Hagen Layla - Lost (Lost #0.5) -

LOST Copyright © 2014 Layla Hagen Published by Layla Hagen

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Author’s note: the timeline for each character is separate, not running in parallel until after chapter six.

Autumn 2005 – College Freshman

“We cannot rule out suicide.” I can’t seem to forget these damn words no matter how much booze I drink to try to poison myself. But I sure as hell will keep trying. “Bartender,” I say. “Another whiskey. Make it a double.” The bartender scowls as he removes the empty glass in front of me. He doesn’t give me a new one. “I asked—” “First pay me for the three whiskeys you already had,” he snarls, cutting me off. “I’m not giving you another one until you pay me what you owe.” “You think I don’t have money to pay for drinks?” I snort, leaning over the counter. “I’ve got enough money to buy this entire bar. No, the whole goddamn building.” The man smirks, but the smirk turns into a grimace as his eyes slide to my wrist and he takes in the Rolex. “A worthless party boy who has it all, living off Daddy’s money, are you?” he asks through gritted teeth, not taking his eyes off my wrist. “I’m sick of people like you.” He’s dead right; I’m worthless. The part about living off my dad’s money is debatable. Technically, it’s my money. My grandfather set up a trust fund for me. I got access to it last month, just before starting college. He’s also dead wrong. I don’t have it all. I have nothing. It’s been three months since I had something. Three months since that cursed high school graduation day. Lara—my classmate, my girlfriend, my everything—never showed up at the graduation ceremony. The police showed up instead, telling us she’d crashed her car into a tree and was dead. Because of me. No one said it, but the accusation hung in the air. Everyone had seen the horrid fight between us before she took off, speeding at one hundred miles per hour in her haste to get away from me. And then the bomb came: the police said they weren’t sure if she’d just lost control of her car or crashed on purpose. They haven’t been able to find out in the months since either, so they closed her case. All I know is she’s dead. Gone. And it’s my fault.

The bartender takes the bills I throw on the counter and a few seconds later plunks a glass of whiskey in front of me. His eyes dart at the Rolex on my wrist again. He stinks of envy. Lucky bastard. Those who get to envy others for money are the luckiest. I envy those who have happiness and peace. And since I buried my happiness and peace six feet under the earth, all I have left is trying hard to forget those two concepts even exist. Drinking doesn’t seem to do it. “Care to buy me a cocktail?” a woman’s voice calls from my right. I spin on my bar stool to face her. A blonde with large, blue eyes gazes at me. She’s pretty hot. And much better off without me, she just doesn’t know it. Fuck-ups like me should come with a warning sign, so those around us would get it and stay the hell away. The way she bites her lip, I can tell she’s looking for much more than a cocktail. She watches me in the same lustful way women have watched me since I turned fourteen. I can tell she’s looking for some fun. But I am no fun. Least of all, I’m not up for that kind of fun. I haven’t touched another woman before Lara. And haven’t touched any after her. “Another time,” I say. She jerks her head back, her eyes widening. Her mouth opens but I walk away before she gets one word out, taking my whiskey with me. I look around the pub, trying to find my group. I spot them gathered at a table in the corner and drag myself there. I slump in a seat next to Natalie, the only person in the group I know. I wish she would’ve gone to college somewhere else, though we’ve been friends for years. That’s actually the reason I wish she would’ve gone elsewhere. She went to boarding school with Lara and me. Her presence keeps the horror fresh. She tucks her dark brown hair behind her ears, glancing at me every other minute, like I’m a bomb ready to detonate. I pretend not to notice her, and instead focus on what’s going on at the table. A poker game between Natalie and the rest of the group. I don’t know anything about the other four except they go at Stanford with us. As far as I am concerned, the only thing we seem to have in common is obscene trust funds backing us up. Judging by the amounts they are betting, they either have less money than me or more sense. Probably the latter. “I raise the bet to fifty thousand,” I say. Natalie raises her eyebrows. “You’re not playing, James.” “I am starting now. I raise the bet to fifty thousand,” I repeat. “That’s a lot of money for a poker bet,” Natalie whispers. “Challenge accepted,” the guy sitting opposite me says, grinning. He rubs his hands. I think his name is Ralph. “Finally, someone with balls in this group.” The others shake their heads. I straighten up, struggling to focus on the chips Ralph shoves in front of me. Given the amount of whiskey I drank, that’s no easy task. It fucked up my vision and pretty much everything else. Except the guilt. Nothing ever seems to fuck up the guilt. So the guilt just fucks me up. Yet, as I stare at the columns of chips, something besides guilt roars inside me. Adrenaline. “Come on,” I say to the girl dealing the cards. She blushes, dishing out the cards faster. Just as I pick up my cards, something hits my left shoulder. “Watch it,” I call, massaging my shoulder, without looking to see what or who collided with it. “You watch it.” I look sideways. A guy about a head taller and almost twice as wide as me stands there with his arms folded over his chest, glaring down at me. I stand up, waddling. “Can I help you?” I ask. “Damn right you can,” he growls. “I don’t appreciate people being rude to my sister.” I frown. “Who was rude to your sister?” I’m about to point out I have no idea who he or his sister are,

but I have a hunch I’m missing something. “You think you’re being smart, don’t you?” I shake my head. “I don’t even know who your sister is.” “Oh, now you pretend you don’t remember.” He cracks his knuckles, glancing over his shoulder. I narrow my eyes and spot the blonde who asked me to buy her a cocktail. I snort. “Man, I don’t know what she told you, but I was most definitely not rude to her. I actually did her a favor.” What happens next goes so quickly I almost don’t see it. But I feel it. The punch in my stomach sears through me, cutting my breath short. I buckle forward, gasping for air. The blinding pain turns my mind blank. For a few seconds I just hang there in nothingness. And it feels damn good. But then reality starts to creep back in as the pain fades and a foul breath fills my nostrils. “Are you calling my sister a liar?” I form my palms into fists. Finally, something to take my mind off my shit. Something far better than booze or a reckless poker bet. Pain. I smile. “Not at all. Merely a bad loser. If she wants to get laid so badly, I’m sure there’s someone around here willing to fuck her.” I don’t even blink when his fist hits my jaw.



2006 – High School Freshman

“Don’t be like this. Come with us, it’ll be fun,” Jess says, twirling a strand of her long, blonde hair around the curling iron. Holding my knees against my chest on her bed, I see Jess’s reflection in the mirror on the door—she’s frowning in concentration, trying not to burn herself with the hot iron. “I’m really not in the mood to go out.” “You’ve been here for five months and you’ve never been in the mood. Come on, that’s what high school is for.” Her eyes light up. “Fun.” “Next time, I promise,” I say, forcing a smile on my lips. Jess slumps her shoulders, shaking her head, and then curses as she accidentally touches her forehead with the hot iron. “Fine. Stay home if you want, Serena. But I want your opinion on what to wear to the party.” That brings a real smile to my lips. “But you hate the way I dress.” “I don’t hate it. It’s just that you British girls dress a bit too old-fashioned for my taste. And for everyone else’s taste in California.” She grins. It’s not all British girls who dress like this, just me. But I don’t tell Jess that. It would break her heart. She still hopes that if I live in California long enough, my British taste in clothing might evaporate. “Anyway,” she says, “that doesn’t mean I don’t want your opinion. I always wanted to have a sister and do girly stuff together. Now that I have one, I intend to do just that.” I wince at the word sister, but I know Jess meant to be sweet by saying it. She’s oblivious to anything, as usual, bless her. Sometimes I wish the others were, too. But they aren’t, most of the time. Time. They said the pain of losing my sister will fade with time. Mum, Dad, Jess’s parents. They all said that. But, seven months after burying Kate, the knot in my chest hasn’t loosened one bit. I’m starting to think it never will. Leaving England was a welcome change, though. After Kate died, Mum and Dad did something for me that probably saved my life. Mum’s best friend, Jess’s mum, had moved from London to San Francisco years ago. Mum proposed I move in with them, and do high school in the U.S. I didn’t think twice before accepting. Jess’s parents welcomed me with open arms.

All in all, moving did make things better, but not by much. It doesn’t help that Jess reminds me so much of Kate, either. They both have long, blonde hair that has a kind of sparkle to it, as if the sun permanently shines on it, the complete opposite of my dull, black hair. And they both love parties. Since she was four years older than me, Kate didn’t take me with her to parties. Not that I ever wanted to go. The people she surrounded herself with scared the living daylights out of me. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Jess asks, now holding up two strapless dresses, one blue, one black. Both incredibly short. I point to the blue one, shaking my head to let her know I don’t really approve of either dress. She smiles. “No,” I say. “I’m so tired, really.” “No shit. You do way too many extracurricular activities. I don’t know how you can think straight.” I can’t. Which is why I do it. Keeping myself busy with twice as many extracurricular activities as anyone else tires me enough to give me some peace during my sleep. An existence without exhaustion doesn’t seem possible. I know what it means: thrashing around in my sleep, calling for Kate in endless nightmares. After Jess is done dressing and putting on makeup, we both go down to the house’s foyer. It’s just the two of us at home tonight. Her parents are both working night shifts, because it pays more. Jess’s parents are just as poor as my own parents, and Jess helps them as best as she can by babysitting a neighbor’s three-year-old on weekends. I’ve been looking constantly for some kind of after-school job, but so far, no luck. When Jess opens the door, her crush, Luke, and his best friend, Derek, are already there, leaning on the wall. Smoking. “I really don’t think you should smoke here,” I say. Jess shoots me a warning look, but I don’t care. Hormones might slow down her neurons, but mine are just fine. “Jess’s parents will recognize the smell when they come home.” “No they won’t.” Jess giggles and pulls me outside with the boys. I purse my lips, but don’t say anything else. Luke snickers. I don’t know what Jess sees in him. Well, I do. With his green eyes and toned abs, he doesn’t look half bad. But he’s got a permanent smug look on his face that makes me want to slap him. Derek is his carbon copy, down to the smug look, except he’s got blond, rather than brown, hair. “You do know it’s not a pajama party, don’t you?” Derek asks, looking at my Disney-themed pajamas with disdain. Jess said I should put a robe on, in case the boys were here already, but I couldn’t care less what they think. “I’m not coming, genius,” I say. I don’t think either of them would even know who I am if they didn’t hang around with Jess. They’re both freshmen, like Jess and me, but I keep mostly to myself at school. Jess takes the cigarette out of Luke’s mouth and takes a deep drag. “You should try smoking, too,” Derek says, and stretches his arm toward me, holding his cigarette between his fingers. “No, I shouldn’t,” I snap, taking a step back. “Easy,” he says. “God, you British people are stiff.” He grabs my arm, pushing the cigarette between my lips. “Don’t touch me.” I choke on my breath, jerking my arm away from his grip. Luke starts laughing, but Jess pushes Derek away, saying, “Leave her alone.” “I think I’ll go inside,” I say, my voice trembling.

“You do that, British girl,” Derek says. “Go be stiff somewhere else.” “Shut your mouth, Derek,” Jess spits. “You want me to come up with you?” she asks me in a softer voice. “No, no. I’ll go by myself,” I say. The fact that Jess is concerned for me instead of being pissed that I just put up a pathetic show in front of her crush and his best friend makes me think that maybe Jess isn’t as oblivious as I thought. I enter the house and close the door behind me, but instead of going upstairs, back to my room, I lean on the door, eavesdropping on what they say; all I can hear are their footsteps as they walk away. A spasm of panic rips through me at the thought that Jess is going alone to the party. I should have gone with her. As my breath quickens, I tell myself there’s no reason to worry. There will be other people from our class at the party. Decent people, not dangerous, like the ones Kate hung out with. Stupid and immature, maybe. But not dangerous. Jess doesn’t need me. Kate did. And I wasn’t there. Kate might not have taken me with her to parties, but sometime after I turned thirteen, about one year before she died, she seemed to forget to return home from said parties, and that’s when I started to go looking for her. I learned the places where she hung out pretty quickly. I’d find her sprawled on some couch or floor, or crouched in a corner, too high on drugs to recognize me. The last time I went searching for her to bring her home, one of her so-called friends very nearly stuck a syringe in me. I can still remember his hand grabbing me, his nails scratching at my skin as he pinned me against a wall. “You look like you need some of what we’re having, love. You don’t look very happy.” I taste vomit at the back of my throat as I remember his putrid breath, and then his tongue on my neck. I shudder. One drunken, drugged asshole. That was all it took to turn me into a coward. It didn’t take longer than two days for Kate to leave the house again, when my parents left for work. My beautiful Kate. So rotten and wasted by drugs that nothing else mattered when the need for her poison overtook her. I was still scared out of my wits, terrified that someone might actually stick a needle in me this time, or force himself on me if I went after her. So I didn’t. I told myself—lied to myself—that maybe she’d end up coming home on her own this time. Dead, that’s how she ended up. Because I let her die just to keep myself safe. I press my palms over my eyes. I can’t let any tears come out. Last time I did, I couldn’t stop them for days. I rub my arms, suddenly chilled, and head to the kitchen. Jess’s mum always says chocolate makes things seem sweeter. But as I enter the kitchen, tears start running down my cheeks. And they’re anything but sweet. I grab a hot chocolate packet and scissors and quickly cut it open. I wish my skin could come off as easily. I wish I could break out of my skin. Peel it, scratch it off layer by layer, and then be someone else. Someone better. If that fails, at least be free. I stare at the scissors for a few seconds, my heart beating so fast I think it might explode. I wish it would. Maybe then, the constant ache in my chest would disappear. I press the tip of the scissors on the back of my hand, wincing. It leaves a fine, white line on my skin. A scratch. This could set me free. I could turn my arm with my wrist up and use the blade of the scissors to cut the green-blue lines open. Blood would spill out, and I’d watch it dribble, drop by drop. That would make the ache in my chest disappear. I bet the guilt, too.

I think I could be free there, in whatever would follow after the last drop of blood drains. With a sob, I drop the scissors. I can’t do it; I can’t set myself free. As usual, I’m too much of a coward.



Spring 2006 – College Freshman

I leave the room without making any noise, though the redhead is sleeping so deeply, I doubt an earthquake could shake her up. It’s always easiest to leave after they fall asleep. Saves us from some awkward after-sex conversation while I dress and prepare to disappear. The first time I took a girl back to her dorm room, I was dead drunk after a frat party. The second time only halfway so. But every time since—I don’t know how many times, I lost count about halfway through freshman year —I was one hundred percent sober. I’ve no idea why, but I rarely have to do anything more than say a few words to get a girl in bed. Especially if I have bruises on me. I happen to have bruises almost permanently. Turns out that sex, of all the things I’ve tried, is the one thing that completely rips me away from my thoughts and my guilt. And I tried some seriously fucked-up things. But as I leave the redhead’s dorm, choking on the early morning air, the guilt comes back, as it always does, amplified by the knowledge that I have tainted the one thing I had left of Lara. Her memory. Again. My cell phone buzzes. At five o’clock in the morning, there can be only one person calling. Ralph. My screen confirms this. “Bad news,” he says. “My guy tells me there’s no way he can fix it.” “Fuck your guy; I’ll find another one.” “He’s the best mechanic there is. If he can’t fix your racecar, no one can.” I curse again and light a cigarette as I stride across campus to my dorm. I know he’s right. The car was a wreck when they got me out of it. It’s how I got my latest bruises, only this time I got some serious burns to go with them. “Then I’ll buy another car,” I say. “That one was getting old anyway. The new model is out this week.” There’s a pause and then, “You spent a fortune on this one, James.” “Since when are you babysitting me?” “It’s not worth it. Why don’t you just buy a regular one, like mine? It’s not like we’re pros, for God’s sake.”

No, we’re definitely not pros. We’re just some hotheads showing off our egos at illegal car races. So far, I’ve won all the races. I bought a car that was faster than anyone else’s. More dangerous, too. If I die while driving it, it could easily pass off as an accident. It’s a thought that occurs to me every time I sit behind its wheel. But at that moment, when I stare death in the face, I realize I want to live. Every single time. But maybe I’m just too much of a coward to drive into a tree, like Lara did, and I mistake cowardice for the will to live. The accident that destroyed my car was just that, an accident. “Where the hell are you?” Ralph asks. “I’m on my way to my dorm.” He bursts out laughing. “Scored again, have you? We haven’t even finished our freshman year, and you’ve had more—” “Whatever Ralph,” I say, shutting off the phone. The way he talks about women sometimes makes me want to punch him. As if they are some kind of trophies. I snort. What a lousy hypocrite I am for criticizing him. They’re not even trophies for me. They’re just a means to an end. Most of the time I don’t even know what that end is. But I learned my lesson. I never go beyond a one-night stand with them. Most of them don’t seem to want more anyway. I suppose they know that a bruised fuck-up with circles under his eyes almost as dark as his hair is only good for a one-night stand. But some do want more. Some smile at me in the hallways, or appear repeatedly—too often to be unintentional—in the same place I am. That’s the price for always picking up girls on campus, but I can’t be bothered to look farther away. They don’t say anything, probably expecting me to take the lead. I never do. They all give up after a while anyway, either ignoring me or throwing me disappointed glances if we happen to cross paths again. I hate myself for disappointing them, I do. But disappointed is better than dead. There’s nothing good that would come out of a relationship. I would end up breaking them. Like I broke her. Even though I spend more nights than I care to admit thinking about it, I still can’t seem to understand how things got so bad. I can’t put my finger on the moment Lara and I went from being a happy, in-love couple to two people who spent more time fighting than doing anything else together. We were still in love, of course. At least I was. I adored her. But the more I think about it, the less certain I am that she adored me. I can’t blame her. We had known each other forever—we’d been attending the same boarding school since we were eleven. We started dating at the end of our freshman year in high school, spent the summer traveling through Asia, and were inseparable when we returned to school in autumn. If I had to choose one defining moment, it would be our first anniversary. I’d booked a table at the most expensive restaurant in the area. Perfect view and everything. I had bought her a diamond key-shaped pendant as a present, and she bought me the Rolex I haven’t taken off since. We were midway through dinner when the waiter brought Lara a rose and a note from one of the other guests in the restaurant. We never knew who sent it. The note read, A beautiful rose for a beautiful girl. Fucking corny. And it set me on fucking fire. She laughed at it, but I didn’t find anything about the situation even remotely funny. I started questioning her, even checked her messages when she went to the bathroom. I think that was the moment the monster emerged. Probably it’d existed there forever, but that rose and note was what it took to wake it up. I continued to interrogate her the entire evening. She said my jealousy was cute. But she changed her opinion when it became a weekly, and then a daily thing. Before long, that was all

we were talking about. One glance from another guy was enough to set me off. I would insist on accompanying her everywhere she went, something she, understandably, wasn’t happy about and one cause of our numerous fights. But then again, we were fighting constantly anyway. Especially after she got accepted at Harvard. I hadn’t, and already had my mind set on Stanford anyway. We’d discussed, for almost a year, going to Stanford together, but then she started having second thoughts. Second thoughts that didn’t sit very well with me, something I let her know repeatedly. The day of our graduation she told me she had decided to go to Harvard. She’d made her decision months before, but hadn’t had the courage to outright tell me, fearing an outburst. Which was exactly what she got. She insisted that nothing would change. Although we would have a long-distance relationship, we could visit each other on weekends. But all I could see when I thought of long-distance was her surrounded by other men without me there to protect her. When it was, in fact, me she needed protection from. The things I said to her that day, just before she got in her car . . . it wouldn’t be a stretch to think she crashed into that tree on purpose, to end it all. Part of me knows that she didn’t. Lara wasn’t the type to commit suicide; she was strong. But on the nights I have nightmares, it’s hard to remember that she was strong. All I can see is her image, as vivid as if she were in front of me, repeating again and again the exact same words she said to me before getting in that car: “You make my life a living hell.” Her last words—the perfect description of what our relationship had become. My therapist says I am changed now, that I should try a relationship. That it would be good for me. The moron. I don’t know why having a diploma and a shiny office makes people think they know what they are talking about. A relationship wouldn’t be bad for me. It’d be bad for whoever I’d be in it with. The therapist might be under the illusion that I’m changed, but I know better. The monster is still there, waiting to be woken up. No woman deserves that. I get inside my room, but only stay long enough to shower and pick up my laptop and the books for today’s classes. There’s no point in going to sleep; I have a class in three hours. I avoid sleep whenever I can anyway. Unless I’m tired as hell, I don’t go to bed. Too many nightmares. But between the car racing and the partying, I’ve got enough ways to exhaust myself most of the time. I find a good spot outside the building and I open my laptop to catch up on my assignments. If people would be graded based on the number of hours they spend studying, I’d be kicked out of college in no time. As it is, it looks like I’ll finish my freshman year with acceptable grades. I don’t need much time for studying, something Ralph envies me for as much as for my number of conquests. Two hours later my fingertips hurt from all the typing, and I’m about to close my laptop when someone says, “You’re up early.” I look up and see Natalie standing in front of me. “I had to finish an assignment.” I close my laptop and stand up. “I’m starving. I’ll go grab a quick breakfast before class begins.” “I’m coming with you. I could use another coffee. So, James, there are just two weeks of school left. Any plans for the summer?” “Sort of. I promised my little sister I’d take her on some roller coasters, so I’ll probably spend most of the summer traveling around with her, and Ralph is planning some kind of cruise on his yacht the last two weeks before college starts again.” I’ll also fit some serious racing in between, as soon as I get a damn car, but no need for Natalie to know all my shit. Natalie nods. “I know about the cruise, he told me. I’m probably going to come too. So . . . I heard Lara’s parents are organizing a one-year memorial for her. Aren’t you going?”

Every bone in my body goes cold. Natalie looks at me with wide, expectant eyes. Her stare could pass as innocent. But it’s not. I don’t know what her deal is, but she brings up Lara far too often. It’s like she doesn’t want me to forget what happened. Coming from someone who calls herself my oldest friend—and she is, at Stanford at least—I don’t like that. “I don’t think my presence in her parents’ house is welcome,” is all I say, barely managing to keep my voice even.



2009 – High School Senior

When I look up from my notebook, it’s already dark outside, rain drizzling against the library window. I glance around me; there’s no one left. Not even the others who train with me for the math challenge. I gather my books, pens, and the calculator, stuff them in my backpack, and then head to the door. “Night, Ms. Dingle,” I call to the librarian, who’s up on a ladder rearranging the books on the top shelf. “Goodness. I didn’t know you were still here, my dear.” “There are just a few days until the challenge, so I’m trying to squeeze in as much training as I can.” She pushes her glasses up her nose and smiles, her gray-streaked, chocolate-brown hair framing her face. “You’ll do fine, Serena. I’m sure everything will work out at the challenge. As will Stanford.” I blush as I exit the library. Somehow, the entire school knows I’m hoping to go to Stanford. I thought they’d forget after a while, but I guess it’s something that will hold their interest for a little longer since not many kids in our school even dream of applying to Stanford. I really hope I’ll get in. Winning The Williamson National Math Challenge for Underprivileged Teens would put me on the right track. I don’t have many options left; I’m a senior, after all. I take the bus home, and though the ride doesn’t take long, by the time I get out of the bus the rain is falling in torrents, and I’m soaked when I enter the house. “Finally, you’re home,” Jess calls from the kitchen. There’s considerable chatter in the kitchen, which means her mum, Ms. Haydn, is also in there. I peek inside the kitchen. Both of them are at the stove, with their backs to me. It’s not easy to tell them apart. They’re both blonde and slender, but Ms. Haydn is a few inches shorter than Jess. “I’ll go change and then come down and help,” I say. “There’s no need, dear,” Ms. Haydn says. “Dinner is ready. I’ll eat now and then leave for my shift, but you and Jess can eat whenever you feel like it.” She turns around and looks up at me, pointing to the burgers on the stove, and I grin. It’s almost automatic now. Whenever Ms. Haydn looks at me, I smile. I’ve found that smiling keeps people from asking questions, or worse, trying to console the inconsolable. A smile seems to fool everyone, Ms. Haydn included. So I’ve perfected the art of smiling.

She frowns as she sees my soaked clothes. “Go change your clothes, Serena, or you’ll get sick.” Jess comes out of the kitchen with me. “Your rat called you,” she says as we go upstairs. I pinch her arm. “Stop calling Michael that.” “What? A rat? He looks just like one.” “No he doesn’t.” “You really deserve a better-looking boyfriend.” “I like Michael,” I say simply. He’s quiet and shy, like me. I still can’t believe he’s my boyfriend, though we’ve been dating since the beginning of our junior year. I will never know why he decided to date me instead of running for his life after I flirted with a line even the cheapest romance movie wouldn’t dare use. “You’re not supposed to like him,” Jess said, faking a shudder. “You’re supposed to be madly in love with him. There’s this thing called passion. It’s like an explosion.” Ah, yes, passion. That’s all Jess ever seems to look for in life in general, and in her boyfriends in particular. Much like Kate did. But Jess proves to me time and again that passion doesn’t last. She changes boyfriends every six months. An explosion is not what I want. It’s the steady fire my parents have had since they married right out of high school that I crave. And that’s exactly what I have with Michael. I felt it the first time he told me he loved me, and have every time since. That steadiness and warmth is all I’ll ever need and want. “At the very least, you’re supposed to feel butterflies in your stomach every time you see him. And when he undresses you—” “Jess,” I cut her off, feeling my cheeks getting hotter. “Michael and I haven’t . . . I mean . . .” She scoffs. “I know you haven’t. But it’s about time you do.” “I’m very happy with how things are, thank you very much,” I say as we reach the phone on a low glass table between the doors of our adjoining rooms. “Did Michael call from his dad’s shop, or from home?” Michael and I don’t spend an inordinate amount of time together, between all my extracurricular activities and his job at his dad’s auto shop after school. But when we are together we do simple things like watch movies with me huddled against his chest. I like that. Well, I like movies. A lot. There’s something about movies . . . it’s like I get lost in them. For a few hours I forget where I am, hell, even who I am. I have quite a collection of movies—enough to qualify the whole thing as an addiction. Michael made fun of me for an entire week when he saw fifty DVDs stocked in my closet. I didn’t tell him there were twenty more under my bed. “He called from home. He didn’t seem very happy when I told him you were studying for the math challenge.” I groan. Michael can’t understand why I’m trying so hard to win the challenge. I’ve given up repeating that it’s to increase my chances of getting accepted into college and gaining a scholarship. He doesn’t have any intention of going to college. He wants to start working right after school, and doesn’t get why I want something different. I’ve wanted something different since the day I came home from school and found Mum crying over a letter from the bank. I think I was seven or eight years old. She and Dad never told me what it said, but I understood when we had to move into a smaller house in one of London’s dodgiest neighborhoods. Our new location certainly made it easy for Kate to surround herself with the thugs she called friends. Both Mum and Dad worked their asses off, so I knew that it wasn’t for lack of trying on their part that we couldn’t keep the old house. They did everything they could. But everything isn’t enough sometimes. When I was older I realized things could be different if I went to college. I could get a job afterward that

paid far more than what Mum and Dad made. A job that paid enough for me to be able to ensure they both lived the decent life they deserved. I dreamed of going to college ever since. After Kate died, I heard the doctors reprimand my parents for not sending her to rehab. My parents’ answer, weak and regretful, was they couldn’t afford it. I didn’t only dream about going to college afterward. It became my life goal. As I watch Jess stare at the poster of Stanford she hung above the phone months ago, biting her nails, I have a sudden urge to hug her. We may be different in many ways, but Stanford is one goal we share. Jess’s dad always dreamed of going to college, but never had the chance. I think Jess is trying to fulfill that dream, probably in the hope that her relationship with her dad will improve. They don’t get along at all. “Well, I’ll leave you to call Michael.” Jess frowns at her nails, shaking her head. “I want to paint my nails before dinner. What do you think if I make them neon pink?” I give a noncommittal shrug and pick up the phone to call Michael, mentally praying for Jess to change her mind as she disappears into her room. I hate neon colors. Someone picks up after a few rings, and I’m relieved when it’s Michael who speaks. I always feel a bit awkward when his Mum or Dad pick up. “Jess said you were at the library again,” he says. “Yep, math challenge is in a few days.” There’s a pause, and I squirm in my spot, feeling his disapproval radiating through the phone. “So listen,” he says after a while, “some people in my class are going to play billiards. We can— “I can’t come,” I cut him off, choking on my words. “I still want to do some stuff for the challenge.” “But it’s Friday night,” Michael protests. “I know, I know. But I really have to work.” “Fine, talk to you tomorrow,” Michael says, defeated. My stomach flips with a mix of relief and anxiety. Relief because, for once, I didn’t have to lie to Michael about why I don’t want to go out, and anxiety because I fear one day he’ll get tired of me turning down all of his invitations and bolt. The pathetic excuses I sometimes use to avoid going out . . . I can’t tell him the truth. If I did, I’m one thousand percent sure he would bolt. Who wouldn’t? Ms. Johnson, the school counselor, says I should tell him everything; that he would understand. But I rarely do what she tells me. Besides, I know Michael wouldn’t understand. I knew that from the moment he joined the others, mocking me at school. As I change my clothes, I remember that dreadful day. I was at the nurse’s office at school for a vaccination, chatting with Jess about our English homework. When my turn came, I rolled my sleeve, still thinking I should pick another Shakespeare play for my essay. And then I saw the needle. Next thing I knew, my palms were suddenly sweating and I had serious trouble breathing. I’d experienced something like that a few times before, but always thought it was just my crippling anxiety rearing its ugly head. This time was different. I was convinced I was dying. It was terrifying. The whole thing didn’t last more than a few minutes, but my desperate attempts of avoiding the needle had everyone laughing. Everyone except the nurse, who took me to the school counselor right away. That’s how I met Ms. Johnson. She claimed it was a panic attack. She knew from Jess’s mum about Kate and concluded it must be related to that. I vehemently denied it. She asked if I had experienced anything like that before Kate’s death. No. Then she asked me to write down all the times I experienced anything remotely similar to what happened today. I easily remembered the incidents. A house party I went to with Jess—the moment we entered the house and I saw the crowd smoking and

drinking alcohol someone managed to smuggle in, my heart started to race at a nauseating speed, and cold sweat covered my body. I stammered some excuse, struggling to breathe and then ran home. It was the only party I ever went to. Then there was the time someone turned up at school with a black eye, holding an ice pack on it. The second I saw the ice pack it was like someone had punched me in the chest, knocking the air out of it. My chest hurt so much I actually thought I was having a heart attack. It lasted far longer than ten minutes, almost a half hour. I wrote down at least twenty incidents before Ms. Johnson asked me to stop and think whether any of those incidents were related to Kate in any way. I didn’t try to deny the connection again. I’d thought all those things were coincidental, but looking at the list made it painfully clear they weren’t. The incident with the syringe in the nurse’s office was possibly the most obvious of all, because the last time I’d seen a syringe was when I went to bring Kate home. It was full of heroin, pointed at my neck while someone pinned me against the wall. The image was still fresh in my mind, haunting me almost every night. My reaction to the party was most likely because it reminded me of all the times I went searching for Kate, and the dumps where I found her. Even the ice pack incident seemed clearly connected to Kate under the knowing eye of Ms. Johnson. Mum and I used to put ice packs on Jess’s abused veins, hoping against hope they would regain their normal appearance. Ms. Johnson kindly indicated there was medication to help with my condition, but she wouldn’t recommend it. She said I had to find it in myself to overcome this. I didn’t. I chose to hide instead. From the world and myself. And most of the time, hiding from the world is easier than hiding from myself. Because what Ms. Johnson doesn’t know, what no one knows, because I never told anyone, is that it’s not just the sorrow that constantly haunts me. It’s the guilt, too. It eats away, day by day. Kate’s revenge. No, not Kate’s, because she wasn’t revengeful. She was sweet and loving. Fate. . . karma . . . whatever. It makes sense; since I was to blame for a life lost, I shouldn’t be able to live mine normally either. Serves me right. I never told Michael about any of this or about Kate. If he knew what a coward I am—and the price Kate had to pay because of it—how could he love me? How could anyone? No, I know exactly what he’d do if he knew: realize I’m not worthy of his love and bolt. That’s what any sane person would do. I shudder when I finish getting dressed. From the looks of the soaked clothes I peeled off, I wonder if I should take a shower, to make sure I won’t get a cold. With the challenge coming up, the last thing I need is to get sick. Just then Jess bursts into my room, a wide grin splashed on her face. She holds her hands behind her back, as if hiding something between her palms. “Do you promise to give me your honest opinion?” she asks. “Umm . . . on what?” She frowns. “My nail polish, of course. It’s not neon pink after all.” “Oh, right, I forgot. Sure. I always give you my honest opinion; you just don’t value it too much.” She sticks out her tongue and then holds out her hands for me to see her nails. And then it starts. As always, with the heavy, almost painful, sensation that I’m suffocating. I gasp for air as I wipe the sudden sheet of cold sweat from my forehead. I slump on the bed, holding both hands over my chest, choking and choking . . . “Serena?” Jess asks, unsure. She’s seen this happen too often not to know what it is. Jess is one of the

people I never quite managed to hide from. She quickly hides her hands behind her back. But it’s too late. The bright turquoise polish is carved in my memory. It’s just nail polish. Just freaking nail polish. I repeat this to myself over and over again, but it doesn’t help. My entire body starts trembling. Kate was wearing that same color when we buried her. I swallow hard a few times, fighting the violent urge to throw up. “This has to stop,” Jess says, kneeling in front of me and taking my trembling hands in hers, carefully bending her fingers so I don’t see her nails. “What if it happens when you are swimming or something, for God’s sake? You could drown. Or during an exam?” I straighten up, still shaking. She’s right. What if it would happen during an exam? Like an SAT or the math challenge? That would royally screw up everything. Stanford. My future job. My parents’ future. Funny how Jess’s drowning comment worries me much less. It’s the image of my parents, old and alone, that snaps me back. One child dead and the remaining one incapable of taking care of them. Because she’s a coward. No, Jess is right. This has to stop. I stand up so brusquely that Jess falls back. She cocks an eyebrow as I announce, “I need to take a shower.” Still choking on my breath, I head to the bathroom and open Jess’s drawer, revealing her entire makeup arsenal and about a dozen bottles of nail polish. I find the turquoise one with ease. Cold sweat breaks out on my entire body, and any wisp of air seems to evade me again. But I don’t stop. I walk inside the shower and turn the water on full blast, so it will cover any sounds. I don’t even bother taking off my clothes. Any second of hesitation and my resolve might weaken, or break altogether, and then the only moment of bravery I’ve had in years will be gone, cowardice taking its place again. The pungent smell of the polish brings me to my knees, and now inhaling is agony. Pure and slashing. Tears as hot as the water flowing over my T-shirt start swelling behind my eyelids. Slowly, very slowly, I apply the polish on the nail of my left forefinger. A sob racks my body. And then another one. I grit my teeth, wiping away the tears. Fresh ones replace them immediately, and I wipe them away with my wet sleeve because I need my eyes clear to see what I’m doing. Sob after sob, I force myself to polish all my nails. It burns like acid. With every stroke, it’s like someone pricks my heart, carving ridge after ridge in it, until it completely falls apart, then puts it back only to dismantle it again. Every time I blink, I see the image of Kate’s white, cold hands limp on her sides, the bright turquoise on her nails the only splash of color on her lifeless body. I try not to blink too often. Nail polish, that’s all this is. There’s no reason to avoid it. I’ve hidden enough. I’ve been a coward long enough. No more.

2008 – College Junior

“What do you mean, the card was rejected?” I ask the proprietor. She stands behind the counter, holding my credit card between her fingers, her eyebrows raised. “Try again.” “I tried four times.” She scoffs, eying me from head to toe with a disdain that tells me she’d like nothing better than to call the cops to remove me from her store. If I had bothered to dress up, or at the very least changed my sweat-drenched T-shirt, she wouldn’t be treating me like this. Nothing turns jerks into polite, ass-kissing robots faster than the sight of expensive clothes. Actually, if she were younger, my I-don’t-give-a-fuck appearance could work in my favor, but women in their fifties seem to find it about as appealing as a dead rat. I can see why she doesn’t want me anywhere close to her precious jewels. Not that it pisses me off any less. Today is my sister’s eleventh birthday, and I promised to buy her a tiara as a gift. I also promised I would spend the entire day with her, but since it’s already noon, I fuckedup that promise already. I had one too many shots of tequila last night after I won my latest boxing match and passed out, only waking up half an hour ago. Changing clothes was the last thing on my mind. “Would you like to pay with a check?” she asks, laying my credit card on the counter, already putting the tiara back in its case. As if I’m going to steal the damn thing. “I left the checkbook at home,” I say through gritted teeth. “Then I suggest you go after your checkbook or call your bank to ask what the trouble is.” She gestures to the door, her meaning obvious: whatever I choose to do, I’d better do it outside her store. I stride out of the store, cursing out loud. In no mood to go get my checkbook, I do something I haven’t done in three years, since I got access to my trust fund: I call my adviser at the bank. I’m surprised I still have her number. She picks up after a few rings. “Mr. Cohen, what a surprise to hear from you again.” She doesn’t sound surprised at all. “And a pleasure, of course. What can I do for you?” “My credit card is not working,” I say, leaning on the wall next to the shop, lighting up a cigarette. “Whatever system failure you’re having, I need you to fix it right now.” “I am afraid this is not a system failure on our part. Your credit card has been blocked.” “What do you mean blocked? I’m in a freaking store; I need to pay for my stuff. Unblock it.”

“I understand your distress, Mr. Cohen, but there is nothing I can do.” There is a pause. “The balance on your account is two dollars and seventy cents.” I burst out laughing, sucking in a deep drag and blowing it out before saying, “Look again, Ms. . .” I realize I’ve no idea what her name is. “There was three million dollars in it last time I checked.” “When did you last check it?” She sounds perfectly polite, but the mocking undertone in her voice makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “Three years ago,” I say, pulling myself from the wall, suddenly cold. “You didn’t receive the annual letters with the up-to-date balance?” I did, but I never bothered to look at them, because I didn’t see the point. Checking the balance is for those who are worried they’ll run out of money. A hard thing to do with three million. Who the hell can spend three million dollars in three years? Apparently, I can. I don’t say anything for a few minutes, and then she says, “I can send you last year’s report—” “That won’t be necessary,” I say, and shut the phone. I know what I burned the money on. Racing cars, regular cars, trips, and a whole lot of other shit I don’t want to remember. I just never realized I burned all of it. I slump down on the pavement, lighting up another cigarette, ignoring the glares of the passersby. By the time I finish all ten remaining cigarettes in my package, I taste blood. I chewed my lower lip raw. My phone starts vibrating; Dad’s name appears on the screen. Fuck. “Hi, Dad.” “Where are you, James? Your sister has been waiting for you for hours. I hope you didn’t forget it’s her birthday today.” I grunt. I know my father. He’d never call me to remind me of my sister’s birthday. I’m surprised he remembers it’s her birthday at all. “I had a call from your bank this morning.” Ah, yes, the true reason for his call. “I talked to the bank myself just a few minutes ago.” “Good. Then you know where you stand. I sent Peter to fetch you and bring you to the house. Where are you? He’s in front of your apartment and tells me you’re not there.” Interesting. I never realized my dad even knew where I lived. He never bothered to come see my place. Normally, the fact that he sent his driver to pick me up like I’m a fucking ten-year-old would irk the hell out of me, but it’s a three-hour drive to my parents’ house, and I have to get there to see my sister anyway. I no longer have a car, because one of the frustrated jackasses I knocked out in the boxing ring decided to knock out my car. The police found it at the bottom of the ocean, near the coast. They didn’t find out which jackass did it, but that’s fine by me. I don’t want them to find him. I want to find him myself. But the bottom line is, I have no car, and, as I just found out, no money to take a cab all the way to my parents’ house, let alone buy a new car. So I give Dad the store’s address. Peter, who’s been working for my dad forever, arrives half an hour later. He looks as good-natured as ever, and clearly has no idea I just became my family’s greatest fuck-up in the history of fuck-ups. I don’t do anything to correct that impression. On the road, I try to imagine how the conversation with my dad will go, but last time Dad and I had anything remotely resembling a conversation, I was ten and had just broken a window in our house playing football. Not much to go on. Then I think of my grandfather. Thank God he’s not alive anymore, because surely the news that I busted the trust fund he set up for me would’ve sent him straight to his

cardiologist. When my parents’ house comes into view, I can’t help snorting. It was a twentieth-century mansion when I was a kid. But my mom’s favorite hobby is redecorating, and over the years the house has become a monstrosity of steel, wood, and above all, glass. I suspect her redecorating efforts involved some kind of bulldozer, because there’s not one brick left of the house I grew up in. I’m not exactly sure when the transformation happened, because I left for boarding school when I was eleven. I spent the summers here, but even that stopped once high school started. My dad works; my mom redecorates the house and throws parties. They have a good routine. My dad isn’t a bad person. Just a cold one. He’s been like that for as long as I can remember. My mom used to work as a model, back when she still lived in her native England, before moving here to be with my dad. But then Dad insisted that Mom stay home with me, and then my sister. Because he loved her very much, Mom said. But I’d heard enough of their fights when I was little to know it was out of jealousy that Dad didn’t want Mom to work. He used the words I love you against Mom the same way I used them against Lara. As a means of control. I inherited the beast inside me from him. Only I’m worse. Mom is alive. Lara isn’t. And no matter what my therapist says, I know there’s a good chance that any woman I’ll love will end up the same way. Dead. Once I’m inside the house, I head straight to the library, and it dawns on me it’s very unlike Dad to be at home on a weekday when he usually spends his weekends at the office too. I might not live at home anymore, but I’m sure that hasn’t changed. I know why he’s home. He doesn’t want to risk his employees eavesdropping on our conversation. When I open the door to the library, my father is seated behind his desk, shuffling through some papers. He looks a lot like me, except his hair is gray and his eyes are black, not blue like mine. He shoves the papers aside when I close the door behind me. “Sit down, James.” I sit in the chair opposite him. His eyes fall on my filthy T-shirt and my left eye, and I think this is the first time my father has really seen me in years. At this moment, I wish I’d bothered to change, or at least cover the bruise around my left eye. But I wasn’t banking on seeing anyone except my sister Dani today. I avoid Mom and Dad every time I come to see her, and Dani is young enough to believe the bullshit stories I tell her about how I got my bruises. In a few years she won’t anymore, but that gives me enough time to perfect my bullshitting. No amount of bullshitting will work with Dad. He sits up straight, putting both hands on the desk. “I always intended for my children to have the best. Apparently, the best was not enough for you, was it, James?” “Dad . . .” “That’s over now,” he says simply. I gulp. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Starting today, you’re on your own. You’ll have to do with what you have.” “Which is nothing,” I say. “That was your choice,” my dad says quietly. “Your grandfather set you up with enough money to last you a lifetime.” “So, that’s it? No help from you?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Would you help if you were in my place?” I look away from him without answering. I wouldn’t. Of course not. I gave up on me long ago. I just hoped those around me hadn’t. “Continuing to support you financially wouldn’t do you any good. With the path you’ve taken, money can only harm you.” This catches my attention. I was expecting some kind of punishment, not a lesson. That’s a first. My dad never cared enough to waste his time with lessons. But I suppose his oldest son shaming the family name he prizes much more than the family itself, warrants an effort from his side. “Your next year at Stanford will be paid for, as will the visits to your therapist. If you choose to go to grad school, you’ll have to find a way to finance it. I will pay for nothing else. You’ll have to pay for your rent, your food, and everything else.” He looks at me intently. I think he’s expecting some kind of outburst. Swearing. A fist slammed against the desk. I’m not sure why I’m not doing either of those things. Shock, probably. After a long pause, I finally manage to ask, “Does Mom know?” “No. I haven’t told her.” I didn’t think he had, but I needed to make sure. He never tells her anything. Sometime in the years after I left home, they not only stopped fighting, they stopped talking to each other altogether. “Good. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell her.” Chances are, my mom won’t catch on to anything. She lives in her own world anyway. She has never visited me; no reason to think she will in the future. So she won’t see whatever rat hole I’ll have to move into. Dad nods. “That will be all.” When I’m at the door, he says, “By the way, Peter won’t be taking you to Stanford. You’re on your own starting now.” That pisses me off. I bang the door as hard as I can behind me to let him know. Stanford and my place are three fucking hours from here. I don’t have enough cash on me to take a cab. I’ll have to take a bus. That’s a thought. I’ve never taken the damn bus before. A door opens and Dani skids out, wrapping her tiny arms around my waist when she sees me. I hug her tightly with one arm and ruffle her dark hair with the other. “Happy birthday, kid. You look like a princess.” She really does. Fancy dress and all. Then I realize what is missing, just as she takes a step back, frowning at me. “You didn’t bring me a tiara,” she says, sighing in disappointment. “No, no, no,” I say quickly. “They didn’t have the special one that I wanted for you, but I promise I’ll get it for you as soon as they have it.” Her eyes lighten up and she smiles again. I exhale, realizing I’ve been holding my breath. I’ll get that tiara for her. I don’t care if I disappoint Dad and half the universe, but I won’t disappoint her. She looks up to me as her older brother. The only person who still looks up to me. I will get her the tiara. I just need a job first. That’s another first. I never considered a job. It was assumed I would start working for Dad after college and then one day take over his company. Now, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t hire me as a janitor. Even if he did, I wouldn’t accept it. I have my pride.

Dani takes my hand and leads me to the front door. “Can we go watch a movie and eat popcorn?” she asks. The last money I have on me will be enough for two movie tickets and a small bag of popcorn. I won’t even have money for a bus ticket. Fuck it, nothing makes Dani happier than watching a movie and eating popcorn. I’ll walk back if I have to. “Of course we can, kid,” I say. Just as we step outside, she points at my eye and says, “What happened to your eye?” I laugh, like I always do when she asks me something like this. “Walked into a door; you know me.” She purses her tiny lips, then looks down at her own hands. “James, do you think you’ll stop tripping or walking into doors one day?” A punch square in my face wouldn’t knock the air out of my goddamn lungs the way her words do. My little Dani. Not so little anymore. As I look at her, balancing from one leg to another, it hits me. I can’t make up lame stories forever. Improving my bullshitting won’t do. My cell phone buzzes, and I answer it as Dani tells me she has to go back inside the house. She forgot to change her shoes. “What’s up?” Ralph asks. I’d called him a few times on the way here, in the car. I tell him what happened in a few words. The second I finish, he says, “Don’t worry, man. I have you covered. I can lend you money, and you can crash at my place. I’m sure Natalie and everyone else in the group will help.” I have no doubt they would. They’re good friends. Not so sure how much of a friend Natalie is anymore. We crossed the line one too many times in the past two years. The first time we had sex was after I got knocked out in the boxing ring. Ever since, she jumps in my bed whenever she’s between boyfriends, but nothing more. Natalie knows better than to want more from me. I’m permanently single, hopping from one one-night stand to another; I don’t mind the arrangement. Except when she brings up high school, or Lara. “Thanks man, but no,” I tell Ralph. “I’ll figure something out on my own. I have to get my shit together. If I don’t do it now, it’ll never happen.” All this time, I’ve just wandered around, not knowing or caring where I stood or where the fuck I was going. I know now where I was going. Where I stand. Rock bottom.

2013 – College Junior

“Y ou’ll look like a schoolgirl, Serena,” Jess says, shaking her head in mock disapproval. “Well, I will be surrounded by high school students at the award ceremony after all,” I say, buttoning up my shirt and then putting on my pencil skirt. In all honesty, I don’t think anyone at the ceremony will care how I dress. They don’t really have a dress code, and I’ve always worn jeans to the ceremony. But this year I’m giving a speech. A mentor in the math challenge must give a speech at the award ceremony each year. To my dismay, this year it’s my turn. I won The Williamson National Math Challenge for Underprivileged Teens when I was in high school, and I’ve returned as a mentor every year. Winning the challenge played a big part in getting a scholarship to Stanford. I like to help others have a shot at improving their life. “Then tonight at the party you’ll be dressed like a Stanford student, I hope. If you show up like this, I’ll just have to pretend I don’t know you.” I smirk at her. “I’ll change into something else, all right?” Jess follows me in the kitchen of our tiny apartment near Stanford, eying me doubtfully, as if fearing I might not show up at the party at all. She really should give me more credit. I’m still not a fan of parties, but I tag along with Jess now and again. I’ve been doing that since the last year of high school. An attempt, among many others, to break down the fortress I’d built around myself. I like to think I succeeded in doing that. I haven’t had a panic attack in three years. A slightly unhealthy obsession with books and movies is the only obvious part remaining of the old me. And the tendency to exhaust myself, either with my class assignments or my part-time bookkeeping job. But these past few days I’ve felt anything but successful. Tomorrow is the seventh anniversary of Kate’s death. I think it’s one of the reasons Jess insisted we go out today. It’s part of her annual effort to lift my mood when this day or Kate’s birthday approaches. It’s like an unspoken agreement. Neither of us mentions the reason I withdraw in my room, and why I don’t have an appetite, not even for chocolate. “Excellent, I’ll be gone before you get home, but I’ll leave some clothes for you on your bed.” I let out a sound, somewhere between a groan and a chuckle. I never wear the clothes Jess lays out for me. But she’s persistent. “Oh, by the way, we’re going cliff diving after the party.” “What?” I ask, my cheeks suddenly hot. “I can’t—”

I stop because Jess bursts out laughing. “I . . . was . . . kidding,” she says through ragged breaths, still shaking from laughter. “You should have seen your face.” She straightens up. “You know, doing something adventurous now and again wouldn’t hurt you.” “I know, you remind me of it every day.” And that’s another thing that hasn’t changed about me. I don’t plan to change it anytime soon, either. “Is Michael coming to the party?” Jess asks, now dead serious. “No. He’s watching a soccer game with some friends.” I take one last look in the mirror, then grab my stack of index cards. I memorized my entire speech, but wrote it out just in case. Jess rolls her eyes. “Again? He’s going to announce his engagement to his friends soon. He’s been spending every other evening with them for months.” I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you’d be happy that he’s not coming.” “I am happy. I just think you shouldn’t be so understanding about the whole thing. You two barely spend any time together.” “Well, he is coming with me to the award ceremony. That’s more important to me than coming with me to a random party.” “You deserve someone better,” Jess calls after me as I leave our apartment. I arrive at the high school where the award ceremony is being held about an hour later. Michael waits for me at the front gate. “Hi, babe,” he says, planting a quick kiss on my lips. Too quick. I would have liked his lips to linger on mine a bit more. I know that would do more for my mood than any party Jess will drag me to. I also long for him to hold me tightly in his arms and tell me he loves me. It’s been quite a while since he has. But I can’t tell him that, so I just say, “Thanks for coming.” “Of course. I can’t stay long, though. I need to get back to the office to finish some paperwork.” “I thought you were watching a soccer game with the guys.” He shakes his head. “Change of plans. We’re going camping tomorrow for the weekend, so I need to make up for the days I’ll be missing.” “What? When did you decide that?” Michael jumps slightly, his eyes widening. “A couple days ago. Didn’t I tell you about it?” “No.” “Funny. I could’ve sworn I mentioned it to you.” I blink, swallowing hard. “No, must have slipped your mind.” As did asking me to come with you. But this isn’t what bothers me the most. It’s that he forgot, utterly and completely, about the anniversary of Kate’s passing. I hoped he’d spend tomorrow with me. Perhaps it’s better this way, though. I finally told him about Kate, exactly one year ago. He shifted from one foot to the other the entire time I was talking. When I finished, he didn’t say a word, just awkwardly patted my back. He didn’t bolt. He also didn’t call me out on being the coward I am, which has always been one of my biggest fears. My other biggest fear—that he realizes I’m not worthy of his love—might become a reality though. He started to become more distant soon after my confession, and to spend even less time with me than usual. If he would just tell me again that he loves me, like he used to . . . I’d know we are okay.

As we enter the building, I watch him walk silently by my side, lost in thoughts he won’t share with me, and I’m certain I won’t mention Kate to him ever again. Some things are better dealt with alone.



2013

I can’t believe I suited up for this. At least I had the brains to not wear a tie. I’d look like an idiot. No one at the event is wearing a suit, let alone a tie. I’ll never get used to suits, though I’ve had the misfortune to have to wear one more times than I care to remember over the last six years, ever since my father told me I was on my own. They’re a pain in the ass. I swear silently, undoing the top button of my shirt, as I make my way to the dozen or so chairs in front of the improvised stage. Apparently not so silently, because one of the organizers, a young blonde dressed in a gray dress that looks as uncomfortable as my suit, smiles at me, then quickly lowers her gaze a bit, blushing. I’ll never get why, but suits turn women on. Still not worth wearing. Besides, I can turn women on just fine on my own. I smile back at the blonde, and the red in her cheeks deepens. “Thank God you aren’t a banker, right?” she says. “You’d have to wear a suit every day.” “Couldn’t agree more,” I reply, then slump in a seat as she goes to the stage to check the microphone. I almost did become a banker. That summer after Dad cut me off, I did exactly what everyone else majoring in Economics did. Got an internship at an investment bank. I was convinced I had to become a banker after graduation. It was the job paying the closest to what I was used to spending. Give or take one digit. The internship was an epic disaster. Long hours, and worse, boring as shit. Turned out it wasn’t for me. During the last year at Stanford I worked at a company in Silicon Valley. Long hours in the Valley too, but not at all boring. Dismal pay. Every moment I wasn’t at the company, or in a class, I took every odd job I could. I busted my ass but all I could afford was living in the shittiest rat-hole in California with a crackhead for a roommate and surviving on ramen noodles. Working until my eyes blurred and my brain bled from exhaustion turned out to be an excellent way to ensure I had no nightmares. I’m not sure when work became an addiction, but it was my first safe addiction, so I kept it up. After I graduated, I started my own company, with some money from my cousin, Parker, and Natalie. Parker went to boarding school with me, but went to college in England. Ralph wanted to chip in, but backed out at the last minute. No hard feelings. The odds of going bankrupt were sky-high, as they always were in the Valley. But I didn’t go bankrupt. I sold the company after two years for thirty million dollars and started three new companies. Now, four years later, one of them is valued at half a billion dollars; the rest are under one hundred million each. The papers call me Stanford’s Mark Zuckerberg. I’d be flattered if the

guy was better looking. Dad is proud and disappointed at the same time. I think he always assumed that if I got my shit together, I’d eventually work for him. I could do that, but I enjoy being my own boss too much. Means I can get away with not wearing suits very often. It’s my own fault I’m here, wearing one now. Honestly . . . I wanted to be here, or I would’ve sent someone else in my place. We choose a few charities to donate to every year. I found out about this math contest running for high school kids from underprivileged backgrounds a while ago, and though not exactly a typical charity thing, I convinced my team to sponsor it. As I watch the students and parents settle into their seats, I’m certain this was the right decision. No one’s wearing a suit, which makes me feel even more of an ass for wearing one. But suits are mandatory at the charity events I usually attend. They also involve expensive dinners that cost almost as much as the amount raised. Not this one. The award ceremony is being held in a classroom at one of the participating high schools, and there aren’t even refreshments available. The brochure reads The Williamson National Math Challenge for Underprivileged Teens. I have no idea who Williamson was or is, but kudos to him for starting this. I like this word. Underprivileged. It can mean a lot of things. No money. No luck. No chances. But also fucked-up. The organizers told me as much when I first spoke to them. Pretty much every single one of the participating kids had some kind of tragedy in their past. Goes with the territory of being poor, they said. I didn’t tell them that you don’t have to be poor to be fucked-up. My college years prove that. But I learned that being piss-poor makes being fucked-up a lot harder. But these kids . . . It amazes me that they discovered at such a young age how to channel their anger, frustration, and pain in work, not destructive bullshit like I did. I sometimes can’t believe all the crap I did. I’m different now. Better. Though the word Natalie uses to describe me is tamed. I suppose exchanging racing cars for skydiving and exchanging boxing for reckless business investments can come off as tame. But I like it this way. And apparently, so does Natalie. I put a stop to our one-night stands a while ago, when I realized she wanted more. We’re just business partners now. I’m not ready for more. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed one bit. It never will, though it’s the one thing I wanted to change the most about myself. Still want it, I just don’t know how to go about it. What I do know is that if I ever change, it won’t be for Natalie. She still insists of reminding me of the past every now and then. And I never felt it for her . . . no idea exactly what I’m expecting to feel, but I know I won’t find what I’m looking for in her. My cell phone vibrates and the old lady next to me—someone’s grandmother I suspect—gives me an ugly look as I take out the phone to look at the message. “I’ll turn it off immediately,” I whisper to her, and that seems to soften her up a bit. I snicker when I see the message. It’s from Dani. Can I hang around at your penthouse this weekend? That pretty much means she’ll watch movies until morning hours and eat a truckload of popcorn. At seventeen, she still loves movies as much as she did when she was eleven. When I got my penthouse I installed a screening room for her. I must admit, watching so many movies with her started rubbing off on me and, at some point over the last few years, I became as obsessed as she is with them. Then again, I’ve had worse obsessions. I write back to Dani that I’ll pick her up from home, and switch off my phone under the suspicious stare of the old lady. Then I turn my attention to the stage, which is empty right now. The head organizer just finished giving out the prizes to the kids, and according to the brochure, one of the mentors in the contest

is supposed to give a speech next. Serena McLewis, student at Stanford University. There’s nothing else about the mentor on the brochure, but she must be a fuck-up herself. At least was, because only previous winners of the contest are mentoring. Decent of her to participate in this and help others. When the speech starts, something about her voice is not right. But when I look up from the brochure, I forget about her voice altogether. Her eyes. I know that look in them. Haunted and lost. I sit up straight in my seat and tune in to her speech. I frown as I start to pay attention to what she says. She has some kind of notes in front of her, but she’s not reading them. I don’t think she’s saying what she’s written on them at all. She speaks of hardship, loss, and the ability to put everything behind through hard work. I have a hunch she’s referring to something more than what’s happening here today. Her porcelain skin gets paler with every word. Her eyes become glassy before long, and then she tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear. I’m sure as hell she wiped away a tear. No. Someone like her shouldn’t be crying. Hurting. I suddenly have the urge to hold her, do whatever it takes to stop what is hurting her. Make that look in her eyes disappear, and make her smile instead. It’s an urge I don’t recognize. I also have another urge. I recognize this one. The urge to bite that full lower lip of hers, and run my tongue down her neck, all the way to that sweet hollow. And then rip her shirt. Button by button. Better, even. Rip them apart all at once and cup her breasts. Twirl my tongue around her nipples. Fuck. I’ve got to get a grip. I’m so aroused I’d like nothing better than to disappear with her into an empty classroom. But I don’t think she’s the type. Her skirt is a few inches too long for her to be that type. Even if she were . . . I’d like to do things a little differently than usual. First, I’d put a smile on her face. Then I’d get her to beg me to take her. When everyone applauds and she leaves the stage, I stand up and walk to the front, planning to start the first thing right away. After she shakes the parents’ hands, and hugs one of the girls who won, she stops in front of a guy who puts his arm around her waist and kisses her. On her lips. The view hits me like a whiplash. Of course she has a boyfriend. It’s not like she would wait for me, the biggest fuck-up among fuck-ups, to make her smile. She already has someone who can make her smile. Except she’s not smiling. After they break from the kiss, her expression hasn’t changed. Whatever causes her torment, the idiot she’s with has no idea how to make it better. Someone like her should always smile. She deserves someone who can make her smile. And this idiot is far from what she needs. The mother of one of the kids comes to me and starts shaking my hand and thanking me over and over for helping the kids. I can’t peel my gaze from her, Serena was her name, I think, and her idiotic boyfriend, with his pointed nose and small eyes, looking just like the rat he is. He points at the notes in her hand and leans to whisper something to her. She flinches. Flinches. I swallow hard and turn my attention to the mother in front of me. I have to focus on what she’s saying. I have to. If I don’t, I’ll walk over to that idiot and punch him square in the face. Even though I start talking with the mother, images of Serena and him together start playing in my mind, and an urge stirs inside me that I haven’t felt in years. To punch him, break him, and take her away from him.

This urge shouldn’t exist inside me anymore, according to my therapist. He was wrong. I always suspected he was. Now I have the damn confirmation. When I finish talking to the woman, I head straight to the door without one look at anyone else, Serena included. Staying away from her is the best thing I can do.



2014 – College Senior

I stare at the pile of clothes on my bed, my desire to go out with Jess evaporating by the second. “You know what?” Jess asks, her hands firmly in her hips. “Your clothes just won’t do. I’ll search my closet for something for you to wear. You can’t just wear something sexy, you need something mindblowingly sexy.” “Can’t we stay in tonight?” I beg. “I promise we’ll go out tomorrow.” “No, absolutely not. You’ve mourned your breakup from that asshole long enough.” I flinch a bit at the harshness of her words. My gaze darts to the DVDs and empty chocolate boxes that have kept me company—though provided little comfort—since that dreadful day weeks ago when Michael informed me he was breaking up with me, transforming my world into a nauseating mix of pain and humiliation. I glance at Jess, who’s still inspecting my pile of clothes, as if hoping something in it will pass her standards of sexiness. I have a sinking feeling that no excuse will convince Jess I have to stay indoors tonight. I can’t even use studying as an excuse. I’m done with all my class assignments. In the past, every free minute around this time of year would have been taken up with my mentoring duties for The Williamson National Math Challenge for Underprivileged Teens, but I didn’t sign up for it this year, thinking I’d have enough on my plate as a college senior, what with job hunting and everything. I thought part of that everything would also be moving in with Michael. Guess that’s one less thing on my busy senior to-do list now. “Come in my room,” Jess says after a few minutes, finally giving up on my disappointing array of clothes. “Why exactly do I need to wear something mind-blowingly sexy?” I ask. “Because you’re getting yourself a rebound tonight.” She throws me a worried glance, as if thinking that if she left me alone, I would crack open another box of chocolate and slip under my covers, watching a DVD and eventually sobbing myself to sleep. Which is probably exactly what I would do, though I know how little that would help. Swallowing hard, I stand up and follow her out of the room. Maybe it’s time I started doing things differently.



2014

“I can’t believe Ralph made us meet him in a student bar,” Sophie says, passing her fingers through her long red hair. “Said he was tired of our usual places,” I reply. I don’t say out loud that he also told me he’s tired of the frigid bitches—his words, not mine—that frequent our usual places, and wanted to try his luck with some college girls. Freshmen if possible. The pervert. And now he doesn't even bother to show up. He's an hour late and not answering his phone. “I’ll try to call him again,” I say, though I’m sure it’ll be pointless. He hasn’t picked up the last five times I called him. Predictably, he doesn’t pick up this time, either. "Do we still wait for Ralph or go somewhere else?" Sophie asks when I close my phone. She leans in closer to me, and by the way she flaunts her boobs, I know somewhere else means my bed. Or hers. I don’t think she cares. Not that I do. It’s been on my mind ever since I picked her up tonight. We’ve known each other for a few years, but for some reason never had sex. I plan to rectify that tonight. "If he doesn’t show up in the next ten minutes, we leave,” I say, trailing my fingers down her back and watch with a savage satisfaction as goose bumps appear on her arms. Then I turn and look around the bar. Maybe he arrived but can’t see us. The bar is so packed, it wouldn’t surprise me. Our table isn’t exactly easy to spot, either. Ralph’s shaved head stands out in any crowd, so if he’s here, I have a better shot at finding him. I have to make absolutely sure he’s not here, otherwise I’ll hear for the next two months how I think of myself as so busy and important that I ignore my old friends. I am busy, of course. But I make time for my friends. Though if I’m honest I haven’t really done that since my twenty-seventh birthday, a few months ago. I don’t see Ralph anywhere. But I do see someone who looks vaguely familiar at the bar. She has long black hair and large round eyes. It bugs me that I don’t remember where I saw her before. I have a good memory when it comes to people. Especially women. And especially when they look like her. It's only when she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear that it hits me where I saw her before, making

that same gesture—last year at the award ceremony of that math contest I sponsored. She was the mentor. I grasp my empty glass firmly in my hand, remembering the details of that day. It took me long enough to forget them. I look around for that rat of a boyfriend who was with her then, but he isn't anywhere. The only person she seems to be with is the inebriated blonde sitting next to her at the bar. I scrutinize her, trying to understand what she’s doing in a place like this. She doesn’t belong here. I’m not exactly sure where she belongs, but it’s not here. At any rate, she didn’t strike me as a particularly outgoing type of girl when she was on that stage. I think I know why she’s here. I've seen this look before in women. The hunched shoulders. The unsure gaze. Yes, she wears the unmistakable signs of someone who's been dumped, and who’s trying, but failing, to forget about it. These signs in women usually make me want to run in the opposite direction. This time, it has an entirely different effect on me. It makes me want to do what I didn’t have the courage to do last year. Walk up to her. I wanted to make her smile then. The haunted look she had in her eyes back then isn’t as visible now, but it lingers there somewhere. Just like it lingers in me. When it takes over again, I want to make sure she has someone who can put a smile on her beautiful face. And I still want to taste her lips and those delicious-looking breasts, just like I wanted back then. "That’s it. It’s obvious Ralph won’t show up. Can we leave now, James? I can’t stand this. There’s no air in here," Sophie says. "We can go to my place. I have an exquisite red wine I brought from my last trip to Paris." Her voice is low and inviting, and if we went to her place, I’m certain we’d skip the drink and head straight to her bed. But I'm not in the mood for that anymore. Not with her. "I changed my mind. Let’s stay a bit longer. I’m going to get myself a drink. Do you want something?” Sophie’s eyebrows shoot up and she bites her lip. I’ll have to come up with something to let her down nicely. “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she says. I nod and head straight to the bar, to her. The bar stool next to her is empty, the blonde who was occupying it is nowhere in sight. I swallow hard as I think how to approach her. I’m behaving like a damn teenager. With all the practice I’ve had, I know how to approach women. When I’m less than two feet behind her, I spot two shots of tequila in front of her. Excellent. Tequila makes for great conversation.



Preview of Lost in Us



There are three reasons tequila is my new favorite drink. One: my ex-boyfriend hates it. Two: downing a shot looks way sexier than sipping my usual Sprite. Three: it might give me the courage to do something my ex-boyfriend would hate even more than tequila—getting myself a rebound. "You need someone hot, hot, hot," my best friend Jess says, plunking her glass on the sleek counter and beckoning the bartender to prepare another round. I grimace as the last drops of liquor burn my throat. "Define hot." "Tall, tan, six-pack." She spins on her bar stool, turning toward the buzzing room. "Every polo player at Stanford fits that description," I say. "Precisely." She bursts into a torrent of giggles that makes me wonder if I shouldn't accidentally-on-purpose knock over the fresh round of shots the bartender sets in front of me, or my big night might just end up with me carrying an incoherent Jess to our apartment, as usual. "Stanford's entire team is here. Have your pick, Serena." I twirl around, facing a sea of people. Of course the entire team is here. Almost every Stanford student is here tonight. Who would miss the first bash of the summer term? For Jess and me, it's the last first bash ever, since we are graduating in a few months. I push my chest forward, the way Jess does it, fully aware that I won’t have nearly the same effect she has. My black tank top, which she insisted I wear, doesn't do me justice, revealing far too much of my barely-there cleavage, despite the definitely-there Victoria’s Secret push-up bra. Jess twirls a blonde strand of her hair between her fingers, looking around with a confidence that can be neither replicated nor simulated. I take a deep breath and push the curtain of my black hair behind my shoulder. One look at the polo team and I know this was a bad, bad idea. The prospect of talking to one of those over-tanned giants, let alone flirting, has me hyperventilating. I don't know how to flirt. Last time I did it I was a high school junior, and I sucked at it. Also, I thought I would never have to do it again. But six years later, Michael decided his Australian coworker’s seemingly endless legs were not to be resisted anymore, so here I am, a college senior, facing my most daunting exam yet. I better not fail. Yet as the number of mind-blowing, gorgeous girls floating around the players increases by the second, all vying for their attention, I dearly wish I could escape and cuddle in my bed, surrounded by mountains of Toblerone chocolate, watching The Lord of the Rings extended edition for the seventh time in three weeks. I do a quick mental assessment of the probability of escaping without Jess catching on. It’s not good. Besides, she will need me to carry her home, so I'd better not leave her alone. I almost start designing a plan to convince her to bolt together, when someone catches my attention. He's tall, with dark, messy hair. Judging by the lavish gazes that the blonde at the next table and the

redhead on his right throw him, I'm not imaging his perfectly toned chest and arms. On a hotness scale from one to ten, I'd put him between fifteen and sixteen. I lean in to Jess and say in a low voice, "I bet he fits your hotness requirements." She follows my gaze and starts giggling again. "James Cohen?" "You know him?" Please don't say you dated him. Please don't. "I've read an article about him. He looks hotter than the feature’s picture. You of all people must have heard of him, too," she teases. "The name does sound familiar," I admit, trying to hide my relief. I wrack my brain for a few seconds. And then it hits me. "Oh yeah, Stanford's golden boy. Every professor in my economics classes mentions him at least once a month. The poster child for successful serial entrepreneurs." "Serial womanizers more likely," Jess smirks as he bends to the redhead, whispering something in her ear, sliding his hand playfully down her back. For some reason, the sight of them erases any desire to keep looking for potential prey, so I swirl on my stool back to the bar. "He graduated a few years ago. What's he doing in a student bar?" I ask. "Alumni sometimes come to semester opening parties," Jess says with a shrug. "Right. I need to pee." She springs from her stool, swaying when her feet reach the floor. "Do you want me to come with you?" I ask at once. "No, no, I'm fine," she chortles. "I guess I shouldn't have drunk those cocktails before you arrived." "That's right, you shouldn't have." "But the guy buying them was so cute," she calls over her shoulder. I grimace as she stumbles into a couple on her way to the restroom. I turn my attention to the two tequila shots in front of me, and open my mouth to tell the bartender we won't be having them after all, when a voice says, "I'd recommend you try it with orange slices and cinnamon." "Excuse me?" I look sideways and almost fall of my seat. It's him. And up close, it's obvious I gave him far too few points. His striking blue eyes and full lips, curled in a deliciously conceited smile, earn him at least a twenty on that hotness scale. "Tequila," he points at the two glasses. "It tastes much better with orange and cinnamon than lemon and salt." "Thanks for the tip." I flash my teeth in the hope they'll detract his attention from my plunging neckline, though I never heard of teeth trumping boobs. "Have we met?" "Umm... " I'm one hundred percent sure we haven't or I would remember, but I'm perfectly willing to pretend we have met if it means he'll linger here a little longer. "We have," he says, recognition lighting up his face. "You were a mentor for the national math contest last year, weren't you?" Damn. Of the myriad of rules Jess recited to me concerning flirting and dating, one in particular stands out: never show my nerdy side. And there are very few things nerdier than being a mentor in a math contest. Especially since only previous winners are allowed to mentor. In my defense, he was the one who brought it up. I make a mental note not to mention my part-time bookkeeping job. No need to add the boring tag, in addition to the nerd one. "Yep, that's right." "I was at the award ceremony," he says, "as a sponsor." That would explain why I don't remember him, even though there weren't more than a dozen people

there: teachers, parents, and sponsors. The award ceremony took place the day before the seven-year anniversary of my sister's death. I wasn't paying much attention to anything that week. He frowns. "Your speech was very intense." I stare at him, not sure if he's pulling my leg or not. That must have been the most horrid speech in history. I'd completely forgotten everything I’d prepared, so I started rambling wildly when my turn came. I can't remember one word I said, but I must have made an impression if he still remembers me. "I'm James, by the way." "I know. I mean… I've heard of you," I mumble, suddenly feeling very hot. He seems completely unsurprised. "I'm Serena McLewis." "So, Serena…" he pronounces my name slowly, as if the three syllables would hide some kind of secret he's hoping to uncover. My name in his mouth gives me goose bumps all over my arms. I hope he doesn't notice them. "Let me guess, you're a math major?" "Nope. Economics and computer science." "Perfect combination. I had the same." He winks. "I could use someone smart like you in my company." Just my luck. Other girls get a free drink, or a one-night stand. I get a job offer. Pity that's the last thing I want from him. "Sorry, not interested," I say, hoping I don't sound too disappointed. He leans forward, and his hand accidentally brushes mine. Gently, passing. But it's enough to send a torrent of shivers down my spine. Hot ones. Cold ones. Then hot ones again, and I fear I might have had one too many tequilas. "And why is that?" I try hard to come up with something, anything, but his warm breath on my cheeks wipes any thought other than the fact that his lips are far closer to me than they should be. His delicious scent—ocean and musk—makes my task so much harder. He takes pity on me and leans back, his smirk more pronounced than ever as he scans me from head to foot. "Are you doing anything tomorrow?" he asks. A burning sensation starts forming in my chest and I don't know if it's panic or excitement, but I try to play cool, the way Jess always said I should. "Of course, it’s Saturday." "Can you get out of it?" I sound braver than I feel when I answer, "Depends on what you have in mind." "Where do you live?" he muses. Normally, a stranger asking for my address would not elicit any reaction from me except running in the opposite direction, while seriously considering calling the police. On second thought, I might add a punch for good measure before bolting. Yet as I stand here before him, watching his eyes trace the contour of my lips, all I can think is that I'm sorry I haven't had one more tequila because then I might have enough courage to give him a kiss. As it is, I'll have to be content with giving him my address. I become conscious that I'm biting my lower lip and stop immediately. I lean over the bar and grab a napkin, then rummage in the tiny bag Jess lent me for a pen. I write my address on the napkin. He glances at it once, picks it up and tucks it in the pocket of his jeans. "I know where that is. I'll have someone pick you up tomorrow at three." "To go where?" "What fun would that be if I told you?" he teases.

"You want me to get in a car with a stranger and trust him to take me to some place I don't know?" He narrows his eyes. "Not very adventurous, are you?" Ouch. I would dismiss this as a poor attempt to provoke me, if Jess wouldn't tell me the same thing at least twice a day. Someone else used to tell me that as well. I never thought he really meant it until he announced that not only was he leaving me for the Aussie blonde but that he’d quit his job and was going backpacking with her through Europe and living life one day at a time. I put on what I hope is a very pro-adventure smile. "How am I supposed to know how to dress if I don't know where I'm going?" He bites his lip and leans in whispering, "I'll give you a hint. It's not a job interview." "You don't even know me." "I'd love to get to know you," he says in a raspy, seductive voice that sends delicious tingles all over my body. For a wonderful, wonderful second, in which his blue eyes—a few shades darker than when I first noticed them—bore into mine, I think he might close the distance and kiss me. But then he straightens up and frowns at something behind me. "I think your friend needs help." I whirl around in a heartbeat, and find Jess leaning on a tall, blond guy, her arms tight around his neck, something that usually makes guys pretty happy. Not this one. He's using both arms in his attempt to shake her off. "See you tomorrow, Serena," James whispers in my ear, making the hair at the nape of my neck stand up. I don't need to turn to know he's gone. I remain on my seat for a few more seconds, breathing in the last lingering wisps of his scent, then shove the glasses to the bartender, smiling apologetically, and head straight toward Jess. "I'll take this from here." "Thank God," the guy says, his voice flooded with relief as I unhitch Jess's arms from his neck. He vanishes the second I free him. "That went well," Jess giggles in my ear. And apparently she absolutely has to hang from someone's neck tonight, because she heaves her arms around mine so forcefully I'm positive I'll have giant bruises on both sides of my neck tomorrow. "What are you talking about?" I say, trying hard to steer us both toward the door. "You and hot guy. You really should work on your expression, though." "What about my expression?" She laughs. "You looked like you were ready to jump in bed with him." "That's not true," I say indignantly, stopping mid-stride. "Oh trust me, it is. And by the way, he's staring at us right now so keep moving if you don't want him to see me throwing up on you."



"Stop making so much noise," Jess complains, pulling the sheet over her head. "It's not my fault you couldn't make it to your room last night," I say, continuing to search for something suitable to wear. It actually is my fault. When we arrived from the club last night I decided I couldn't possibly carry her all the way to her room, so I put her to bed in my room instead. I slept in her bed, something I regret more with each second. Her bedroom is the only place in our apartment where I couldn't ban smoking, and now it smells worse than a sports bar. I poured half a bottle of shampoo in my hair this morning, but I swear I can still smell smoke under the peach and melon fragrance. "What do you think?" I ask, holding out a white strapless dress. A deep snore is my only answer. I sigh and slip into the dress. It'll do. I'm not changing yet again. I step in front of the mirror, and as I swirl, I can't help questioning my sanity. Now that the last effects of the tequila have vanished, I am more and more convinced that I imagined the entire conversation last night. Not convinced enough though, or I wouldn't have spent the past two hours trying on almost every single dress I own. I decide it's time to walk away from my closet as the urge to try another one kicks in. I turn my attention to the wall opposite my bed instead and smile. Like Jess's room, mine too is a testament to the vices of its owner. Chocolate, books, and DVDs. An entire wall of them. There are five shelves on the wall, the top three occupied with books and DVDs and the remaining two with chocolate boxes. Fancy wooden or metal boxes, or just regular plastic ones—I don't discriminate. Most boxes and cartons are empty, but I keep them because they make a nice decoration. For the first day since the break-up, my stomach isn't twisted in a painful knot, and I don't feel the overwhelming need to pick a DVD and one of the remaining untouched chocolate boxes, then hide under my covers. I could argue it's because Jess is in my bed, and I wouldn't return in hers for anything in the world, but I know that would be a lie. There is another reason for my sudden optimism and the absence of the knot. It's a silly reason. An almost absurd reason. One that makes my heart beat quicker and my face turn hot every time I think about it. About him. About his eyes and the power his touch had on me. I wonder if I should make Jess her beloved (and utterly ineffective) banana and kiwi hangover cure and leave it on the bedside table, but it's likely to go bad by the time she wakes up, and leaving it in the fridge will ensure she won't drink it. No, I'm sure she'll be asleep until I'm back. A rustling noise comes from the direction of the bed. As Jess resurfaces from under the sheets, a painful knot forms in my throat. It's when she's asleep that she reminds me most of Kate. Their full lips and golden, silky locks are almost identical. I absolutely adored her, my older sister. She was four years older than me. She brimmed

with life, every waking moment. She was all I ever wanted to be. Beautiful. Radiant. Perfect. She adored me, too. She'd spend hours taking care of me, teaching me how to comb my hair so it would shine like hers (not that it ever did) or painting my nails in intricate motifs. Then she'd disappear for days. With her friends. Boyfriend. Whomever. Her only yardstick for choosing them seemed to be the number of times they'd visited a police station. I could find her easily in the beginning, but later on, it sometimes took me an entire week to discover her whereabouts. When I took her home, I'd be the one taking care of her. I'd wipe away her mascara, put tea bags on the dark circles under her eyes, and lay packs of ice on the pierced veins of her arms. They were so messed up toward the end they didn't regain their normal condition no matter how much ice and ointment Mum and I put on them. I take a deep breath and shake my head. Jess is not like Kate. Jess is what Kate might have been if she wasn't… Kate. But I never could shake off the feeling that some of the reasons Jess's parents so willingly took me in was because they thought I'd be a good influence on their daughter. I'm not quite sure how much I succeeded, since Jess is still as much of a party girl as she was when I first met her eight years ago. After Kate passed away, Mum and Dad did something I will be eternally grateful for. They sent me away from London, our hometown. Even though it broke their heart, they did it. They sent me to live with Jess’s family in San Francisco. My mum and Jess's mum had been best friends since kindergarten, and remained close even after Jess's mum moved across the ocean, to San Francisco, while mum remained in their native London. Starting fresh, far away from the city that held so many memories and so much guilt, was the best thing that could have happened to me. I stayed with Jess and her family throughout high school. I haven’t returned to London at all. My parents fly here once a year to visit me. I take one last look at Jess and smile before leaving the room. I check my phone while drinking my third cup of coffee today, seated in my second favorite place in our apartment after my bed—the couch. One message from Mum: Dad and I are planting Langloisia today. Talk to you in the evening. I can’t stop a chuckle. The idea of my parents gardening is something I still cannot get used to. Or rather, the idea of my dad gardening. Mum has always been in love with flowers. But she never had time for gardening, or anything else after her long hours at the design studio where she had worked as a seamstress ever since she graduated from high school. My dad worked equally long hours on an assembly line. Three years ago he lost all ability to move his legs in a freak factory accident, and the firm offered him a nice settlement if he didn't take them to court. Mum decided to work from home on her own afterward so she could take care of him. Between her sewing and the settlement, they manage to scrape by. I plan to change that to a decent living as soon as I get a job. But the new arrangement has a positive side to it: they started having a lot of time to spend with each other. Somehow Mum convinced Dad they should dedicate most of that time to gardening. Mum and Dad met in high school and started dating in their junior year. They married after graduation and have lived happily together ever since. Even during those horrible years with Kate, when life was hell for all four of us, their love never faltered. Michael and I started dating in our junior year and I assumed happily ever after was a given for us. Guess not. Somehow this thought doesn't seem as painful anymore. I glance at the clock. Still half an hour left. I toy with the idea of sending a few more job applications before I leave—an endeavor that has taken up countless nights and weekends lately. I decide against it. This is not the time to sink into the usual negativity about my future that inevitably follows the emailing of

every batch of applications. At five to three I'm in the parking lot in front of our building, next to Jess's fourth-hand (though she claims it's second-hand) Prius, carrying a brown cotton blazer on my left arm and fiddling with the strap of my bag, trying to arrange it somehow so it won't cut into my shoulder anymore. There is no sign of anyone in the lot. As the minutes tick by, the irrational fear that last night was nothing but a wishful dream starts creeping back into my mind. The fear dissipates at three o'clock sharp and nervous jitters replace it, as a white Range Rover makes its way through the lot, standing out in the sea of Priuses and Fords like a whale among baby dolphins. It stops a few feet away from me. A tall, slightly older man wearing a black suit steps out of the car. I'm surprised by the wave of disappointment that suddenly overwhelms me. Though James said he would send someone to pick me up, I realize that I still hoped he'd show up, wearing that conceited smile of his. "Ms. McLewis?" the man asks in an official tone. I take a step forward. "You can call me Serena." For some reason I didn't expect James Cohen, the founder of several high-tech and Internet ventures, the epitome of all things modern, to be employing a driver. One that wears a uniform at that. "Peter Sullivan, at your service. I was sent by Mr. Cohen to pick you up." He opens the back door and gestures to me to get inside. I nod and hop inside the car. When Peter takes his place in the driver's seat I ask as casually as possible, "How long will the trip take?" He starts the engine and drives onto the main street, and though I can only see his eyes in the mirror when he answers, I'm pretty sure he's trying very hard to stifle a laugh. "I was instructed not to give you any information that might disclose our destination." I lean back, recognizing defeat. What is James playing at? What difference does it make whether I find out now or in half an hour? But I don't find out in half an hour. Or in one hour. Three hours pass before we finally get off the highway. By that time I’ve bitten all my nails, and the thought of calling the police to notify them of my own kidnapping has passed through my mind at least half a dozen times. I relax a bit as we enter Nelson Bay a few minutes later. It doesn't take me long to realize this is the wealthiest neighborhood I've ever seen. To my left and right lie houses—palaces really, each more grandiose than the previous one. But we don't stop in front of any of them. Peter drives by house after house, until the houses get farther apart, and finally fields replace them. It's a while before the first sign of civilization begins to appear: a row of black, spearheaded metal bars—a fence. Behind it lies a neat garden, adorned with so many roses that it looks more like a nursery. There is no house in sight. The car comes to a halt in front of the huge double gates. I still see no house behind them. My stomach gives a slight jolt when the gates open and we drive inside.





"Wow," I exclaim when the house finally comes into view. "Wow," I repeat as I stumble out of the car. This isn't a house. It's the ultra-modern, almost futuristic version of a palace. Except for the ground floor, it seems to be made entirely of glass, with the odd wooden wall here and there. Its owners must be fascinated by square forms, because the entire building is an amalgam of smaller and larger cubes, the part observable from here, at least. The place must be swarming with people, judging by the number of cars all around me. "You are expected inside, Ms. McLewis," Peter says, obviously amused by my reaction. "I am?" I ask in amazement and start walking with trembling steps toward the entrance. I close my palm around the handle of the massive oak door and expect to have to put some energy into pushing it, but it opens effortlessly. Of course it does. The moment I step inside, the simplicity of my white dress slaps me in the face. There are no words to describe how many levels of underdressed I am compared to the sleek, shiny surfaces and exquisite paintings on the walls, each with a picture light above it. And this is just a hallway. "Name," a deep voice calls, startling me. I turn around and locate the source behind the door. "Serena McLewis," I answer. The man scans the long list he's holding, then continues to the next page. And the next page. I count four page turns. "You're not on the list." Everything from his polished shoes to his perfectly knotted tie and his neatly gelled hair tells me he's not the type to let me in if I'm not on the list. "James Cohen invited me." He raises an eyebrow. "You think I sneaked in?" I ask him incredulously. His expression tells me that is exactly what he thinks. My casual, beach-appropriate dress isn't helping my case, either. "Let her in, Loren," a young girl squeaks from the far end of the hallway, hurrying toward us. Loren instantly lowers the list and gestures me to proceed. "I'm so sorry, I didn't have time to put you on the list," the girl says, looking genuinely distressed. As she comes closer, I realize she's not as young as I thought. Her round, dark eyes and the slight fullness of her face are misleading, but she must be at least seventeen. To my relief, she's wearing a robe. A beautiful one, made of silk, but a robe nonetheless. "I'm Dani," she says. She takes my hand before I get a chance to introduce myself and pulls me in the direction she came from. "We need to get you changed," she says. "You can't go to the party dressed like this." I stare at her black, unnaturally perfect curls, biting my lip. I know my dress isn't much, but coming

from someone dressed in a robe, the comment seems a little off. "What party?" “Ooh. You’re British.” Her eyes widen with delight. “My brother didn’t tell me that. And he clearly didn't tell you anything," she says, smirking and opens the door that marks the end of the hallway. "James is your brother?" I ask blankly. "I know, the similarities between us are astounding. I—" The rest of her sentence gets lost in the sudden explosion of words and laughter filling the room in front of us. Two dozen women, most of them around my age, sit on a long row of chairs in front of a mirror that covers the entire wall. Behind each of them is a hairstylist, turning their hair into curls just as unnaturally perfect as Dani's. Three of the girls are fully dressed, and the mystery surrounding the party—or at least part of it—dissipates. "It's a themed party," I say. "Eighteenth century Venice." Dani winks. "My mother throws themed parties every year for charity. It's Venice this time. Let's get you a dress." On the other side of the room are rows and rows of metal bars with clothes hangers holding long, festive chiffon and velvet dresses. "I set some dresses aside for you," Dani calls over her shoulder as we make our way through the rows of dresses. "Let's look at those first, and if you don't like any you can look for something else. Unfortunately, there won't be time to have your hair done because my lovely brother sent Peter far too late to fetch you." "No problem," I say, trying not to sound too relieved that I get to keep my hair as it is. "So, um… you live here with your parents?" "Yep. James sometimes comes here on weekends. When he's not working," she says, rolling her eyes, clearly disapproving of her brother's workaholic tendencies. "But I actually prefer it if he doesn't come here. Gives me an excuse to go down in San Jose." Of course, Silicon Valley's capital. Where else could he live? The back of the room is marked by yet another mirrored wall. Thankfully, there's no one in front of it. In the left corner is a small open wooden closet containing five dresses. "Which one do you want to try on?" Dani claps her hands excitedly. "The red one," I say without hesitation. In addition to being the prettiest dress I've ever seen, it's red. Red is my favorite color, but I don't wear it often. I don't know why, probably because I feel I attract too much attention whenever I wear it, something I'm not very comfortable with. But today—tonight, actually —is different. And wearing red seems like the right thing to do. "It's perfect," I say when Dani holds the dress in front of her, faking a bow. She giggles. "I'll help you with it, then you can help me with mine. I tried getting dressed on my own and nearly wanted to tear the damn thing apart." To my confusion, Dani waits in front of me while I take my clothes off, completely unfazed by my discomfort. I discard my plain little white dress on the floor and pull the red one over my head as fast as possible—with Dani's help. She's right, doing it by myself would have been a nightmare. For all its beauty, it's so heavy I hope I won't have to do much more than sit at a table for the rest of the evening.



When we finally manage to get the red dress on, I face the mirror. It looks even more beautiful than it did on the hanger. Even more perfect. The long, bouffant skirt reminds me of the drawings in the storybooks I used to devour when I was little. "What's your story?" Dani asks. I can see her frown in the mirror, as she concentrates on the monstrous task of pulling the laces through the more than fifty eyelets of the bodice. "What do you mean?" "How long have you and James known each other?" "Um…" I take a moment to consider my words. If I tell her I just met him last night, she'll think— rightly so—that I must be insane to show up here. Pretending to know him well will backfire faster than Jess's car on a particularly bad day. I go for a neutral, "We met recently." Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and the thinnest rivulets of sweat ooze on my temples. What did he tell her about me? He must have told her something. But if he did, I need all the cunning in the world to find out what. "So are you applying to Stanford?" "God no. I've been admitted to Oxford," she says proudly, "to study English literature." "Congrats," I say, slightly surprised. For some reason, I can't picture Dani, with her black hair and slightly tanned skin, in a place without sun. In a place as sad as England. But maybe England is just sad to me. "I'm a fan of English literature, too.” For some reason, my comment brings a particularly bright smile on her face. "You're one of the very few people who didn't cringe and suggest I take up medicine or law." "Well, I think everyone has the right to study what they want. Jess, my best friend, is studying history." Her delicate hands have almost finished lacing up the bodice. "Not everyone can be business freaks like you and my brother," she winks. Aha. What else did he tell her about me? "He's quite smart, your brother." And hot. The word forms in my mind by itself, and I'm glad Dani is so preoccupied with the eyelets. My cheeks turn almost as red as the dress. "Please don't let him know you think that. Won't help that pigheadedness of his in the slightest." I squelch the urge to laugh as best as I can, because she says this in such a solemn tone that I'm sure she'd be highly offended if I didn't take her seriously. There is a slightly awkward pause while she laces the very last eyelets, in which the only sound is a high-pitched laugh from one of the girls in front. When she's done she takes a few steps back and looks at me approvingly. "You look beautiful." "Your turn," I say. "Which dress is yours?" She picks a white dress from the nearest metal bar and hands it to me. I make a point of keeping my eyes on the beautiful white chiffon while she discards her robe. After a few painful minutes, I actually

manage to get her in her equally heavy dress without ruining her hair. She turns around and I start on the eyelets. I'm halfway through them when an eerie harp tune comes from Dani's robe. She completely ignores it. "I think that's your cell," I say tentatively. "I know. It's probably my boyfriend, trying to make up for completely bolting last night," she says through gritted teeth. I proceed with the eyelets in silence. "Do you have a boyfriend?" she blurts. "Yes. I mean no," I say, taken aback by the sudden turn of the conversation. "We broke up a few weeks ago." "Oh. I'm sorry. How long had you been together?" "Six years." To my relief, the usual painful heartache that accompanies any thought of my failed relationship isn't happening. "You should really answer that. Or switch it off," I say, pretending not to notice her shocked glance in the mirror as the phone starts ringing yet again. She bends and picks the phone from the pocket of her robe with a rather sour expression that turns to affectionate annoyance when she notices the name on the screen. It's not her boyfriend. It's James. She presses the phone to her ear. "Where's the fire?" I don't hear anything more than a buzzing noise coming from her phone, but it's enough for my stomach to give a little jolt. I can't even fathom what it'll do when I actually see James. "But I'm not ready," she protests when the buzzing noise stops. I signal her in the mirror that I'm almost done. "Okay, okay, I'll be there in a minute," she says, giving up and closing the phone. "I need to go. Will you be okay on your own? Just stick to the girls, they know where the ballroom is. I'll find you there," she says and runs off. "Make sure to take a mask from the closet," she calls over her shoulder before disappearing altogether.



With nothing left to do, I pick up my white dress, bag, and her robe and put everything on a hanger, then walk to the closet and discover a set of black masks. I grab one and make my way to the front of the room, wondering if the laughter is becoming louder, or I'm just imagining it. One glance at the cup of champagne each girl is holding tells me I am not. There are only four girls left now, and they are all gathered in a circle. "Someone get Dani's friend a cup," one of them says in a disturbingly high-pitched voice, forcibly reminding me of a lark. "I'm fine," I say. "Oh, right, she's not allowed to drink," a redhead who looks vaguely familiar giggles. It takes me a moment to realize they think I'm the same age as Dani, a school colleague of hers. For some reason, I don't want to correct that impression. I have a hunch they are the last people who should know who really invited me here. Their next words confirm this very thought. "I bet Sophie'll get some tonight," the lark says, applying another layer of red lipstick on her full lips. "Why me?" Sophie, the one who cemented my underage status, says with fake indignation. "Because you're the only one among us who hasn't," the girl next to her chortles. She'd give any swimsuit model a run for her money. "And James's had an eye on you for some time." "He had his chance last night and nothing happened," Sophie exclaims, as if she couldn't imagine anything more offensive. With a flash, I realize why she looks familiar. She was the redhead standing next to James last night. I withhold a smile as an unnatural sense of triumph fills me at Sophie's indignation. "Maybe it's your turn again," Sophie continues, eying the lark. "You did hook up with him last week." I guess Jess's womanizer comment deserved more credit than I gave it. I take a quick look at every girl. Whether redhead or blonde, full-lipped or not, their one common denominator seems to be that they're all drop-dead gorgeous. The lark leans back in her chair, twirling one dark brown lock around her fingers. "That was just for old times’ sake," she replies, grinning with satisfaction. "Though I must say I found him much sexier in his rebel days." And though I'm dying to know more details about those rebel days, the lark is the last person I'd ask. Sophie just stares at her. I wonder how long it would take them to jump at each other's throats if there wasn’t an actual law punishing them. Funny how they immediately thought I was a high school girl. Probably because they never outgrew that phase. I clutch my mask forcefully and exit the room, wishing more than ever that Jess were here or that I was home. What was I thinking? What was James thinking? Why did he invite me here? He's already got a group of desperate hyenas, whose beauty nor silliness I match, to choose from. There are less than a hundred feet between the front door and me. Loren is still there, guarding it, but I'm pretty sure he won't try to stop me from leaving. The taxi back home would cost me a week's salary,

but right now, that doesn't sound half bad. And yet I don't move one inch from my frozen position against the door. There's something rooting me to the spot. Something that tells me this isn't the time to chicken out and flee. I unhitch myself from the door and put the mask on just as the hyenas burst out of the room. They, too, are wearing masks. "There you are," Sophie giggles. "We were afraid we lost you." The lark opens a door to a hall that looks as long as this one and the four of them walk inside. Sophie steps on her own dress and stumbles forward, nearly knocking the other girls over. As she bursts into yet another torrent of giggles, under the disdainful look of the lark, I make a mental note to get lost among the other guests as fast as possible.





"Wow," I exclaim for the third time tonight when we enter the ballroom. A high glass arch spans above us, contrasting with the house’s cubic form. It also contrasts with the classical dresses and tuxedos in a whimsical, almost eerie way. There must be more than a hundred people here, not including the orchestra. Finding Dani among the sea of masked men and women won't be an easy task, though there aren't many white dresses in sight. I step away from the hyenas as fast as possible, hoping the mask on my face and the champagne in their blood are a good enough camouflage. I stand on my toes and try to spot Dani in the crowd, something that becomes increasingly difficult because everyone is regrouping along the edges of the dance floor. I give up trying to advance when I'm so squeezed in between a middle-aged couple that I can barely breathe. The woman must have spilled an entire bottle of a nauseating sweet perfume on herself. "Red suits you," a voice calls behind me. I'm suddenly very grateful for being squeezed in, because my knees seem to have turned to rubber. But my relief only lasts for a few seconds, because the music starts and everyone around me disperses, moving to the dance floor. I don't fall. I can't move, either. When he finally comes into view, my breath is cut short. There is something about seeing his beautiful blue eyes behind a mask that makes every inch of my skin burn. So it wasn't the tequila last night. "Dance?" He extends his hand. "I can't dance." Out of the corner of my eye I see Sophie watching us, crestfallen. "That makes two of us," he says, though unlike me, he doesn't sound panicked in the slightest. I really can't dance. Especially not waltz. But he doesn't lower his hand, and instead of protesting further, I raise my hand and place it in his. As if in slow motion I see him putting his other arm around my waist, and pulling me so close to him that I feel his every breath against my skin. This doesn't help the burning sensation. At all. "You came," he says and his lips curve into last night’s same conceited smile. "I make a habit of honoring my invitations," I say, surprised by how aggressive I sound. I bite my lip and look away, fixing my gaze on the highest point of the glass arch. "Did you and your friend arrive home safely last night?" Small talk. Fantastic. "If safely includes Jess throwing up twice on the way home, then yes." "Quite a party girl, your friend," he says appreciatively. "What makes you think I'm not one?" I regret the question instantly. Thinking that a former math whiz kid isn't the most hardcore party girl at Stanford is not an absurd conclusion to draw. But his answer takes me by complete surprise. "Having a steady boyfriend usually means you spend your free evenings and weekends… otherwise." "You asked Dani to spy on me?"

"Of course not," he says with fake affronting. "I just know how to get the info I need from her." "What happened to old-fashioned questioning?" "It's old-fashioned," he answers with a smirk. "I like to consider myself modern." "Make that lazy and sneaky." I finally unhitch my gaze from the ceiling and look him in the eyes again. They are so much darker than a few minutes ago. He tightens his grip on my waist. "Fine. Tell me three things about you." I try to put on my most serious look. "I grew up in London and San Francisco, used to play volleyball in a minor league, and want to work in investment banking." Did he really think I'll make it easy for him? "Let me rephrase," he smirks. "Tell me three things about you I won't find in your CV. Three dreams." The next sentence rolls out of my mouth despite my firm resolution to torment him by not really telling him anything about me. Especially not the weird things. "I want to taste every single recipe in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, get myself kidnapped by elves and locked up in Rivendell, and attend the midnight release of the next book about the wizarding world that I know Rowling will write. If that last thing fails, I want to learn how to fly on a broom, at the very least." He bursts into a cascade of laughter. But it's not in the slightest mocking or mean. It's warm and heartfelt. And loud. "Your turn," I say, in an attempt to stop him, because we are attracting less-than-friendly stares from the couples around us. "Stop laughing like a maniac and tell me three things about yourself. Three fears." He laughs for a few more seconds before assuming a solemn face. "I hate snakes and always keep a light on when I sleep. And I suffer from chronic commitment phobia." His words hit me like a whiplash. Amazing how lighthearted and playful he throws them at me. "So I've heard," I say, trying—and failing—to keep my voice steady. "I wanted to make sure you know it from me," he says in a soft voice. Yet for all the softness, it still feels like whiplash. "That's very considerate of you." Why do his words have this impact on me? Why do they have any impact at all? I guessed a while ago how things are. I wish we weren't dancing so I could run away. Put as much distance as possible between him and me. My wish is not far from being granted. Though I haven't listened to many waltzes in my life, I'm sure the orchestra is playing the ending tones right now. I try to distance myself from his intoxicating presence, but his grip on me is firmer than ever. "I saw how you were looking at me in that bar," he whispers with urgency. Crap, so Jess wasn't exaggerating. I do my best to put on the poker face she mimicked on our way home, then I remember I have a mask on anyway. "Why did you invite me here?" "Why did you come?" he asks, and there is a slight uneasiness in his voice. "Because you invited me," I answer as sardonically as possible. "I was curious," he says quietly. I don't wait to find out what he was curious about. The second the music stops I tear away from his arms and start walking as fast as possible through the sea of people, most still entangled in their partner's arms.



It's only when I reach the bar that I realize I've been walking in the opposite direction from the door. I swirl on my heels, determined to get out of here at any cost before the next song begins. And then I collide with someone so violently I lose my balance and start losing height. I close my eyes and grit my teeth in preparation for my impending clash with the parquet. It doesn't come. A sharp pain in my left arm tells me someone caught me in my free fall. The guy I collided with. He helps me get back on my feet and I open my mouth to thank him but the words freeze in my throat when I meet his eyes. I know those blue eyes. And the lopsided smile. It doesn't have that conceited, almost insolent air James's smile has, but the full lips and very fine dimple in his chin are identical. "So sorry. Are you all right?" He's English. "Are you related to… Ja—the Cohens?" I say, biting my lip. He looks taken aback for a moment, then his smile widens. "You’re English. What a nice surprise. To answer your question, yes, my mother, Lady Catherine, and Lady Beatrix Cohen are sisters," he says in a formal tone that doesn't match his smile. "That makes me a first cousin to James and Dani. Of course, the paternal side of my family might also be of interest for you. Astounding pedigree. I'm two-hundred-fortysixth in line for the British throne," he finishes, and I crack up. "Not bragging about that again, Parker?" Dani says, appearing at Parker's side out of nowhere. "Just using everything in my arsenal to impress the fair lady here—" "Serena," I say. "Serena, in the hope she'll forgive me for knocking her over in the most unceremonious way." Dani and I both burst out laughing. "Are you okay?" she asks after we both calm down. There's too much concern in her eyes for her to be referring to my near encounter with the floor. She must have seen me pulling away from James's arms. "Of course she is," Parker, who seems blissfully unaware of anything, says. "If she isn't, she will be in a few minutes. There's nothing a gin and tonic can't remedy." He signals the bartender to make one. "Can you get me one too?" Dani says, looking at him with hope. "That's my girl." He puts one arm around her shoulders affectionately and the other one around mine as we watch the bartender make the drinks. "So, how come you never introduced me to your adorable friend before?" "She didn't know her until today," a voice says from behind us. Parker instantly stiffens and withdraws his arm. Dani and Parker turn around, but I take my time. I wait for the bartender to hand me the drink, take a sip, and only then follow suit. I find James's gaze fixed on me. "Then I can blame you for not introducing us earlier," Parker jokes, but his posture is far stiffer than it

should be. "Indeed," James says without taking his eyes off me. "Dani, I hope the drink behind you is for someone else." A wave of warmth surges through me at such a blatant display of overprotectiveness toward his sister while Dani, understandably, scoffs. "Would you mind if we finish our conversation?" James asks me. The honest answer is yes, but he looks so determined I can't see how I can get out of this without causing a scene. "Sure," I say and follow him, thinking it can't be worse than before with so many people around us who don't even have dancing to concentrate on anymore. My reassurance shatters when I realize the wooden wall behind the bar is a fake one, and the real wall is behind it. The room between the two of them is filled with empty tables and cabinets carrying every imaginable type of glass and porcelain plates. Unfortunately, there is plenty of space among the cabinets for two people to talk, sheltered from absolutely every guest's view. "That wasn't polite," he says the second we're inside, and I can tell he's refraining from using a harsher word. "I wanted to leave," I admit. "And ended up at the bar?" he says with a laugh that feels forced. I wonder what wouldn't feel forced, what would alleviate the unbearable tension between us. As he stands with his back turned to me, inspecting—or pretending to inspect—one of the glass-filled cabinets, I have an inexplicable, almost frightening rush to close the distance between us and look him in the eyes, stroke him, touch him. Kiss him. "What do you want from me?" I ask. His intoxicating ocean-and-musk scent invades my senses a fraction of a second later, when he pushes me against one of the empty tables, his arms around my waist again, every inch of his body glued to mine. He breathes heavily against my neck, and each warm breath of his against my skin sends shudder after shudder through my body. I think I'm trembling, but I can't be sure. The only thing I am sure of is I don't want him to step away. He doesn't step away. Instead, he takes off both our masks and kisses me. A thousand icicles glide down my skin and I discover that I am truly trembling. Violently. And now I know why I came. For this. For the touch of his lips and the stroke of his strong, warm hands that have the power to turn every icicle into a flaming spear. One of his hands is still on my waist, the other one is on my thigh, furiously pulling up the fabric, until it reaches my skin. We both moan at the same time. And then, just as suddenly as he started it, he breaks the kiss and pulls away his hand, allowing the fabric to cover me again. "Do you want to leave?" he mutters in my ear in a low voice. "What?" I ask in alarm. Of all the things I want right now, leaving is not among them. "No." He distances himself from me, just enough to be able to look me in the eyes. And I thought they were dark while we were dancing! That was nothing compared to the deep dark blue they are now. "You wanted to leave not ten minutes ago. What's stopping you now?" "Do you want me to leave, but don't know how to say it?" "God, no," he says, digging his fingers deeper into my waist. Our heavy breaths are the only things filling the silence between us for a few seconds. "You just ended a long relationship. You're used to something I can't give you," he says.

"Maybe I want to try something different," I say and his eyebrows shoot up in the same bewildered surprise that overwhelms me. "You won't—" I lean forward and kiss him without giving him the chance to utter one reason that could change my mind. There are so many of them. And I don't want to change my mind. I don't even want to think this through. I want to have fun. I want to be reckless. Just for once. He gasps for breath a few seconds later and I feel his conceited smile form against my lips as he says, "Let's get out of here."



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