“Sweet dreams, Hailey.”

My fragile heart bangs in my chest, threatening to break with every beat. I force myself to swallow, force myself to breathe. “Sweet dreams, Mike.”

When he turns off the light, I close my eyes again. And in the dark, I listen to my heart splinter beneath the weight of saying goodbye.

Chapter 22

In Mike Madden’s room, in Mike Madden’s bed, it’s no wonder I can’t sleep. Not even the light of the moon penetrates his thick blackout curtains, so there’s nothing to claim my attention except the thoughts racing through my head.

Tomorrow, a call from my uncle Rick will show up on my phone. He’ll recount Danica’s accusations, and I’ll deny them. I’ll be careful not to use words like jealous, or delusional, or psychotic when describing his daughter, but I’ll defend myself. I’ll tell him I would never, ever do something like steal her boyfriend, and maybe he’ll even believe me.

But it won’t matter. Danica’s tears have always meant more than my honesty. Like the Christmas she wouldn’t let me play with her toy jeweler because she said there weren’t enough rhinestones to go around. Or the Easter I couldn’t use any of the pink egg paint because she said she needed it all for herself. So I won’t beg, and I won’t cry, and I won’t even tell my uncle about her breaking my computer, because there’s no point—computers are as replaceable to him as number two pencils. Meaningless: my feelings will be meaningless. And in the end, he’ll decide that if Danica doesn’t want to share this town, she doesn’t need to. He’ll never understand how much playing with that jeweler meant to me.

The bed shifts with Mike’s weight for what must be the hundredth time, carrying my thoughts to someplace closer. I don’t think he’s slept yet either, judging by how much he’s been moving around. Lying next to him in the pitch black, I’ve been acutely aware of every shift, every turn, every deep breath.

“I can’t sleep,” his quiet voice confirms, though I’m sure it’s for entirely different reasons. I can’t sleep because it hurts to be this close to him. It’s a tightness in my chest. It’s a cramp in my fingers. It’s the torture of being so near, but so, so far. It’s been easier to let my mind drift to the future than to be here, now, in his bed, with him close enough to touch. I don’t know if I’ve spent mere minutes struggling to breathe evenly next to him, or if it’s been hours, but it feels like hours. It feels like days. Weeks.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Can’t get comfortable.”

I roll onto my side to face him under light blankets, and even though I wouldn’t be able to see my own hand in front of my face right now, I can sense the distance between us. “Do you want to switch sides?”

“No,” Mike says, and the bed shifts again, dipping close to me. I know for certain that if I reached out even a little right now, he’d be right there. I could touch him.

“Are you sure?” I whisper, and my pillow moves. Mike’s warm breath grazes my cheek when he answers me.

“Yeah.” His voice is quiet, softer than the pillow we’re sharing. “This feels better.”

“Okay,” I say, my skin thrumming with the nearness of him. It waits to be touched—for him to wrap his arm around me, or pull me close, or slide forward until his body is pressed tight against mine. But instead, he lies agonizing inches away, bringing my nerve endings to life with every single breath he takes.

If I didn’t have to leave soon, maybe I would reach out. Maybe I’d find the shirt hanging loose over his hard stomach, and I’d fist it in my hands. Maybe I’d draw him to me and risk rejection to find his lips in the dark. Maybe in the dark, he’d kiss me back.

If I didn’t have to leave.

If I didn’t have to leave.

For tonight, I close my eyes, and on a shared pillow, I let my breath mingle with his, and I try to have sweet dreams.

Chapter 23

It’s almost worse: not getting the call. It means I’m constantly checking to make sure my ringer is on. It means my phone is glued to my hand. It means my nerves are on edge, my head kind of hurts, and my stomach is very unsure of itself.

In Mike’s kitchen, I flip an omelet in a pan and turn my head to the side for a breath of non–egg scented air. This morning, I rolled silently out from beneath his covers as soon as the clock on my phone changed from 5:58 to 5:59 to 6:00, and I helped myself to a quick rinse-off in his hall shower. After brushing my teeth with a toothpaste-painted finger, I sat at his kitchen table weighing all of my options—and then I decided to cook, because cooking is easier than thinking.

Now I’m standing at his stove doing both. I know Danica is playing games, but I have no idea how long she plans on playing them. Do I go on the offensive? Call my uncle and explain things myself? No . . . because what if Mike’s right? What if I’m wrong? What if she’s really not going to go through with her threat to ruin my life?

Yeah, right. Since when has Danica ever missed an opportunity like that? Even if I groveled at her feet right now, she’d use it as an opportunity to stomp my face into the dirt.

“Good morning,” Mike says, and I look over my shoulder to see him scratching his head and yawning as he walks into the kitchen. His hair is sticking up on the side from the pillow we shared last night, and I catalog the image to take home with me: sleepy-eyed Mike Madden with bedhead and slept-in clothes. Then I turn back around before I do something stupid, like walk over to straighten his hair.




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