He’s so close, I can feel his breaths on my forehead, smell the slight scent of cologne mixed with everything Josh. My head spins, my mind becomes lost in the thousand memories of us. From the first time he knocked on my door, wearing the same exact cologne, to the first time I sat in his car wanting nothing more than to breathe him in. I told him I loved the way he smelled. And now, just like then, I want to get lost in it. In the way it wraps itself around me, making me dizzy, making me needy for him.

I kissed him that day, his lips warm and soft across my mouth. The taste of his kiss forever scarred on my lips, lips that have longed for him.

His mouth moves, and I know he’s speaking, but the thumping in my eardrums has turned the world silent. My dad’s touch is gentle, urging me forward, and I force the chaos out of my mind. Josh raises his eyebrows waiting for my response, but I don’t have one. Dad, however, clears his throat and steps forward, half blocking me from Josh’s view—something Josh senses right away because he straightens to full height, his chest rising with his intake of breath.

“We’re here to see Josh Warden,” Dad says, even though he knows he’s speaking to Josh Warden.

Josh Warden, Josh Warden, Josh Warden. His name replays in my mind, over and over, while his shoulders slump, his gaze switching to me quickly before going back to my dad, taking in all 6’4” of him. “That’s me, sir,” Josh murmurs, the confidence he exuded only minutes ago no longer visible.

I step away from behind my dad’s protection and lift the tag from the lanyard hanging around my neck. I tap it twice and then look up, waiting for his response.

His eyebrows bunch and he reaches for the tag, his fingers brushing mine.

His touch is like fire. Sweet, torturous flames setting off too many emotions. I struggle, and I fight, and I fight some more, to not move away, to not fear his touch.

But I fail.

Because I’m Becca Owens—a broken girl.

And he’s Josh Warden—the boy who broke me.

PART I

1

—Joshua—

I can hear them following behind me as I lead them to my bus, their footsteps crunching on the gravel now the soundtrack to my fear.

Every day I thought about her, missed her, craved her, and now she’s here, and her presence has me struggling for air.

Chris’s eyes widen when I open the door, and Becca comes into view, his mouth opening, closing, opening again. He pushes off the table he’s leaning on and taps away at his phone. After a while, he looks up, first at me, then at her, and then her dad behind her. “Becca Owens,” Chris says into the thick, tension-filled air. “You’re doing the interview for Student Life?”

Becca nods, her gaze everywhere but on me.

“Right.” Chris returns her nod before looking over at me, his demeanor changing from being my agent to being my friend. “You good?”

I hesitate to answer because I don’t know if I am. That’s a lie. I know I’m not good.

“Why don’t you guys set up?” Chris says, pointing to the couch. “We just need a minute.”

He’s trying to save me, and I appreciate it. But all the minutes in the world couldn’t save me right now. I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts and swallow hard. “I’m good, man,” I tell Chris, then to Becca, “Do you need anything? Water or…”

Her head shakes as she points to the table behind Chris.

I move out of her way so she can get past. Her dad follows, and I wonder for a moment if he goes to all her interviews or if he’s just here because it’s me. Because I’m the reason she is the way she is, the reason she can no longer speak. Becca sets up on one side of the table, her dad standing next to her, his arms crossed over his massive frame, doing everything he can to elicit the fear inside me. But it’s not him that has my heart hammering, making it impossible to breathe.

It’s Her.

It’s always been Her.

I take a step forward and offer her dad my hand. “I’m Josh Warden, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He takes it, shaking it harder than necessary. “Martin,” he grunts, and it’s that moment I know he knows. About as much as I know that there’s not a damn thing I can do about it now, so I suck it up and take the seat opposite his daughter. I wait, watching her set up her phone, iPad, and computer on the table. Then she sits back, her hands on her lap, and she looks right at me, her eyes searing mine. After a moment, her lips curve into a smile, and I die. A thousand deaths. Over and over. Because while on the outside, I’m living the life, living my dream, it had never felt real and I had never felt worthy. And for that split second when her eyes were on mine, and her smile was directed at me, she gave value to my existence.

Her smile fades when she leans forward, her fingers frantic as they press down on key after key of her computer. She hits one, then pauses and looks up at me, waiting for the mechanical voice to sound. “I should probably start by introducing myself. I’m Becca Owens, and I’m a student at Washington University here in St. Louis. I’ll be interviewing you for Student Life newspaper. The interview will run a little different than what you’re probably used to because I’m speech impaired. I’ll be communicating via my trusted old friend Cordy. If this is going to be a problem, please let me know now.”

I stare, unblinking, feeling my worth, my value, being sucked into a black hole along with the rest of me.

“I’ll be using my computer to speak with you. My iPad is for recording, and my phone has my notes. Again, if this is a problem, please let me know.”

Wiping my palms on my shorts again, I glance up at her dad before leaning forward, my forearms on the table. “It’s no problem, Becs. Whatever you need.”

Her dad sighs, and Becca’s gaze drops.

“Sir?” Chris says, his voice loud as he shoves his phone in his pocket. “What size feet you got?”

“Excuse me?” Martin asks.

Chris points behind him. “I got a bunch of shoes out back. The sponsor likes it when we hand ’em out. You interested?”

For the first time since I saw him, Martin seems to relax. “I got big feet…”

Chris smiles. “I got plenty of sizes. Plenty of styles.” He motions to where we keep the shoes. “Take your pick.”

Martin places his hand on Becca’s shoulder. She doesn’t flinch, unafraid of his touch. “You good, kid?” he asks her.

She smiles up at him and nods once, then shoos him away with a wave of her hand.

We both wait until they’re in the back part of the bus, the door closed behind them, before she types and I speak. “You look good, Becs,” I say, the same time “Cordy” says, “Sorry about my dad.”

I laugh.

She frowns.

Then her fingers are moving again. “I haven’t been following your success, so I had to have someone else on the newspaper write up the questions. He was supposed to be here, but he had a family emergency come up, so you’re stuck with me.”

I clear my throat and push aside my disappointment.

“Ready?”

“Not really,” I mumble.

Her frown deepens, her fingers tapping. “You took quite the hiatus for a few years there, and you’ve made it known in previous interviews the reason you did—your son Tommy—but you’ve never been clear on why you came back. Feel like giving a small time college newspaper an exclusive?”