was so mad. I eventually got over it. We were eighteen, she was seventeen. Wasn’t much I could do in the way of keeping them apart.” “Wow,” I say. “I sometimes forget how close in age you two are.” Allysa smiles and says, “Three kids in three years. I feel so sorry for my parents.” The table grows quiet. I see an apologetic look pass from Allysa to Ryle. “Three?” I ask. “You have another sibling?” Ryle straightens up and takes a sip of his beer. He sets it back down on the table and says, “We had an older brother. He passed away when we were kids.” Such a great night, ruined by a simple question. Luckily, Marshall redirects the conversation like a pro. I spend the rest of the evening listening to stories about them growing up. I’m not sure I’ve ever laughed as hard as I have tonight. When the game is over, we all walk back to the shop to retrieve our cars. Ryle said he caught an Uber over earlier, so he’ll just ride with me. Before Allysa and Marshall leave, I tell her to hold on. I run inside the store and grab the steampunk flowers and run them back to their car. Her face lights up when I hand them to her. “I’m happy you’re pregnant but that’s not why I’m giving you these flowers. I just want you to have them. Because you’re my best friend.” Allysa squeezes me and whispers in my ear. “I hope he marries you someday. We’ll be even better sisters.” She climbs inside the car and they leave, and I just stand there watching them because I don’t know that I’ve ever had a friend like her in my whole life. Maybe it’s the wine. I don’t know, but I love today. Everything about it. I especially love how Ryle looks, leaning against my car, watching me. “You’re really beautiful when you’re happy.” Ugh! This day! Perfect! • • • We’re making our way up the stairs to my apartment when Ryle grabs my waist and pushes me against the wall. He just starts kissing me, right there in the stairwell. “Impatient,” I mutter. He laughs and cups my ass with both of his hands. “Nope. It’s this onesie. You really should consider making this your business attire.” He kisses me again and doesn’t stop kissing me until someone passes us, heading down the stairs. The guy mumbles, “Nice onesies,” as he squeezes past us. “Did the Bruins win?” Ryle nods. “Three to one,” he responds, without looking up at the guy. “Nice,” the guy says. Once he’s gone, I step away from Ryle. “What is this onesie thing? Does every male in Boston know about this?” He laughs and says, “Free beer, Lily. It’s free beer.” He pulls me up the stairs, and when we walk in the door, Lucy is standing at the kitchen table taping up a box of her stuff. There’s another box she hasn’t taped up yet and I could swear I see a bowl that I bought at HomeGoods sticking out of the top. She said she’d have all her stuff out by next week, but I have a feeling she’ll conveniently have some of my stuff out, too. “Who are you?” she asks, looking Ryle up and down. “Ryle Kincaid. I’m Lily’s boyfriend.” Lily’s boyfriend. Did you hear that? Boyfriend. It’s the first time he’s confirmed it, and he said it so confidently. “My boyfriend, huh?” I walk into the kitchen and grab a bottle of wine and two wineglasses. Ryle comes up behind me as I’m pouring the wine and snakes his arms around my waist. “Yep. Your boyfriend.” I hand him a glass of wine and say, “So I’m a girlfriend?” He holds up his glass and clinks it against mine. “To the end of trial runs and the beginning of sure things.” We’re both smiling as we take a drink of our wine. Lucy stacks the boxes together and walks toward the front door. “Looks like I got out right in time,” she says. The door closes behind her and Ryle raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think your roommate likes me very much.” “You’d be surprised. I didn’t think she liked me, either, but yesterday she asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding. I think she’s just hoping for free flowers, though. She’s very opportunistic.” Ryle laughs and leans against the refrigerator. His eyes fall to a magnet that says “Boston” on it. He pulls it off the refrigerator and raises an eyebrow. “You’ll never get out of Boston purgatory if you keep souvenirs of Boston on your fridge like a tourist.” I laugh and grab the magnet, slapping it back on the fridge. I like that he remembers so much about the first night we met. “It was a gift. It only counts as touristy if I bought it myself.” He steps over to me and takes my glass of wine from my hands. He sets both of our glasses on the countertop, and then leans in and gives me a deep, passionate, drunken kiss. I can taste the tart fruitiness of the wine on his tongue and I like it. His hands go to the zipper on my onesie. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.” He pulls me toward the bedroom, kissing me while we both struggle out of our clothes. By the time we make it to my bedroom, I’m down to my bra and panties. He shoves me against the door, and I gasp at the unexpectedness of it. “Don’t move,” he says. He presses his lips to my chest, then begins to kiss me slowly as he makes his way down my body. Oh, Lord. Can this day seriously get any better? I run my hands through his hair, but he grabs my wrists and presses them against the door. He climbs back up my body, squeezing my wrists tightly. He raises an eyebrow in warning. “I said . . . don’t move.” I try not to smile, but it’s hard to disguise. He drags his mouth back down my body. He slowly lowers my panties to my ankles, but he told me not to move, so I don’t kick them off. His mouth slides up my thigh until . . . Yeah. Best. Day. Ever. Chapter Thirteen Ryle: Are you at home or still at work? Me: Work. Should be done in about an hour. Ryle: Can I come see you? Me: You know how people say there is no such thing as a stupid question? They’re wrong. That was a stupid question. Ryle: :) Half an hour later, he’s knocking at the front door of the floral shop. I closed the shop almost three hours ago, but I’m still here, trying to get caught up on the chaos that was the first month. The store is still too new to get an accurate projection of how well or how bad it’s doing. Some days are great and some are so slow I send Allysa home. But overall, I’m happy with how it’s gone so far. And happy with how things are going with Ryle. I unlock the door to let him in. He’s in light blue scrubs again, and he still has a stethoscope around his neck. Fresh from work. Very nice touch. I swear, every time I see him straight off a shift, I have to hide the stupid grin on my face. I give him a quick kiss and then turn back toward my office. “I have a few things to finish up and then we can go back to my place.” He follows me into my office and closes the door. “You got a couch?” he asks, looking around my office. I’ve spent some of this week putting the finishing touches on it. I bought a couple of lamps so I don’t have to turn on the overpowering fluorescent lights. The lamps give the room a soft glow. I also bought a few plants to keep here permanently. It’s no garden, but it’s as close as it gets. It’s come a long way since this room was being used as storage for vegetable crates. Ryle walks over to the couch and falls down onto it, face-first. “Take your time,” he mumbles into the pillow. “I’ll just nap until you’re finished.” I sometimes worry about how hard he pushes himself with work, but I don’t say anything. I’ve been sitting in my office going on twelve hours now, so I don’t have much room to talk when it comes to being too ambitious. I spend the next fifteen or so minutes finalizing orders. When I’m finished, I close my laptop and look over at Ryle. I thought he’d be asleep, but instead he’s on his side with his head propped up on his hand. He’s been watching me this whole time, and seeing the smile on his face makes me blush. I push my chair back and stand up. “Lily, I think I like you too much,” he says as I make my way over to him. I scrunch up my nose as he sits up on the couch and pulls me onto his lap. “Too much? That doesn’t sound like a compliment.” “That’s because I don’t know if it is,” he says. He adjusts my legs on either side of him and then wraps his arms around my waist. “This is my first real relationship. I don’t know if I’m supposed to like you this much yet. I don’t want to scare you away.” I laugh. “Like that could ever happen. You work way too much to smother me.” He rubs his hands up my back. “Does it bother you that I work too much?” I shake my head. “No. I worry about you sometimes because I don’t want you to burn yourself out. But I don’t mind that I have to share you with your passion. I actually really like how ambitious you are. It’s kind of sexy. It might even be my favorite thing about you.” “You know what I like the most about you?” “I already know this answer,” I say, smiling. “My mouth.” He leans his head back against the couch. “Oh yeah. That does come first. But do you know what my second favorite thing about you is?” I shake my head. “You don’t put pressure on me to be something I’m incapable of being. You accept me exactly how I am.” I smile. “Well, in all fairness, you’re a little different from when I first met you. You aren’t so anti-girlfriend anymore.” “That’s because you make it easy,” he says, sliding a hand inside the back of my shirt. “It’s easy being with you. I can still have the career I’ve always wanted, but you make it ten times better with the way you support me. When I’m with you, I feel like I get to have my cake and eat it, too.” Now both of his hands are beneath my shirt, pressed against my back. He pulls me toward him and kisses me. I grin against his mouth and whisper, “Is it the best cake you’ve ever tasted?” One of his hands moves to the back of my bra and he unfastens it with ease. “I’m pretty sure, but maybe I need another taste of it to be positive.” He pulls my shirt and bra over my head. I begin to push myself off of him so I can pull off my jeans, but he pulls me back onto his lap. He grabs his stethoscope and puts it in his ears, then presses the diaphragm against my chest, right over my heart. “What’s got your heart so worked up, Lily?” I shrug innocently. “It might have a little to do with you, Dr. Kincaid.” He drops the end of the stethoscope and then lifts me off of him, pushing me back onto the couch. He spreads my legs and kneels down on the couch between them, placing the stethoscope against my chest again. He uses his other hand to hold himself up as he continues listening to my heart. “I’d say you’re at about ninety beats per minute,” he says. “Is that good or bad?” He grins and lowers himself on top of me. “I’ll be satisfied when it reaches one forty.” Yeah. If it reaches 140, I’m thinking I’ll be satisfied, too. He lowers his mouth to my chest and my eyes fall shut when I feel his tongue slide across my breast. He takes me in his mouth, keeping the stethoscope pressed against my chest the entire time. “You’re at about one hundred now,” he says. He wraps the stethoscope around his neck again and then pulls back, unbuttoning my jeans. Once he slides them off of me, he turns me over until I’m on my stomach, my arms draped over the arm of the couch. “Get on your knees,” he says. I do what he says and before I’m even adjusted, I feel the cold metal of the stethoscope meet my chest again, this time with his arm snaked around me from behind. I remain still as he listens to my heartbeat. His other hand slowly begins to find its way between my legs and then inside my panties and then inside of me. I grip the couch but try to keep the noises to a minimum while he listens to my heart. “One hundred and ten,” he says, still unsatisfied. He pulls my hips back to meet him and then I can feel him freeing himself from his scrubs. He grips my hip with one hand while shoving my panties aside with the other. Then he pushes forward until he’s all the way inside of me. I’m grasping the couch with two desperate fists when he pauses to listen to my heart again. “Lily,” he says with mock disappointment. “One twenty. Not quite where I want you.” The stethoscope disappears again and his arm curls around my waist. His hand slides down my stomach and settles between my legs. I can no longer keep up with his rhythm. I can barely even stay on my knees. He’s somehow holding me up with one hand and destroying me in the best possible way with his other hand. Right when I start to tremble, he pulls me upright until my back meets his chest. He’s still inside me, but now he’s focused on my heart again as he moves his stethoscope around to the front of my chest. I let out a moan and he presses his lips to my ear. “Shh. No noises.” I have no idea how I make it through the next thirty seconds without making another sound. One of his arms is wrapped around me with the stethoscope pressed to my chest. His other arm is tight against my stomach as his hand continues its magic between my legs. He’s still somehow deep inside me and I’m trying to move against him, but he’s rock solid as the tremors begin to rush through me. My legs are shaking and my hands are at my sides, gripping the tops of his thighs as it takes every ounce of my strength not to scream out his name. I’m still shaking when he lifts my hand and places the diaphragm against my wrist. After several seconds, he pulls the stethoscope away and tosses it to the floor. “One fifty,” he says with satisfaction. He pulls out of me and flips me onto my back and then his mouth is on mine and he’s inside me again. My body is too weak to move and I can’t even open my eyes and watch him. He thrusts against me several times and then holds still, groaning into my mouth. He drops on top of me, tense, yet shaking. He kisses my neck and then his lips meet the tattoo of the heart on my collarbone. He finally settles against my neck and sighs. “Have I already mentioned tonight how much I like you?” he asks. I laugh. “Once or twice.” “Consider this the third time,” he says. “I like you. Everything about you, Lily. Being inside of you. Being outside of you. Being near you. I like it all.” I smile, loving how his words feel against my skin. Inside my heart. I open my mouth to tell him I like him, too, but my voice is cut off by the sound of his phone. He groans against my neck and then pulls out of me and reaches for his phone. He pulls his scrubs back into place and laughs as he looks at his caller ID. “It’s my mother,” he says, leaning over and kissing the top of my knee that’s resting against the back of the couch. He tosses the phone aside and then stands and walks over to my desk, grabbing a box of tissues. This is always awkward, having to clean up after sex. But I can’t say it’s ever been this awkward before, knowing his mother is on the other end of that ring. Once all my clothes are back in place, he pulls me against him on the couch and I lie down on top of him, resting my head on his chest. It’s after ten now and I’m so comfortable I debate just sleeping here for the night. Ryle’s phone makes another noise, alerting him to a new voice mail. The thought of seeing him interact with his mother makes me smile. Allysa talks about their parents some, but I’ve never really talked to Ryle about them before. “Do you get along with your parents?” His arm is stroking mine gently. “Yeah, I do. They’re good people. We hit a rough patch when I was a teenager, but we worked through it. I talk to my mother almost daily now.” I fold my arms over his chest and rest my chin on them, looking up at him. “Will you tell me more about your mother? Allysa told me they moved to England a few years ago. And that they were in Australia on vacation, but that was like a month ago.” He laughs. “My mother? Well . . . my mother is very overbearing. Very judgmental, especially of the people she loves the most. She’s never missed a single church service. And I have never heard her refer to my father as anything other than Dr. Kincaid.” Despite the warnings, he smiles the whole time he talks about her. “Your father is a doctor, too?” He nods. “Psychiatrist. He chose a field that also allowed him to have a normal life. Smart man.” “Do they ever visit you in Boston?” “Not really. My mother hates flying, so Allysa and I fly to England a couple of times a year. She does want to meet you, though, so you might be going with us on the next trip.” I grin. “You’ve told your mother about me?” “Of course,” he says. “This is kind of a monumental thing, you know. Me having a girlfriend. She calls me every day to make sure I haven’t screwed it up somehow.” I laugh, which makes him reach for his phone. “You think I’m kidding? I guarantee she somehow brought you up in the voice mail she just left.” He presses a few keys and then begins to play the voice mail. “Hey, sweetheart! It’s your mom. Haven’t spoken to you since yesterday. Miss you. Give Lily a hug for me. You do still see her, right? Allysa says you can’t stop talking about her. She is still your girlfriend, right? Okay. Gretchen’s here, we’re having high tea. Love you. Kiss kiss.” I press my face against his chest and laugh. “We’ve only been dating a few months. How much do you talk about me?” He pulls my hand up between us and kisses it. “Too much, Lily. Way too much.” I smile. “I can’t wait to meet them. Not only did they raise an incredible daughter, but they made you. That’s pretty impressive.” His arms tighten around me and he kisses the top of my head. “What was your brother’s name?” I ask him. I can feel a slight stiffness in him after I ask that. I regret bringing it up, but it’s too late to take it back. “Emerson.” I can tell by his voice that it’s not something he wants to talk about right now. Instead of pressing it further, I lift my head and scoot forward, pressing my mouth to his. I should know better. Kisses can’t seem to stop at just kisses when it comes to me and Ryle. In a matter of minutes, he’s inside of me again, but this time it’s everything the other time wasn’t. This time we make love. Chapter Fourteen My phone rings. I pick it up to see who it is and I’m a little taken aback. It’s the first time Ryle has ever called me. We always just text. How odd to have a boyfriend for over three months that I’ve never once spoken to on the phone. “Hello?” “Hey, girlfriend,” he says. I smile cheesily at the sound of his voice. “Hey, boyfriend.” “Guess what?” “What?” “I’m taking the day off tomorrow. Your floral shop doesn’t open until one o’clock on Sundays. I’m on my way to your apartment with two bottles of wine. You want to have a sleepover with your boyfriend and have drunken sex all night and sleep until noon?” It’s really embarrassing what his words do to me. I smile and say, “Guess what?” “What?” “I’m cooking you dinner. And I’m wearing an apron.” “Oh yeah?” he says. “Just an apron.” And then I hang up. A few seconds later, I get a text message. Ryle: Pic, please. Me: Get over here and you can take the picture yourself. I’m almost finished preparing the casserole mixture when the door opens. I pour it into the glass pan and don’t turn around when I hear him walk into the kitchen. When I said I was just wearing an apron, I meant it. I’m not even wearing panties. I can hear him suck in a rush of air when I reach over to the oven and stick the casserole inside. I might reach a little too far for show when I do it. When I close the oven, I don’t face him. I grab a rag and start wiping down the oven, making sure to sway my hips as much as possible. I squeal when I feel a piercing sting on my right butt cheek. I spin around and Ryle is grinning, holding two bottles of wine. “Did you just bite me?” He gives me an innocent look. “Don’t tempt the scorpion if you don’t want to get stung.” He eyes me up and down while he opens one of the bottles. He holds it up before he pours us a glass and says, “It’s vintage.” “Vintage,” I say with mock impression. “What’s the special occasion?” He hands me a glass and says, “I’m going to be an uncle. I have a smoking hot girlfriend. And I get to perform a very rare, possibly once-in-a-lifetime craniopagus separation on Monday.” “A cranio-what?” He finishes off his glass of wine and pours himself another one. “Craniopagus separation. Conjoined twins,” he says. He points to a spot on the top of his head and taps it. “Attached right here. We’ve been studying them since they were born. It’s a very rare surgery. Very rare.” For the first time, I think I’m genuinely turned on by him as a doctor. I mean, I admire his drive. I admire his dedication. But seeing how excited he is about what he’s doing for a living is seriously sexy. “How long do you think it’ll take?” I ask. He shrugs. “Not sure. They’re young, so being under general anesthesia for too long is a concern.” He holds up his right hand and wiggles his fingers. “But this is a very special hand that has been through almost half a million dollars’ worth of specialty education. I have a lot of faith in this hand.” I walk over to him and press my lips to his palm. “I’m a little fond of this hand, too.” He slides the hand down to my neck and then spins me so that I’m flush against the counter. I gasp, because I wasn’t expecting that. He pushes himself against me from behind and slowly slides his hand down the side of my body. I press my palms into the granite and close my eyes, already feeling the rush of the wine. “This hand,” he whispers, “is the steadiest hand in all of Boston.” He pushes on the back of my neck, bending me further over the counter. His hand meets the inside of my knee and he glides it upward. Slowly. Jesus. He pushes my legs apart, and then his fingers are inside me. I moan and try to find something to hold on to. I grip the faucet, just as he begins to work magic. And then, just like a magician, his hand disappears. I hear him walking out of the kitchen. I watch as he passes the front of the counter. He winks at me, downs the rest of his glass of wine and says, “I’m gonna take a quick shower.” What a tease. “You asshole!” I yell after him. “I’m not an asshole!” he yells from my bedroom. “I’m a highly trained neurosurgeon!” I laugh and pour myself another glass of wine. I’ll show him who the tease really is. • • • I’m on my third glass of wine when he walks out of my bedroom. I’m on the phone with my mother, so I watch him from the couch as he makes his way to the kitchen and pours himself another glass. That is some seriously good wine. “What are you doing tonight?” my mother asks. I have her on speakerphone. Ryle is leaning against a wall, watching me talk to her. “Not much. Helping Ryle study.” “That sounds . . . not very interesting,” she says. Ryle winks at me. “It’s actually very interesting,” I say to her. “I help him study a lot. Mostly reviewing fine-motor control of the hands. In fact, we’ll probably be up all night studying.” The three glasses of wine has made me frisky. I can’t believe I’m flirting with him while I’m on the phone with my mother. Gross. “I gotta go,” I tell her. “We’re taking Allysa and Marshall out to dinner tomorrow night, so I’ll call you on Monday.” “Oh, where are you taking them?” I roll my eyes. The woman can’t take a hint. “I don’t know. Ryle, where are we taking them?” “That place we went to that one time with your mom,” he says. “Bib’s? I made reservations for six o’clock.” My heart feels like it slinks down my chest. My mother says, “Oh, good choice.” “Yeah. If you like stale bread. Bye, Mom.” I hang up and look at Ryle. “I don’t want to go back there. I didn’t like it. Let’s try something new.” I fail to tell him why I really don’t want to go back there. But how do you tell your brand-new boyfriend that you’re trying to avoid your first love? Ryle pushes off the wall. “You’ll be fine,” he says. “Allysa’s excited to eat there, I told her all about it.” Maybe I’ll get lucky and Atlas won’t be working. “Speaking of food,” Ryle says. “I’m starving.” The casserole! “Oh shit!” I say, laughing. Ryle rushes to the kitchen and I stand up and follow him in there. I walk in just as he pulls the oven door open and waves away the smoke. Ruined. I get dizzy all of a sudden from standing up too fast after having three glasses of wine. I grab the counter beside him to steady myself, just as he reaches in to pull the burnt casserole out. “Ryle! You need a . . .” “Shit!” he yells. “Pot holder.” The casserole falls from his hand and lands on the floor, shattering everywhere. I lift up my feet to avoid broken glass and mushroom chicken splatter. I start laughing as soon as I realize he didn’t even think to use a pot holder. Must be the wine. This is some seriously strong wine. He slams the oven shut and moves to the faucet, shoving his hand under the cold water, muttering curse words. I’m trying to suppress my laughter, but the wine and the ridiculousness of the last few seconds are making it hard. I look at the floor—at the mess we’re about to have to clean up—and the laughter bursts from me. I’m still laughing as I lean over to get a look at Ryle’s hand. I hope he didn’t hurt it too bad. I’m instantly not laughing anymore. I’m on the floor, my hand pressed against the corner of my eye. In a matter of one second, Ryle’s arm came out of nowhere and slammed against me, knocking me backward. There was enough force behind it to knock me off balance. When I lost my footing, I hit my face on one of the cabinet door handles as I came down. Pain shoots through the corner of my eye, right near my temple. And then I feel the weight. Heaviness follows and it presses down on every part of me. So much gravity, pushing down on my emotions. Everything shatters. My tears, my heart, my laughter, my soul. Shattered like broken glass, raining down around me. I wrap my arms over my head and try to wish away the last ten seconds. “Goddammit, Lily,” I hear him say. “It’s not funny. This hand is my fucking career.” I don’t look up at him. His voice doesn’t penetrate through my body this time. It feels like it’s stabbing me now, the sharpness of each of his words coming at me like swords. Then I feel him next to me, his goddamn hand on my back. Rubbing. “Lily,” he says. “Oh, God. Lily.” He tries to pull my arms from my head, but I refuse to budge. I start shaking my head, wanting the last fifteen seconds to go away. Fifteen seconds. That’s all it takes to completely change everything about a person. Fifteen seconds that we’ll never get back. He pulls me against him and starts kissing the top of my head. “I’m so sorry. I just . . . I burned my hand. I panicked. You were laughing and . . . I’m so sorry, it all happened so fast. I didn’t mean to push you, Lily, I’m sorry.” I don’t hear Ryle’s voice this time. All I hear is my father’s voice. “I’m sorry, Jenny. It was an accident. I’m so sorry.” “I’m sorry, Lily. It was an accident. I’m so sorry.” I just want him away from me. I use every ounce of strength I have in both my hands and legs and I force him the fuck away from me. He falls backward, onto his hands. His eyes are full of genuine sorrow, but then they’re full of something else. Worry? Panic? He slowly pulls up his right hand and it’s covered in blood. Blood is trickling out of his palm, down his wrist. I look at the floor—at the shattered pieces of glass from the casserole dish. His hand. I just pushed him onto glass. He turns around and pulls himself up. He sticks his hand under the stream of water and starts rinsing away the blood. I stand up, just as he pulls a sliver of glass out of his palm and tosses it on the counter. I’m full of so much anger, but somehow, concern for his hand still finds its way out. I grab a towel and shove it into his fist. There’s so much blood. It’s his right hand. His surgery Monday. I try to help stop the bleeding, but I’m shaking too bad. “Ryle, your hand.” He pulls the hand away and, with his good hand, he lifts my chin. “Fuck the hand, Lily. I don’t care about my hand. Are you okay?” He’s looking back and forth between my eyes frantically as he assesses the cut on my face. My shoulders begin to shake and huge, hurt-filled tears spill down my cheeks. “No.” I’m a little in shock, and I know he can hear my heart breaking with just that one word, because I can feel it in every part of me. “Oh my God. You pushed me, Ryle. You . . .” The realization of what has just happened hurts worse than the actual action. Ryle wraps his arm around my neck and desperately holds me against him. “I’m so sorry, Lily. God, I’m so sorry.” He buries his face against my hair, squeezing me with every emotion inside of him. “Please don’t hate me. Please.” His voice slowly starts to become Ryle’s voice again, and I feel it in my stomach, in my toes. His entire career depends on his hand, so it has to say something that he’s not even worried about it. Right? I’m so confused. There’s too much happening. The smoke, the wine, the broken glass, the food splattered everywhere, the blood, the anger, the apologies, it’s too much. “I’m so sorry,” he says again. I pull back and his eyes are red and I’ve never seen him look so sad. “I panicked. I didn’t mean to push you away, I just panicked. All I could think about was the surgery Monday and my hand and . . . I’m so sorry.” He presses his mouth to mine and breathes me in. He’s not like my father. He can’t be. He’s nothing like that uncaring bastard. We’re both upset and kissing and confused and sad. I’ve never felt anything like this moment—so ugly and painful. But somehow the only thing that eases the hurt just caused by this man is this man. My tears are soothed by his sorrow, my emotions soothed with his mouth against mine, his hand gripping me like he never wants to let go. I feel his arms go around my waist and he picks me up, carefully stepping through the mess we’ve made. I can’t tell if I’m more disappointed in him or myself. Him for losing his temper in the first place or me for somehow finding comfort in his apology. He carries me and kisses me all the way to my bedroom. He’s still kissing me when he lowers me to the bed and whispers, “I’m sorry, Lily.” He moves his lips to the spot on my eye that hit the cabinet, and he kisses me there. “I’m so sorry.” His mouth is on mine again, hot and wet, and I don’t even know what’s happening to me. I’m hurting so much on the inside, yet my body craves his apology in the form of his mouth and hands on me. I want to lash out at him and react like I always wish my mother would have reacted when my father hurt her, but deep down I want to believe that it really was an accident. Ryle isn’t like my father. He’s nothing like him. I need to feel his sorrow. His regret. I get both of these things in the way he kisses me. I spread my legs for him and his sorrow comes in another form. Slow, apologetic thrusts inside of me. Every time he enters me, he whispers another apology. And by some miracle, every time he pulls out of me, my anger leaves with him. • • • He’s kissing my shoulder. My cheek. My eye. He’s still on top of me, touching me gently. I’ve never been touched like this . . . with such tenderness. I try to forget what happened in the kitchen, but it’s everything right now. He pushed me away from him. Ryle pushed me. For fifteen seconds, I saw a side of him that wasn’t him. That wasn’t me. I laughed at him when I should have been concerned. He shoved me when he should have never touched me. I pushed him away and caused him to cut his hand. It was awful. The whole thing, the entire fifteen seconds it lasted, was absolutely awful. I never want to think about it again. He still has the rag balled up in his hand and it’s soaked with blood. I push against his chest. “I’ll be right back,” I tell him. He kisses me one more time and rolls off of me. I walk to the bathroom and close the door. I look in the mirror and gasp. Blood. In my hair, on my cheeks, on my body. It’s all his blood. I grab a rag and try to wash some off, and then I look under the sink for the first aid kit. I have no idea how bad his hand is. First he burned it, then he sliced it open. Not even an hour after he was just telling me how important this surgery was to him. No more wine. We’re never allowed vintage wine again. I grab the box from under the sink and open the bedroom door. He’s walking back into the bedroom from the kitchen with a small bag of ice. He holds it up, “For your eye,” he says. I hold up the first aid kit. “For your hand.” We both smile and then sit back down on the bed. He leans against the headboard while I pull his hand to my lap. The whole time I’m dressing his wound, he’s holding the bag of ice against my eye. I squeeze some antiseptic cream onto my finger and dab it against the burns on his fingers. They don’t look as bad as I thought they might be, so that’s a relief. “Can you prevent it from blistering?” I ask him. He shakes his head. “Not if it’s second-degree.” I want to ask him if he can still perform the surgery if his fingers have blisters on them come Monday, but I don’t bring it up. I’m sure that’s on the forefront of his mind right now. “Do you want me to put some on your cut?” He nods. The bleeding has stopped. I’m sure if he needed stitches, he’d get some, but I think it’ll be fine. I pull the ACE bandage out of the first aid kit and begin wrapping his hand. “Lily,” he whispers. I look up at him. His head is resting against the headboard, and it looks like he wants to cry. “I feel terrible,” he says. “If I could take it back . . .” “I know,” I say, cutting him off. “I know, Ryle. It was terrible. You pushed me. You made me question everything I thought I knew about you. But I know you feel bad about it. We can’t take it back. I don’t want to bring it up again.” I secure the bandage around his hand and then look him in the eye. “But Ryle? If anything like that ever happens again . . . I’ll know that this time wasn’t just an accident. And I’ll leave you without a second thought.” He stares at me for a long time, his eyebrows drawn apart in regret. He leans forward and presses his lips against mine. “It won’t happen again, Lily. I swear. I’m not like him. I know that’s what you’re thinking, but I swear to you . . .” I shake my head, wanting him to stop. I can’t take the pain in his voice. “I know you’re nothing like my father,” I say. “Just . . . please don’t ever make me doubt you again. Please.” He brushes hair from my forehead. “You’re the most important part of my life, Lily. I want to be what brings you happiness. Not what causes you to hurt.” He kisses me and then stands up and leans over me, pressing the ice to my face. “Hold this here for about ten more minutes. It’ll prevent it from swelling.” I replace his hand with mine. “Where are you going?” He kisses me on the forehead and says, “To clean up my mess.” He spends the next twenty minutes cleaning the kitchen. I can hear glass being tossed into the trash can, wine being poured out in the sink. I go to the bathroom and take a quick shower to get his blood off of me and then I change the sheets on my bed. When he finally has the kitchen cleaned up, he comes to the bedroom with a glass. He hands it to me. “It’s soda,” he says. “The caffeine will help.” I take a drink of it and feel it fizz down my throat. It’s actually the perfect thing. I take another drink and set it on my nightstand. “What’s it help with? The hangover?” Ryle slides into bed and pulls the covers over us. He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think soda actually helps anything. My mom just used to give me a soda after I’d had a bad day and it always made me feel a little better.” I smile. “Well, it worked.” He brushes his hand down my cheek and I can see in his eyes and in the way he touches me that he deserves at least one chance at forgiveness. I feel if I don’t find a way to forgive him, I’ll somewhat be placing blame on him for the resentment I still hold for my father. He’s not like my father. Ryle loves me. He’s never come out and said it before, but I know he does. And I love him. What happened in the kitchen tonight is something I’m confident won’t happen again. Not after seeing how upset he is that he hurt me. All humans make mistakes. What determines a person’s character aren’t the mistakes we make. It’s how we take those mistakes and turn them into lessons rather than excuses. Ryle’s eyes somehow grow even more sincere and he leans over and kisses my hand. He settles his head into the pillow and we just lie there, staring at each other, sharing this unspoken energy that fills all the holes the night has left in us. After a few minutes, he squeezes my hand. “Lily,” he says, brushing his thumb over mine. “I’m in love with you.” I feel his words in every part of me. And when I whisper, “I love you, too,” it’s the most naked truth I’ve ever spoken to him.