Fuck!
I scream on the inside.
I move closer to the trunk, eyeing my shoes, waiting for a bedroom light, a porch light, any light to turn on—for someone to catch me. But the house remains still.
I inch my way across the branch—don't look down—and jump the remaining distance. I grab my shoes and scramble to the dormer, pressing myself against the wall. The roof is cool beneath my socks, the winter air bites at my exposed skin.
Nothing.
My eyes drift toward the dark attic.
We might actually get away with this.
With renewed hope, I climb the dormer, suck in a breath, and tap that third floor window.
And then she appears. And my heart stutters. And somehow this night—everything I've been through, everything that will happen—becomes worth it.
She unlocks the window, pushes against the sash. It cracks, popping loudly.
We both freeze, eyes locking.
Please don't tell me it won't open. That this is as good as it gets—forever separated by a pane of glass.
But when she tries again, it lifts easily. I pass her my boots and crawl inside.
"I didn't even hear you," she whispers.
She didn't hear the sound of my shoes—my body—crashing to the roof? Then there must be a God somewhere. Because if she didn't hear it.... "That's because I'm stealth," I reply, playing it off. She lowers the sash. It's as cold in the attic as it is outside, little—if any—insulation. "Everything okay?"
"Everyone's asleep," she confirms, the relief evident in her voice.
I'm here. I made it.
We did it.
She smiles, eyes narrowing. "So.... What's this all about?" she asks.
"What's this about?" I blow into my cupped hands, trying to warm my fingers. "I thought you liked hanging out with me."
"I—I do," she stammers, tucking her hair behind her ears. "This is just...random. You. Sneaking over. In the dark."
I lower myself to the floor, leaning against the wall beneath the window. Jaden sinks into the beanbag chair and wraps the blue comforter from her bed around her body. The air shifts, and in an instant there are flowers. Jaden and me and dozens of flowers—a lethal combination. Intoxicating. I'm grateful for the distance between us—that she didn't offer to share that blanket. This Mr. Perfect has his limits.
"I just can't figure you out," she finishes.
"What's there to figure out?"
"I don't know," she replies.
So...yeah. This is strange. I'm not the kind of guy who goes creeping around town after midnight. But I'm not the kind of guy who sees girls behind my fiancée's back, either. And here I am, breaking all the rules.
Again.
"If you're uncomfortable, or want me to leave, I'll go. But the way I see it, life is short. Time is slipping away whether we want to admit it or not, and I'm not wasting a second of it. I had an idea...that maybe I wanted to see you, and I went with it. If I didn't I would've stayed awake the entire night wishing I'd said something, and kicking myself for not taking a chance. I hate regrets."
Regrets.
In the morning, when this is over, will I regret coming here? When I call Callie, knowing I'm lying to her, knowing I'm lying to Jaden...what will I regret most?
I force the thought out of my head.
"Besides," I finally say. "You need more excitement, remember? Consider this an educational experience."
"An educational experience?" she repeats.
"Yeah. The art of living."
She laughs a quiet laugh and pulls the comforter tighter around her body. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
"You can't tell me this isn't exhilarating," I say.
"It's the riskiest thing I've done," she replies. "Ever."
"Taking off with me on my motorcycle the other night was pretty risky."
"Yeah, well, you're in my attic in the middle of the night. This kinda tops that."
Even in the darkness, I can tell she's blushing. I hear it in her words, in the tone of her voice, and something in my chest tightens. "Wow, Jade. You're really shattering the whole 'good girl' stereotype, aren't you? I bet if I showed up at school tomorrow telling everyone you rode on my motorcycle and sneaked me into your house no one would believe me."
"You better not," she warns.
"Why? You'd thank me for it."
"No. I wouldn't."
"I bet you've never invited Hanson over after your parents fell asleep. You're letting my degeneracy corrupt you."
Her eyes narrow, assessing. "You're not bad."
"Really?"
"Really. It's a façade. That's what people want to believe so you go with it, because if they really knew who you are life wouldn't be as exciting."
I can't help but laugh at how unbelievably right she is. The whole world is a façade right now, and here I am, stuck in the middle of it all, the starring role.
"So," she continues. "Do you usually sneak around town after midnight? I mean...what would you be doing right now if you weren't here?"
"I go out every now and then...when I can't sleep or whatever, but usually I'm at home."
"What do you do at home?"
I swallow back my hesitation, trying to channel that façade. She has to believe—no matter what—she has to believe me until this is over. "Study. Read. Listen to my dad cuss out referees for making pathetic calls."
"Sounds exciting."
"Yeah, pork rinds, basketball, and liquor.... But that's good because the more he drinks the quicker he passes out, and at least I get some peace and quiet."
"Is that why you wanna leave?" she asks.
Why do I want to leave? I wrack my brain. Why would I want to leave a deadbeat dad with anger management issues? "Partly," I begin. "The truth is we just don't get along. We never did. He's happy doing minimum wage work at a minimum wage job—if he even goes in to work at all. I'm better than that."
There's some truth in this—my dad and I—we don't get along.
"You see, that's pretty condescending. Because if I recall, you're the one with stellar grades who's foregoing a college education," she points out.
"Touché."
"I'm serious, Parker. If you want to make a difference...to be different, then you should go to college. What if you end up just like him?"
"First of all, I am nothing like my father. Second, there are plenty of good jobs out there for someone without a college degree. You can still be a hard worker without a piece of paper."
She leans back, crossing her arms, the beanbag chair rustling beneath her. "Yeah, well, one day you'll look back and remember that girl you once knew in high school who thought you deserved better than that."
"We'll see, Miss Harvard."
She kicks me playfully with her foot. "Shut up."
The room creaks, settling; a gust of wind pushes against the house. And in that instant it seems to come alive. Our eyes remain locked, paralyzed, as it groans. When the breeze finally dies, I realize I'm holding my breath. I think Jaden is, too. She blinks, shoulders relaxing.
"I guess that means you haven't heard from them yet," I finally say, my voice significantly lower.
"No," she whispers. "But I've been accepted to every other school I applied to, so I guess that should make me feel better."
When has Jaden McEntyre ever settled for second best? Current boyfriend aside. "No, not really."
"Good. Because it doesn't. The other schools...I mean, they're okay...but they're not what I want."
"Why Harvard?"
"I don't know. Because...it's like the best of the best. It's the reputation."
"So you're picking a school based on its reputation? That's it? No other factors were considered?"
"Of course I considered other factors," she retorts. "Academics. Student Life. The potential connections. The fact that it's one of the top schools in the country."
"You keep coming back to that."
She exhales a hasty sigh. "The truth is I'v
e always wanted to go there. For as far back as I can remember, even. It's Harvard or nothing."
"You can't say that," I warn.
"Why not?"
"Because if by some fluke you don't get in, then you'll miss out on college, and end up doing minimum wage work at a minimum wage job."
"I can still be a hard worker without a piece of paper," she replies, tossing my words back at me.
Forget med school. This girl needs to run for office. "You're a force, do you know that?"
"Yeah, well, there's a lot you don't know about me," she says.
Jaden McEntyre, who aces AP Chemistry tests then lets guys sneak into her attic; who raises money for elementary school libraries then climbs on the backs of motorcycles.
A walking contradiction.
"I'm realizing that."
She runs fingers through her hair, twirling it, fidgeting, lost in thought. And the way the streetlight falls across her body.... It's all I can do to stay where I am. To keep my hands to myself. Because part of me wants to run my fingers through her hair, too. It looks so soft. Shiny.
"Tell me something," she whispers, releasing the strands of hair, letting them fall past her shoulders.
"What?"
I pray she doesn't ask me to tell her what I'm thinking right now. What I'm feeling at this very moment. Because if we're being honest, I'm thinking all the wrong things, and they have everything to do with her.
"I don't know," she replies. "Anything. Tell me something real. Something I don't know."
"About what?"
"It doesn't matter. You."
Me. We're not being honest. The realization drags me under, leaves a dull ache throbbing in my chest. I can't move closer. I can't feel her hair. I'm not allowed to touch this girl. I shouldn't even be here.
I'm so freaking tired of this story. I'm sick of lying to this girl. She doesn't even know who I am. The real me.
I swallow hard, heading straight back to those notecards. To safety.
"I'm pissed at my mom for kicking me out of the house," I begin. "For not wanting to deal with me." I tell her what it was like being broke—well, I tell her what it would've been like had I been broke, since I've never wanted for anything in my life. I tell her about my mom's boyfriends—boyfriends who don't exist. About a remarriage that never happened. The liquor and the pork rinds and the lies.
But there's a truth I can tell, despite all of this.
"I hate the guy who offered me weed for the first time. It screwed up everything. I almost screwed up everything by taking it. And the night we were caught, I felt like the biggest fuck-up ever. I quit everything after that. Drinking. Smoking. Okay, well, I've lapsed on the smoking thing a few times, but I hated what was left of me after that night—this shell of the person I could've been."
"It's not over," she reminds me, shaking her head.
It's not over?
The blood in my veins runs cold. Where does she get off saying these things? How can this girl have so much faith in me? What does she see in Parker Whalen—unfocused, undisciplined—that I can't? Because Parker isn't all that removed from Christopher, and I'm sure as hell it's over for him.
"Your turn," I announce, shoving these emotions—these feelings—back where they belong.
"My turn?"
"Yeah. It's only fair, right?"
She sits taller. "Okay. What do you want to know?"
"Same idea. Something real. Something no one else knows."
She thinks about this for a moment, considering. "I, um, I don't really know how to relate to my dad," she confesses. "He's busy. All the time. He doesn't pay very much attention to me, or do things I'd like him to do. Things I need him to do. Like fix my faucet." Her shoulders lift—like it's no big deal. Even now, she defends him in her own selfless way. The guy sounds like a dick—a freaking absentee father. But she'll never accuse him of it. She will never blame him for it. She'll suffer, silent. Jaden McEntyre—global humanitarian—girl who speaks for everyone but herself.
"I'm the youngest in the family," she continues. "Two older brothers, so I was practically tortured growing up, especially by Phillip. He's like, the practical jokester of the family. If I had to pick, though, I think I feel closest to Daniel. He's really protective—probably to a fault. But you know if you had that quarter? That one person you'd call if everything blew up? I'd call Daniel, and I know he'd do everything he could to fix it. He's not perfect. I mean, he's made his share of mistakes, but he learned from them. And now he does everything he can to keep me and Phillip from making the same ones."
She knows about the arrest. She has to. And still she sees her brother—knows he would do anything for her. And if Daniel couldn't answer that phone call, she'd ask for Phillip. And deep down I know he'd stop whatever he was doing to help her, too. This pang of...something—something that might be jealousy—lurches in my stomach.
Because part of me desperately wants to be connected to that quarter—someone Jaden can count on when shit hits the fan. Someone she can depend on. Rely on.
Trust.
"I'm just afraid that I'm going to disappoint him," she continues. "That I'm going to disappoint everyone. I'm afraid that, one day, I won't be enough—I'll fail. I'm afraid that I'll never live up to everyone's expectations."
Jaden? Fail? The two words don't belong in the same sentence.
"But that's not even logical," I say. "I mean, if that's true, then you're already setting yourself up to fail because you can't please everybody."
"I know. It's just that, it's like everyone is anticipating me going on and doing something amazing—saving the world, or whatever. They expect it."
"Which is why you need to start focusing more on Jaden and less on what everyone wants Jaden to be," I tell her. "You need to relax. When was the last time you went out and did something crazy, for you?"
"Saturday...and now tonight."
"Yeah, well, it's been a long time coming. You can't let the opinions of other people get in the way of who you want to be."
"I know, but in a lot of ways it's my own fault," she admits. "Their expectations are so high because I set them. They're all sitting back, waiting for me to become...I don't know...Jaden McEntyre, M.D."
"Who cares? You're not living for them."
"I know...but..."
"You have a 'but' for everything, do you know that?"
But something she said, something about everyone wanting—expecting—her to become a doctor. It doesn't sound at all like someone excited about the opportunity. The possibilities. It sounds like someone with a list—another item to cross off. Another detail to mark "complete." Bread. Milk. Detergent. Become a doctor. "Wait a minute. What are you saying? You want to go to med school, right?" I ask.
She opens her mouth to reply, but nothing emerges.
Shit. She can't even give me a straight answer. She doesn't have one. She doesn't know. She's worked her ass off the last four years and for what? Because that's what everyone expected her to do?
Her eyes squeeze shut, and she pinches the bridge of her nose. And I remember the way she crumbled the day she forgot that meeting, the fear in her eyes when I asked about her back-up plan in case Harvard didn't work out.
"Jade?" I press.
"What?" Her eyes catch mine, and I hold them, staring into her.
Please don't pass out.
She blinks as I take her hand, lift it to my lips, drawing her back to me. Her fingers tremble, freezing. "Please tell me you want to be a doctor, and it's not something somebody told you you should do that sounded like a good idea at the time."
"No. I mean, med school is the greatest challenge, right?" she replies, voice wavering, forcing confidence. "I want to see if I can make it."
"This isn't about a challenge," I hiss. "This is about finding what you love to do—doing something that makes you happy."
She rips her hand from mine, distancing herself. "Helping people makes me happy."
"If it doesn't work out...." r />
"I don't know," she admits. "But isn't that the point? To go to school and figure out what you want to do?"
"Yeah, keeping in mind it's your decision and no one else's."
"I make all of my own decisions, thank you."
"Okay, then. Let me rephrase that. Keeping in mind that your decisions shouldn't be influenced by other people."
"You should take your own advice," she snaps.
"You're really going there again."
"You started it."
"Yeah, well, friends don't let friends screw themselves by stressing about what other people think."
This stops her. An eyebrow lifts, curious. "So...you're saying we're friends?"
Does she want us to be friends? Can you even call someone who does nothing but lie to you all day, every day, a friend? No. Despite this, I want this girl to think about me, and if "friends" is the way she sees us....
"I think so. Don't you?"
"I'm just making sure we're on the same page, that's all. You're not the easiest person to read." Her easy smile sends fire coursing through my veins. I shrug the feeling away. "In that case, friends don't let friends screw themselves by not thinking about the future at all," she continues. "So don't expect me to let up on the whole college thing. As your friend I have a license to annoy you about it. Bring it up. Beat you into submission."
"So this is an abusive relationship," I confirm.
I could handle a beating from her.
She laughs quietly. "This is a friend...caring about her friend."
The night slips away, each second dragging us closer to the inevitable.
Ethan and Mattie. School. The weather. It doesn't matter how boring or trivial the topic, part of me would stay awake forever to listen to this girl—to not miss a thing she said.
But the longer we remain tucked away in this attic, the heavier her eyes grow. The more she yawns.
And finally I make the decision. "I should probably let you get to bed."
She stifles another yawn. "I guess it would be kind of obvious if we both show up to school half-asleep."