“I’ll be here.”
I don’t need two minutes, but I take them to get my nerves settled. I slide in a pair of silver hoops, noticing new pictures tucked into the frame of my dresser mirror. The three new group shots turn my skin cold at one glance.
I don’t belong in these pictures. These aren’t pictures of my people. I’m not a social leper, but I’m not the girl that belongs in these pictures. They’re filled edge to edge with the rich, the beautiful, the brilliant…and me.
Blake stands next to me in every last one, his arm around my shoulder and my head tipped toward him. It’s the kind of pose that leaves no question to our status. We’re together.
Un-freaking-believable.
My memory decides to have some sort of massive file corruption and these are the months I missed? What about my years in braces? Or the summer my dog and grandmother died a month apart? No, I get to miss the six months that turned my life from train wreck into perfection. Lovely.
I glance out my window where Blake’s Mustang is idling at my curb. Things definitely could be worse.
I make my way outside to his car. He opens the door for me, a doughnut in his mouth and a paper bag held out for me to take.
“Good morning,” I say, forcing myself to kiss him when he leans in. It’s still stiff and awkward, but it will get better. It has to. He’s Blake Tanner, for God’s sake.
I bury my nose in the bag and inhale. “Smells awesome. Thank you.”
“Hop in. We’re going to be late.”
I’ve never been so grateful for a blueberry scone. I savor every bite, chewing slowly so that I don’t have to say anything. I need to fill in a few more blanks before I talk myself into a corner. It works like a dream, and before I know it, we’re in the parking lot.
Blake drops me near the doors, and I automatically take his trash with mine. I feel like we’ve done this dance a thousand times. My body knows the steps, even if I can’t hear the music.
Salt crunches beneath my feet as I climb the stairs two at a time out of habit. I doubt it matters if I’m late now. With the scores I’ve got tacked to my fridge, I could probably schlep off a month of school and still pick almost any college I’d like.
And apparently those pictures on my dresser weren’t a joke. I’m popular. Not just, Oh, hey, there’s Chloe, but, like, squealing and waving and air kisses from girls who barely nodded at me before. Even Alexis gives me a shoulder squeeze and a “Hey, girl!” as I pass her.
By the time I get to my locker, I feel dizzy with all the greetings that have been aimed my way. I’m getting so much in-crowd attention, I feel like I should have pom-poms and a pleated skirt.
I approach the locker that’s been mine since freshmen year and grin when the combination hasn’t changed. Okay, I can do this. I can figure this out.
And then, when I didn’t think things could get any better, I see Maggie across the hall. Her strawberry blond hair is six inches shorter, curling just above her shoulders. But I’d never mistake the set of her shoulders or the half smile that always seems present on her lips.
“Maggie!” I shout.
She looks up at me, and for one second, the world is right. Maggie will drag me to the bathroom and borrow my lip gloss or ask me if she should go a shade darker with her hair. Then I will tell her about my stupid amnesia, and she will help me diagram every major event I’ve missed. My secret will be safe. Everything will be perfect.
I think all of those things in the nanosecond before our gazes lock. And then Maggie’s eyes go cold and flat. Her mouth purses into a frown I’ve rarely seen, and she looks away.
***
I’m standing in the hallway, staring at the empty space where Maggie once stood, when the bell rings. Lockers slam, classroom doors close, and then I hear the soft drone of more than one teacher addressing their students.
My feet feel glued to the ground. I could force them to move, but where would I go? I don’t know which class I belong to. I don’t know what to do, and I can’t ask for help, not without giving myself away.
Stupid! What was I thinking coming here? Thinking I could get away with this?
Tears are stinging the backs of my eyes, choking my throat. I need to get out of here. I need to get help because I am not okay.
A classroom door opens in front of me. A hall check. And here I am, in the hall when I should be at a desk in one of these rooms. I can see it all—the principal’s office, the questions. The end of this perfect life before I have one second to enjoy it.
I hear someone rushing up behind me and then a strong hand sliding between my arm and waist, poking at the books I have clamped to my side. I fumble, watching everything fall to the floor. Mr. Fibbs pokes his balding head out of his classroom, a look of wariness in his eyes.
“Hallway collision,” someone says behind me. “My fault. We’re just getting her books.”
Adam. Relief rushes over me at the sound of his voice. Wait, not relief. It has to be something else. It kind of feels like relief though.
His arm brushes my calf as he crouches down, carefully collecting the notebooks and folders he just forced me to drop. I stare, mute and dazed as he gathers my things into a neat pile.
“Move fast,” Mr. Fibbs says, and this time he leaves his door cracked as he returns to class.
I hear nothing but my own breath and the soft hiss of paper against paper, his long fingers pulling them together.
I’ve never been this close to Adam. He’s kind of famous around here, our resident criminal and all. I’ve never thought much about it, or him for that matter. But when he tilts his head and looks up at me, I wonder how in the world I haven’t thought about him.
Because I can barely imagine going an hour without thinking about him now.
He smirks then. “You’re never going to convert him.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, staring a little too directly into his unbelievably blue eyes.
Adam stands up, and I have to tilt back my head to hold his gaze.
He hands my books back. “Mr. Fibbs. He still doesn’t buy the new, improved you.”
He says the last bit with a wink, almost as if it’s a little joke between us. Of course we don’t have jokes, and even if we do, I don’t remember the punch lines. I don’t laugh. But when he starts down the hallway, I automatically start walking too.
He stops at a corner, arm brushing my shoulder before he turns to face me. “So when are you going to tell me why you called me last night?”
“Last night,” I echo, feeling confused.
“Did something happen at Blake’s place?”
“At Blake’s place?”
Oh my God, I’m like a freaking parrot. Words, Chloe. Find some and spit them the hell out!
Adam’s face goes hard. “Look, you called me. If you changed your mind, just say so.”
“That’s not it,” I say, because I hate his expression. But what am I going to say? I don’t know why I called. Heck, I’m still having a hard time figuring out how I ended up with Adam Reed’s phone number in the first place.
“It’s not a big deal. Blake’s fine,” I say, hoping maybe that’s the missing connection. Maybe he’s friends with my boyfriend. Maybe he’s upset about Blake?
But no, he wasn’t upset. I know that because now he’s upset. His eyes narrow to dangerous slits. When he steps closer, I feel the distinct need to hold on to something. Since he’s the only thing within reach, I refrain. Instead, I squeeze my books so hard that the sharp edges press into my arms.
“Blake’s fine? You’re going to go with that, Chloe?” he asks, voice too soft for the hardness in his eyes. “You’re going to stand here and pretend like nothing’s happening?”