Truly Madly Deeply: Prologue

“Creep”—Radiohead

Age Eighteen

If someone told me an hour ago that I would be pinned beneath Row Casablancas, partially naked and writhing against the hood of his black Mustang, I would have guessed he’d gotten himself into some kind of trouble and had resorted to drugging me and harvesting my organs to make a quick buck.

Row didn’t hate me. He didn’t love me either. I would guesstimate his feelings toward me were somewhere on the spectrum between look at this adorable little moron and shit, I forgot she existed.

I was his baby sister’s best friend. The awkward klutz who suffered from bouts of verbal diarrhea and extremely questionable fashion sense.

Fine. I didn’t suffer from the questionable fashion sense. I owned it. Sue me for celebrating my individuality.

I always figured he liked me in the same way people liked puppies—because they were cute, dumb, and adored the ground you walked on, even if you were a terrible human who peeled clementines in public places. But I digress.

Harboring a small, totally manageable crush on your best friend’s brother was a cliché. However, I was obsessed with the nineties, an era that celebrated true and tested formulas. Ergo, pining after him fit me like a tattoo choker.

In my defense, Row made it impossible for my adolescent self not to lust after him on account of him: 1) being six foot four inches of lithe, corded muscles, having floppy onyx hair, and a jawline stronger than my lifetime of New Year’s resolutions combined, and 2) having the entire bad-boy vibe down to a T—including a sports car, athletic genes, witty one-liners, a dimpled smirk, and unlaced combat boots with tight-fitting jeans stacked upon them.

To sum it up, he was a morally gray hunk who was a total red flag—my age group’s favorite color scheme. So, yes. Of course I, too, wanted to be ruined by Dylan Casablancas’s older brother. Who didn’t? Our entire high school worshipped at his altar. Fenna McGee once even made a sticker that said, I’m not saying that Row Casablancas and God are the same person—but have you ever seen them in the same room?

Point was, Row’s tongue was currently shoved so far down my throat, we were playing tonsil hockey. His ballistic missile–sized erection pressed against the buttons of my yellow plaid skirt, threatening to snap them and send them past the Milky Way. And all I could think about was how I was doing Dylan dirty.

Bile coated the back of my throat. Dylan hated it when her friends fell at her brother’s feet. She’d make gagging sounds every time someone we knew flirted with him, which made what was happening right now completely inexcusable. But I was semi-drunk, exceptionally raw, and uncharacteristically reckless. Plus…Dylan was so used to seeing Row ruining her friends like it was an Olympic sport, what was adding one more into the mix?

I was also a people pleaser, and I really wanted to please Row. So I made complimentary moaning sounds I’d learned from the Pornhub University of Fake Orgasms. This included head lolling, enthusiastic panting, and girly gasps.

Row took this as an invitation to move to second base, coiling his calloused fingers around the front of my throat and flattening me against the hood of his car. The hood still exuded heat from the engine, and I wondered if I’d sport second-degree burns tomorrow morning. My butt cheeks were squeezed together to accommodate his lean waist between my thighs, my heartbeat thrashing against my eyelids like an angry woodpecker.

We were parked on a rocky cliff overlooking the glacial-tipped Maine mountains. The ocean stretched like a tight, black sheet across the horizon. The briny scent floated into my nostrils, and goose bumps coated my arms.

It felt so good and yet so wrong, I didn’t know whether to burst into giggles, tears, or flames.

Stop this right now, Cal. Dylan is going to strangle you.

Actually, my BFF was more the type to steal my clothes and go on a killing spree. Dylan Casablancas was creative, innovative, and delightfully hilarious. I loved her so much. She deserved better than this.

Row’s hand snuck under my beige turtleneck and my yellow plaid vest, cupping my left boob as his mouth trailed along my jaw, leaving wet, hot kisses in its wake, making my spine tingle. His lips were sinful, his tousled hair as soft as silk between my greedy fingers.

Dammit, I’m only human.

We were grinding against each other, and I was in awe of how different his body was from mine. Hard to my soft. Tall to my short. Tan to my pale. He was doing everything right. The way he swirled his tongue over my sensitive spots, drawing happy whimpers from me. The way his thumb rubbed the tip of my hard nipple, making it tingly and sensitive and desperate for more, felt like some kind of dark magic.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

What a terribly un-asshole-y thing to say. Then again, Row never directed his infinite wrath at me. Probably because I was like a sister to Dylan.

There was a bonfire happening in the moorlands below the cliff where we were parked. A farewell bash for us seniors before we all scattered away to our respective colleges. Row had dropped by to pick Dylan up—he was in town for a couple weeks, visiting from his fancy culinary school in Paris—but Dylan had wanted to stick around a little longer. Meanwhile, I’d wanted to go home, eat pickled eggs, and binge-watch Riverdale.

Yet we’d ended up on the notorious Make-out Mountain, where couples went to lose their virginity, and sometimes lacy thongs, without being interrupted.

Row and I were friendly. He was always protective of me. I’d asked him to drive up to the cliff so I could take one last look at the ocean before I moved to New York. I definitely hadn’t planned on attacking his mouth with mine like a rabid raccoon when we’d both stared at the yolky sun crawling up the sky.

Yet…it had happened. It had happened, and now I was in his arms, the cold recipient of his kisses and licks and roaming hands. I froze, yet again feeling guilty about Dylan. She’d forgive me, surely. It wasn’t like he was her boyfriend.

Row ripped his mouth from my skin, staring me down through a disapproving scowl. “Are you still alive?”

“Hmm-mm.”

“Should I stop?” His fingers immediately loosened around my waist and back, and I suddenly remembered what had made me want to have sex with him in the first place.

“No!” I wrenched him closer and pressed my lips to his, doubling down on that rabid-wildlife conduct. “You…you can’t stop.” But maybe he should? My mind and my body were definitely not in sync.

“Sure I can.” His mouth moved over mine again, his voice velvet and smoke. “Consent is a real thing. Google it.” I was blushing so furiously, it was a medical miracle my head didn’t explode. His mouth grinned against mine, teeth grazing my bottom lip. “Fuck. You’re so sweet. So innocent. I want to eat you out.”

“I want to eat you out too.” Wait, what? That didn’t sound right. Having social anxiety and literally zero filters when I was nervous sucked.

“Do you, now?” I could hear the smirk in his smartass tone.

Dammit, Cal. “Not, in, like, a cannibalistic way—”

“Show me, then. Use plenty of examples. I’m a slow learner.” He growled, deepening our kiss. Our teeth brushed together, and a wave of pleasure rolled along my spine. My skin was cold, but my insides were ablaze. I pushed my palm against his groin over his black jeans. I couldn’t believe I was touching him, really touching the guy who literally made women melt into a pool of hormones just by glancing at him.

He ripped his mouth from mine, eyeballing me hard. We stared at each other, panting. I had no idea what I was doing. I kept my hand on his penis and rubbed a little, like I did when my cat, Semus, asked for a head rub.

His dick twitched, pushing against my palm appreciatively. Row dropped his forehead to mine, letting loose a low grumble that reverberated inside my chest. “Fuck, Dot. Your goddamn existence turns me on. Your mere breathing makes my balls tingle.”

Whoa. Men said crazy things to get laid. Did women know about this? We could’ve collectively prevented wars. Gone on reckless shopping sprees at Target.

There was something about the fact he called me Dot that sent pleasurable shivers up and down my back. Dylan had come up with the nickname because when we were little, four or five, she couldn’t remember the word freckle, so she’d named me after the galaxy of star-shaped dots peppered across my nose. The nickname had stuck.

I unglued my hand from his groin, wrapping my fingers along the lapels of his leather jacket, pulling him to me. He smelled delicious. Of cedar, worn leather, and spices. Of an entire foreign land full of Michelin-starred restaurants, romantic chansons, glass chandeliers, and thick, dusty French books. And yet, strangely, also…like home.

“Row?”

“Yeah?”

“As you know, I have…uhm…” Social anxiety from hell.

“A healthy aversion to strangers,” he mumbled into my skin, biting the side of my jaw softly. “Understandable. I’m not a fan of humans myself.” He rubbed the sensitive spot behind my ear with his thumb. “If you want to stop—”

“No!” I cried out. This was the first time I was actually having fun being with a guy. Well, it was kind of the only time I’d been with a guy since…since. “I want you to take my virginity,” I choked out, my lips latching onto his. I was shaking with panic, adrenaline, and the morning chill. “Be my first.” This wasn’t planned in any way. I’d never dreamt of seducing Dylan’s brother. But now that it was just the two of us, I couldn’t think of anyone else I wanted to do it with.

“Dot.” His fingers were buried in my hair as he ravaged me with his expert mouth. Without finesse, without game, without the untouchable coolness he normally carried himself with. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

I’d never seen Row so authentic, so final, so…out of control. He was usually unruffled and composed; I felt so drunk with power, my head spun.

“Please,” I croaked. “I know what I want.”

“And what is it that you want?”

“You.”

He tore his mouth from mine, his hooded, golden eyes of a ravening tiger studying me. “From one to ten, how sure are you? Ten is without-a-doubt confident, and one is forget-what-I-said-and-take-me-home.”

“Twelve.” I blinked excessively, maybe seven or eight times in a row. It happened when I was anxious. A nervous tic I’d developed when I was four and never gotten rid of. Contrary to general belief, this didn’t fall into Tourette’s category. It was a chronic tic disorder. My way to wear my heart on my sleeve and show people how nervous I was.

“Are you sure you want me to take your V-card?” His eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, Row, I’m sure. Who else would I give it to? Some trust fund baby from SUNY? Someone with a broccoli haircut? A guy who doesn’t even care about me and would make me sit in his dorm room and listen to his experimental techno music?” Technically, Row didn’t care either. But I knew he’d never ridicule or tease me. He had a history of making me feel safe, and feeling safe wasn’t something I was used to.

His mouth slacked, and I could tell he wanted to refuse my request. He probably thought I was odd. Just like everyone else in this small town.

“Why?” His thick eyebrows nose-dived. I decided to give him the truth. He deserved it, after all.

“Because I have…” Severe androphobia. “Trust issues, and I know I’d never regret you. You’re the only guy I know who is fuckable and not a fuckup. Make sense?”

“I’m a major fuckup.” He ran his fingers over my side bangs, tucking the hair behind my ear. “But too fucking selfish not to fuck you. It’s going to hurt, you know.” He gave me a cool once-over. “The first time, anyway. It’ll get better the more times—”

“There won’t be more times,” I interrupted him. I appreciated him pretending it wasn’t a one-night stand, but that wasn’t necessary. “You don’t have to say that to make me feel better.”

His desire-drunk expression melted into a frown. “I’m not saying that to make you feel better. I’m saying that because fucking you is probably all I’ll want to do once we start.”

“Row, this has to be a one-time thing. Dylan can’t know. Please.” I placed my palms over his chest. I was a coward and a cheat, and in that moment, I hated myself more than Dylan could if she ever found out. And still, he was my one shot at not dying a virgin.

He must’ve understood the gravity of the situation because he nodded. “Okay.”

“I’m ready, Row. Let’s do this.” I shoved my tongue into his mouth before he could use it to change his mind. I’d already made a colossal mistake by making out with him. Might as well lose my pesky virginity before I went off to college.

It was the right thing to do.

First of all, because according to the rumors, he knew his way around a woman’s body. Second, because his Adonis face was attached to some history, context, and nostalgia. He was comfort, familiarity, and ease, not some sordid mistake. And third, because I knew that despite his reputation, he wouldn’t hurt me.

And that last part? It was huge.

Row was my security blanket in many ways, even though he didn’t know it. When we were kids, he’d throw Dylan and me into the public pool as many times as we asked. He’d taught us how to do cartwheels, drive a car, cheat in poker, pick a lock. He’d given us money for vinyl records even though we never paid him back. Driven us places. Bought us ice cream when we were PMSing. Dislocated a nose or two when someone catcalled us.

Row made sense. I didn’t have cold sweats with him. I didn’t go into hiding. Whenever I had extreme, nervous verbal diarrhea in front of him, he didn’t look at me like I was a freak. And I was confident enough in his presence to sass back.

Our bodies fused into one another as he kissed his way down my throat, proceeding south, his head disappearing between my thighs.

“No,” I gasped, desperately trying to yank him up to his feet. “We don’t have time.” But the truth was, I was deathly afraid he wouldn’t like the taste of me. “Just…do it.” Great, now I sounded like a Nike commercial. “And hurry up.”

“You sure know how to set the mood.” Row stood up swiftly, returning his lips to mine, refusing to cheapen this experience for me. His strong fingers slowly snaked down my waist, flipping my skirt up. More grinding ensued. His cock slid up and down my slit through my panties and his jeans. I could feel heat rushing between my legs. He made sure I was hot and ready for him before he rolled on a condom, and then he was inside me, sealing my pained moan with an apologetic kiss. Tears seared my eyes, and I held my breath at the sharp sting.

“Okay to move?” he grunted, lodged squarely inside me.

“I strongly prefer that you didn’t.”

“We can—”

“Stop. I know. Please just fuck me.” Didn’t I literally tell him not to? My head was a mess. So was the rest of me.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know. That’s precisely why we should continue.”

He pulled out slowly, then thrusted inside. Soon, I was clawing at his shoulders, staring at the sun slithering behind his dark, messy hair as he drove into me, my white Mary Janes thumping against his car hood every time he pressed home. I held my breath the entire time.

Clank. Clank. Clank.

Steadfast and determined, he screwed me like I was a hood ornament he was trying to drill back into place. He was kissing and nibbling, exploring and admiring. Didn’t he know that on some level, all women lost their virginity alone? It was kissing your innocence goodbye. This was the point it stopped being great and started being taxing. I wasn’t so turned on anymore.

Truth was, it hurt. It burned. It sucked.

All throughout, Row whispered sweet nothings into my ear. Things I knew there was no way he truly believed. Things like, Jesus, Dot, I could live inside this tight pussy if you’d let me, and You’re the most beautiful girl in the whole fucking universe, no close seconds, and Watching my dick inside you is more breathtaking than Paris at night.

It lasted way more than the average time my friends reported their boyfriends had sexed them. I was expecting five minutes—ten, if I wasn’t lucky. But no. Row seemed to carry on forever. I was planning my 401(k) while he was in there, mercilessly stabbing my poor hymen with what appeared to be his eleven-inch dick.

He had tricks too. With his tongue, his thumbs, his teeth. Tricks I could’ve admired had my mind not been stuck on how to explain to Dylan what had happened if she ever found out, then groveling into the next century in hopes she’d forgive me.

Dylan was staying here, in Staindrop. She’d decided the student debt wasn’t worth a liberal arts degree that would gain her zero opportunities.

“And anyway,” she’d chuckled the last time I’d broached the subject, “it’s not like I’m even good at anything. I’d be wasting money on a degree I’d probably never use.”

We’d promised to visit one another every other month, but I knew Dylan was worried I’d ditch her for new, shiny urban friends.

Finally—praise Jesus—Row grumbled, “Fuck, I’m coming.”

“Yeah. Totally. Me too.” I lifted my hand from behind his shoulder and bit into my fist to suppress a yelp of agony. I was worried my internal organs had gotten tangled around his penis. What if he pulled out and took my intestines with him? That thing between his legs was a health hazard.

Row was coming inside me when I heard the squeak of car wheels stopping abruptly to my right, followed by gravel crunching. Another couple coming to Make-out Mountain to get some action. A car door slammed behind my back.

Then I heard the unmistakable voice of my best friend.

“Somebody better hold my earrings.” Dylan’s tenor was like a pair of scissors cutting my heart into a Judas-shaped paper. “Because I’m about to murder a bitch.”

“Shit.” Row lurched away from me like I was fire. His condomed penis materialized from my body one inch at a time, wet and entirely too big to be nestled inside anything that wasn’t a lifeboat. He yanked off the condom, tying it and zipping himself up.

“Please tell me I’m suffering from a brain hemorrhage and not really seeing what I’m seeing.” Dylan tramped her way to us, her neon pink ankle boots chomping the pebbles beneath her. She wore a red leather skirt she’d borrowed from me, knee-length plaid socks, and a black sweater. She looked adorable. Also, pissed off. Mostly pissed off. Way more pissed off than I’d anticipated, to be honest.

Row tossed his leather jacket over my torso, and that was when I remembered he’d removed my shirt and bra sometime during our sexcapade.

Also—why wasn’t I moving? Talking? Breathing? Oh. That’s right. Because my go-to during fight-or-flight situations was the third option—freeze. I’d simply turn to stone and play dead.

“Cal!” Dylan stopped in front of me, her dark, upturned eyes glittering with tears. “What the…what the shit, dude?!” She tossed her arms in the air like they were boneless noodles before pointing at Row. “That’s my brother. What do you think you’re doing?”

That was a very fair question. To which I had no good answer.

Dylan’s face was devastating. Her full lower lip trembled, and her apple cheeks were stained pink. I had completely miscalculated how much she’d care about this. I peered behind her shoulder. I noticed Tucker, the beefy bully we both hated, sitting in the driver’s seat of the car that had driven her here, pretending to read his insurance papers. Probably scared Row would make a punching bag out of him if he realized he was here.

What was Dylan doing with this douche canoe? Was she planning to make out with him here?

Now was decidedly not a great time to interrogate her.

“Dammit, Dot, say something!” Dylan grabbed me by the arms and shook me hard, desperate and panicked. The leather jacket fell from my chest. I was now topless. And anxious. So anxious I couldn’t breathe. The flashbacks poured out.

Naked.

Defenseless.

Attacked.

“That’s enough, Dylan.” Row’s voice was pure gravel.

For the first time in my life, I witnessed my best friend ignoring her older brother. Usually, she treated him with godlike respect. Which was maybe why she was so pissed right now? There was no other way to explain it, since she looked ready to murder someone. Ideally, me.

Still, I was incapable of producing any sound, let alone words of apology. I was shell-shocked, caught red-handed doing something I shouldn’t have. Namely, my best friend’s older brother. I sifted through my mind for a plausible reason for what had just happened.

He was my one chance to lose my virginity. I’m broken.

I’ve actually had a crush on him for ages. I never told you because I care so deeply about our friendship.

I didn’t even plan to do it. It just…happened.

But they all sounded dumb, even in my head. I had messed up. And I needed to pay for it.

“Stop this right now.” Row stepped between us, bunching Dylan’s wrists behind her back and pulling her away from me. “You can’t kill her,” he said dryly.

“Give me one good reason!” She kicked the air manically, trying to break free and throw punches my way.

“For one thing, we can’t afford the legal fees.”

“We can always hide her body,” she spat out, wiggling ferally in his arms. She had no idea how much her words triggered me. A scream clogged my throat.

“You can’t even hide your birth control from Mom.” Row rolled his eyes.

“You’re on birth control?” I gasped. “You never told me that.”

“Chill. It’s to regulate my hormones. You know I haven’t even gone past second bas—” Dylan frowned, catching herself. “Hold on a minute, why am I explaining myself to you? We’re not even friends anymore.”

What?

Tears sprung to my eyes. White, blistering panic gave way to realization: I had slept with my best friend’s older brother and she’d caught me. Maybe I didn’t think it was a big deal, but what did I know? I had no siblings, so I’d never had to deal with anything like this.

Row was leaving for Paris next week; I was leaving for New York tomorrow, and I had just thrown away fourteen years of friendship for the dubious pleasure of being railed by a man with a rolling pin instead of a penis.

“It was my idea.” Row’s voice sounded disinterested and aloof. I didn’t know why he said that. It absolutely hadn’t been.

“Don’t protect her!” Dylan finally broke free from Row’s grasp, pushing at her big brother’s chest. Her tears flew sideways. He didn’t even budge. Dude was built like a Marvel superhero. “She’s a selfish, mean, heartless bitch who betrayed me!”

“I’m a selfish, mean, heartless asshole who did the same.” His lips barely moved, but a muscle in his chiseled jaw jumped. “Yet I don’t see you plotting my murder.”

“Well, you I have to put up with.” She tossed her hands up exasperatedly. “You’re blood. But she? She is…piss!”

Holy hell. I’d never heard Dylan speak to me that way. Not even close. I really was dead to her.

“Watch your mouth,” he snarled, his face turning frosty, impassive.

Whoa. Why was he defending me?

“She should watch her legs!” Dylan flipped him off. “While she’s at it, she should probably get dressed before she gives Tuck a lap dance.”

“Dylan.” He pinned her with a look that made me shrivel into myself in fear. Dylan stared him down, and it looked like an entire conversation passed between them wordlessly.

With a slow shake of her head, she let her shoulders sag, exhaling. “God, you’re pathetic.”

Row? Pathetic? I doubted he could even spell the word. Row was magnificent. Spectacular. Self-assured, talented, and formidably hot. He’d always been bigger than life. Even as a kid, he had known he was destined to be a great chef. When he was ten, he’d used test tubes and droppers to measure ingredient quantities to come up with new recipes. When I was ten, I had taught myself how to laminate my eyebrows using a glue stick and an eraser.

Finally, the words that were bunched in my throat rushed out like a river.

“Dylan, I’m so, so sorry.” I crouched down, hastily picking up my discarded bra and turtleneck. I’d been wearing Cher’s iconic yellow outfit from Clueless, which I’d sewn for myself. My white knee-length socks were muddied.

“Actually, sorry doesn’t even begin to cover how I’m feeling. What I did was deplorable! It was all a huge mistake. I’m sick to my stomach. Horrified, disgusted, revolted—”

“Stop. I’ll fucking blush.” Row rolled his tongue over his inner cheek, propping his unlaced army boot against the hood of his car. I ignored him. He wasn’t really offended. Sarcasm was his native tongue.

“…revolted, no, repulsed by my own actions,” I continued.

“Did you swallow a whole-ass dictionary?” Row’s whiskey-tinted eyes slanted into furious slits. “Also, you can say it felt like shit until you’re blue in the face, but your body told me a different story when you dripped all over the hood of my car.”

“Argh! Blasphemy.” Dylan pressed her palms to her ears, squeezing her eyes shut. “The mental image is now burned into my retinas, and I have no other choice but to murder both of you.”

“I swear I didn’t mean to! I was drunk,” I continued, lying through my teeth. I had always been a liar. My white lies were like makeup. Small, little concealers designed to fix up the blemishes of my life. To ensure my loved ones’ minds were at ease. Lying was second nature to me. If I thought someone I cared about wasn’t going to like my answer, I made up another one especially for them.

I shoved my arms into my sleeves, covering up, my eyes clinging to Dylan’s beautiful, distressed face. “It was a huge mistake. A one-off.”

I couldn’t lose her. Couldn’t lose my best friend. She was there when, in kindergarten, kids had made fun of me for wearing a socks-and-sandals combo. She had started wearing them to school too, as a fashion statement. A middle finger to the bullies. Dylan always marched to the beat of her own drum. She always did the right thing, even if that thing was scary. The opposite of me, she never lied. She wore the truth like a badge of honor, even if it was ugly.

She had been there when my babushka had passed away, braiding my hair and listening to me for hours. There for the laughs, for the tears. For the college rejection letters, for fights with my parents, and when we’d veg out on the couch in our pj’s, watching Teen Mom and polishing off my entire fridge.

“All I hear is me, me, me.” Dylan’s tear-rimmed eyes rolled in their sockets, and she tipped her head back, chuckling humorlessly. “It’s all about you, isn’t it? You were drunk. You made a mistake. You feel disgusted. You have anxiety. What about me? Did you ever stop to think how much I hate it when my friends hit on my brother? How everyone wants to befriend Dylan Casablancas because her brother is hot?”

She thought I’d used our proximity to hook up with Row? That was ridiculous. My crush on Ambrose Casablancas was akin to my crush on Chris Pine. Just because it was there, didn’t mean I ever had any plans to act on it. He was the least attainable person on planet Earth, with his mood, hair, and allure all darker than the pit of his own soul.

Plus, it wasn’t like I’d planned to date him. I didn’t do boyfriends. And I definitely didn’t do relationships. Relationships were for other humans who could “people” normally and not topple over like a fainting goat at the slightest social interaction.

“Dylan!” I rushed the four steps between us, erasing them completely as I fell down to my knees at her boots. The little stones dug into my shins with gusto. Blood oozed from my scraped flesh. “It meant nothing. I swear. I never looked at Row twice before today.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. “You know I always thought he was freakishly tall and a little frightening—”

“And the compliments just keep on coming.” A wry sneer rolled off Row’s tongue above my head. He was leaning against the hood of his car, arms folded, not a care in his world. “Is your secret talent pissing people off, Cal?” I hated him so much in that moment.

“Worst-kept secret, as you can see.” I flashed him a glare, gesturing toward his sister.

“Don’t you dare answer my brother like that.” Dylan shoved her finger in my face. “He’s way out of your league and the height of your love life.”

I was in complete agreement with her. Row was the entire deal. Hot, smart, and talented as hell. Not only was he not in my league, we weren’t even playing the same sport. He was football and I was…cheese rolling. Or something equally as eccentric.

“All I’m saying is I never meant for it to happen. It was a small lapse of judgment.” I pressed my palms together, still begging her on the ground, my clothes filthy and askew. For a reason unbeknownst to me, I had underestimated how important it was to Dylan that I wouldn’t mess around with her brother. Probably because literally every other girl at our school had. Or had tried to, at some point.

“Small?” Row inquired behind me.

“Huge,” I corrected, my head so hot I felt like it was going to explode. “Thick too. Better?” I shot him a dirty look.

“Infinitely.” He fished inside his front pocket for a cigarette, producing a pack of Gitanes. Of course, he smoked French cigarettes now.

“Wow. Okay.” Dylan scrubbed her forehead, shaking her head. “Guess I’m about to vomit the three slices of pizza I just ate.”

“Please forgive me, Dylan. Please,” I said desperately.

Row shook his head, trudging to the driver’s seat. He slipped inside and started the engine.

Dylan stared at me like a queen deciding whether to spare a lowly subject from execution. Her lips curled, arms folded over her chest archly.

“You know, Cal, I’ve always looked up to you. You’re gorgeous, funny, smart, a kaleidoscope of colors and facts about the nineties; I mean, damn, you’re a walking Wikipedia about serial killers and ghost stories, and still have the most sunshine personality I’ve ever known. It’s tempting to stick around, to let those Calla Litvin sunrays kiss your skin. But when you strip it all off…the playlists, the outfits, the good times…when you look inside and examine what kind of friend she is…she sucks.” Dylan shook her head, her arms dropping to the sides of her body. “Grow up, Dot. And do it far away from me because I never want to see your face again.”

She strutted back to Tuck’s red truck, slid inside, and barked at him to drive. Shockingly, the guy who had spent the last four years stuffing cigarette ash and condoms into our lockers did as he was told.

I stayed on my knees, in the freezing cold, mulling over her words. My fingertips numbed at the edges. Chills draped across my shoulders like an oversized cloak. I tilted my head sideways, at Row’s headlights. He flicked them on and off, his silent way of telling me to get inside before he changed his mind about not leaving me to walk home and catch pneumonia. He was stone-faced. The same standoffish version of himself he gave anyone who wasn’t Dylan and his mom. And, sometimes, me.

Cocky.

Calculated.

Corrupt to the bone.

Humiliated, I pushed my palms against the ground, staggering up to my feet. I began limping toward his car, icy mud falling off my knees in clumps. Behind the windshield, Row’s expression was flippant.

I tried to see myself through his eyes. This pitiful, crumpled creature. Mangled and stained, like a discarded supermarket list at the bottom of a cart. A beautiful girl, the townsfolk all agreed behind my back, but so very odd, just like her father.

Tucking myself in the passenger seat, I shut the door and hung my head low and fingered the friendship bracelet Dylan had given me. At least I still had it. My finger caught in the elastic string, and as if on cue, it snapped and broke, the beads raining down my seat and onto the floor. I hastily tried scooping them, but I couldn’t feel my fingers.

“That went well.” He flicked the bottom of the Gitanes with his finger. Another cigarette popped from the pack, and he clasped his teeth around it, lighting it like a movie star.

“I’m such an idiot.” I flicked mud from my knees, banging the back of my head against my seat. I didn’t let my tears loose, even though it was near impossible. “I traded my best friend for a fling.”

“For all she knows, this could be the romance of the century.” He rolled his window down, a cloud of smoke drifting past his lips.

I shook my head. “Dylan knows the score. She knows I can’t fall in love. That I’m…” The rest of the sentence perished in my mouth.

“A narcissist?” He bowed a brow.

“Broken.” I frowned. “But thanks.”

“You’re not broken, Dot.” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, patting my thigh offhandedly. “A little cut, sure. All diamonds are.”

Not me, I thought. Underneath my sunshine personality, all you’ll find is darkness.

“So.” He swiped his tongue across his upper lip, eyes hard on the road ahead. “I need to tell you something.”

He was going to warn me off bothering Dylan. He was so protective of her and knew how much she hated me right now. But I couldn’t bear it, the idea of her not being in my life anymore.

“Please don’t say anything,” I begged. “My night is hideous as it is.”

“It’s not about Dylan.” Of course, it wasn’t. It was about how awful I was. Sleeping with my best friend’s older brother. I was wrong about Row. He was going to hurt me after all.

“Row, please. There’s nothing to talk about. Trust me, I’m as horrified about you and me as you are. Probably more.”

He punched his steering wheel, muttering something under his breath. “Would you get out of your own fucking head for one second and listen?” he seethed.

“No thank you. My head is a terrible place. It’s exactly where I deserve to be right now.”

I wanted to apologize for the way I’d treated him. To try to beg him to reason with Dylan. But I also wanted to hold on to whatever little pride I had left in me.

We zipped past lush New England trees, English lampposts, and the local library, all cloaked by a bluish-orange dawn. The lighthouse gleamed behind a curtain of my unshed tears. With piercing pain, I realized that home wasn’t Staindrop, Maine. It was the Casablancas siblings. And I was forever banished.

“I really am sorry, you know,” I murmured when he stopped in front of my house, the engine still running. His stare was glued to the windshield, his jaw so tight it looked painful. “You guys are like my family. And I…I…” Like you so much. You are the two people I always felt truly myself with. But I didn’t have the guts to say these words. I swallowed. “And I hope everything works out for you.”

Row’s eyes, blank and hollow as a Greek statue’s, were still trained on the road ahead. “Good luck at Columbia.”

“Good luck in Paris.”

“Don’t need luck, got talent.”

He drove off without sparing me a glance. I stared at my clapboard stilt house, the color of strawberry ice cream, with the wraparound porch, pastel-potted plants, and knitted sweaters Mom wrapped the tree trunks in. Kooky, like its occupants. And I knew it would be a long time before I saw it again.

I never wanted to set foot back in Staindrop.

Not if my life depended on it.