I have a gut feeling that won’t go away.

The car pulls up and Jennifer climbs out, looking far too pretty for someone that just went through labor. I hate myself for thinking it, but if I could, I’d transfer her health and vitality into Charlie. I really would. He’s the parent who stuck around, who took care of me, who raised me all by himself. Jennifer is just a selfish wannabe socialite.

“Happy birthday, honey,” she says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. Isabella stays far behind her, nostrils flared as she looks at the party in disgust, like it’s far below her usual standards. Jennifer hands me the package in her hand before heading back to the car to grab the baby.

It could be Dad’s baby, I think as I watch her and then glance down at the gift in my hand. It’s a small box with a bow on it. I look up again, my mind spinning a million miles a minute. No, the baby can’t be Dad’s, right? I mean, when did he start the chemo? It definitely messes with a man’s fertility …

I look at Isabella next, and then go sit beside Creed, struggling to keep my breathing in check. He notices me having a mini freak-out and pulls me into his lap, putting his mouth near my ear.

“What’s the matter, birthday girl?” he asks, and I realize I only know his birthday because of Miranda. August 26th. I don’t know any of the guys’ birthdays. They’re all older than me by at least a few weeks, I do know that. None of them had any extravagant parties or anything that I’m aware of.

“Do you think Isabella looks like my dad?” I ask, and Creed turns to glance at her. The brown-haired, brown-eyed girl is looking between the five boys at the party with renewed interest, but she doesn’t make any effort to join us at the table.

“You think she’s your father’s daughter?” Tristan asks, turning to look at me. I nod, but then grimace.

“How soap opera is that? That shit just doesn’t happen in real life.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” he asks, sighing and reaching up to push back some locks of raven-dark hair. “Your mother wants a comfortable life, and money, and a healthy husband. But she loves your dad.” Tristan stands up suddenly and stalks off toward the lake. I watch him as he heads to the end of the dock, removes his shoes, and rolls up his pants, putting his feet in the water.

It’s such an … well, an un-Tristan-like thing to do that I end up enraptured by the sight.

Lizzie follows right behind him, sitting down at his side, the whisper of their shared conversation wafting back to me. My mouth tightens into a thin line, but I have other things to worry about right now.

Jennifer is presenting the baby to Charlie, and I swear, his entire face lights up.

Isabella finally relents and takes a seat at the table, but other than making eyes at the boys, she says and does nothing. She doesn’t even bother to wish me a happy birthday.

When it comes time to open gifts, I start with Jennifer’s, just for curiosity’s sake, and find a key on the end of a chain.

“My home is your home,” she tells me with a huge, shiny smile. “This is the key to the house. The address is tucked in the box, and I’ve got a room all set up for you.”

That, apparently, is just too much for Isabella Carmichael. She takes off, locks herself in the car, and doesn’t come out for the rest of the party.

“Thanks,” I say, but I don’t plan on taking her up on that. Forgiveness is one thing, but … Jennifer’s offer is just too little, too late.

The fourth year uniform at Burberry Prep has always been my favorite: black from head to toe. Even the socks and shoes are black.

“I feel like I'm going to a funeral,” Miranda whines, looking at herself in the bathroom mirror. We're in the visitors' parking lot bathroom, waiting for everyone in our little group to change clothes. Every Blueblood, you mean. You guys are the Bluebloods this year. It's pretty much official.

Last year, I wasn't willing to accept the position.

This year, I'm going to embrace it.

No bullying allowed at my school.

“It's not funereal,” I murmur, defending the uniform as I run my hand down the tie, and she gives me a look, hopping up on the counter to switch out her socks. We're allowed to wear the sock choices from any year, so I'm not surprised when Miranda dons the white ones with the red and black stripe from last year. “Those don't go with the outfit,” I tease as Lizzie comes out of one of the stalls, fully-dressed from head to toe in black.

She smiles at me, and I smile back, but there's this weird tension between us that wasn't there before her confession. We spent the whole summer dancing around the issue, and here we are, with nothing to say to one another.

“Miranda!” Creed calls from outside the bathroom, and she rolls her eyes dramatically before sliding off the counter and tossing her white-blonde hair over her shoulder. She gives me a look, and I nod, telling her that yes, it's okay to leave me alone with Lizzie Walton.

“Hey so,” Lizzie starts, leaning over the counter, her dark curls straightened into a shiny black sheet. She glances up and over at me with bright amber eyes, and I suck in a sharp breath. She really is pretty, isn't she? That thought's immediately followed by a momentary blip of insecurity.

No, Marnye, you're way past that. I push it away by dunking my hands under some cold water and washing them with the foaming soap that smells like honeysuckle.

“So?” I ask, quirking a brow as I dry my hands quickly and lean back against the wall. Lizzie's still staring at me, her expression unreadable.

“This is our last year at Burberry, and … after this, everything changes.” She stands up fully and turns to face me, her shoulders squared in just such a way that I feel a nervous flutter in my belly. This isn't going to end well, is it? “We'll be going to different colleges and living different lives.” She exhales and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she's staring up at the ceiling. “The thing is, I want to make sure Tristan and I go to the same one.” She drops her gaze, and I bite my lower lip.

“Where are you planning on going?” My voice is cautious, but strong. I'm proud of myself for that. Miranda wants to see this big war between me and Lizzie, but that's not what I want. Tristan has to decide what he wants; I won't try to force his hand.

“Stanford, most likely.” Lizzie smiles and shakes out her hands. “Look, I hate that this is happening. Your friendship is important to me, but …”

“But you're still in love with Tristan,” I say slowly, hating the words even as they come out of my mouth.

“Yes,” Lizzie groans, putting her hands over her face. She drops them by her side and stares me down, exhaling. “I … don't take this the wrong way, but … dating five guys is kind of unusual, right?”

I have nothing to say to that.

It is unusual, isn't it?

“Maybe.” Just that one word. It's the only one I can seem to make in that moment. I think I'm … getting pissed off.

“Why not just let Tristan go then?” Lizzie asks, almost like she's pleading. “You can't keep them all. Eventually you'll have to choose.”

My mouth purses into a thin line.

“You're saying I have enough boyfriends, so why not give you one?” Lizzie shrugs, almost helplessly. I can't decide if it's a genuine emotion, or if it's all just an act.

“I mean, not exactly, but … yeah.”

“If Tristan wants to be with you, that's his choice,” I tell her, that anxious knot inside of me twisting even further. It's in that moment that I hate this world and all its stupid rules. Why can't I love more than one person? Parents love more than one child. Grandchildren love more than one grandma. Pet owners love more than one pet. “I can't and won't force or encourage him to do anything.”

“Tristan—” Lizzie starts, but there's the squeak of shoes on the freshly waxed tile floors just before Tristan himself steps into the room, dressed all in black.

With his raven-black hair, gray eyes, and dark frown, he's hauntingly beautiful but also somewhat tragic. My heart shudders in my chest, and I find myself squeezing my tie in a tight fist.

“Tristan, what?” he asks, his voice smooth and low, his expression reserved. “You know I hate being gossiped about.”

“What are you talking about?” Lizzie asks with a girlish laugh, tucking some hair behind her ear. “You love being gossiped about.”