“Honey, why don’t you ever go to these parties with Luke?” Brian asks her.

Laney shrugs and looks down at the floor. “It’s not really my scene.”

“Yeah, but if Luke’s there then it—”

“He doesn’t invite me,” she cuts in.

“You would go?” I ask, my voice loud. Too loud.

Laney’s eyes snap to mine. So do her dad’s. Great. The Sanders Stare. There are very few things in life more terrifying than the Sanders Stare. I stutter, “It’s just, I mean, it’s not really… you’re not—”

“I wouldn’t go,” Laney says, saving me.

“Why not?” Brian asks. “You’re almost eighteen, Lo, and you barely leave the house.”

Laney shrugs. “Just because you’ve gotten a social life in the past year, it doesn’t mean I have to.”

Brian rolls his eyes again. “You should be out there…” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “…making mistakes and falling in like. Not love. Not yet. But you should at least be dating.”

I choke on the bite I’d just taken.

“I’ve dated,” Laney says. She doesn’t say it with pride or with snark. She says it so matter-of-factly that I know she’s telling the truth and that thought alone has the food lodged somewhere between my throat and my stomach, and I thump at my chest, hoping to clear it.

“Who?” Brian asks, his eyes narrowed.

“Who is not important.”

Brian steps closer to her. “Tell me.”

Swallow. Water. Gasp for air.

Laney presses her lips tight, refusing to answer.

I look between the two because I just now realized there is one thing more terrifying than the Sanders Stare. It’s the Sanders Stand-Off.

“I’m sorry,” Brian concedes, stepping back. “I just worry you’re missing out on life.”

Laney points to me. “Because I don’t want to be him?”

“Hey!” I look down at myself. “What’s wrong with me?”

Brian points a finger between the two of us. “Why don’t you two…”

“Dad, that’s gross. It’s Luke.”

Ouch. “I’m right here!”

They both laugh. I don’t know why. I don’t find it funny.

“Goodnight, kids,” Brian says, turning away and waving a hand in the air.

“Wait!” I square my shoulders. “What’s wrong with me?”

Chapter Two

LOIS

Stupid alarm.

Every night he stays here, there’s his stupid alarm.

4:45.

Every morning.

Stupid, stupid alarm.

“Luke, your alarm. Get up. Go!”

With his eyes still half closed, he reaches for his phone in my hand, switches the alarm off, then throws it across the room.

I stare at it, expecting it to grow legs and make its way back to us. Did I mention it was 4:45? “But…”

“But what?”

“Your run.”

“No,” he murmurs, digging his head in the pillow.

“No?”

“No.”

“But you run every morning.”

“Not today,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist and maneuvering me until I’m lying back down. “Let’s sleep in.”

“Sleep in?”

He moves closer. So close that when he says, “Leave it alone, Lane,” I can feel his warm breath against my neck.

“Okay…?”

“Good.”

Ten minutes later I’m wide awake, lying on my back, his hand flat on my stomach. I listen to him breathe, feel the goosebumps prick my skin, feel an overwhelming amount of emotions. It’s not the first time we’ve been this close physically, but there’s something different, something off. And there’s this nagging in the back of my mind that’s telling me this should be the last time. I want it to be the last time. Because having him here is too much, and at the same time, it’s not enough. It won’t ever be enough.

Without warning, his fingers start strumming against my skin. “Can’t get back to sleep, huh?”

I shake my head, but refuse to look at him.

He removes his hand and untangles his legs from mine, and I exhale, relieved, hoping he’ll leave. “Do I have sweats here?” he asks.

“Bottom drawer.”

I sit up halfway and watch him move across the room—one hand in his hair, the other covering his parts. I’d be lying if I said the attraction to him wasn’t physical because it plays a part. Unlike me, he’d changed a lot over the years. I was still Plain Lane, and he was no longer the cute boy I crushed on when we were eleven. He’d gotten rid of his glasses and opted for contacts the moment he joined the track team in sixth grade. In seventh grade, he got braces to fix the gap in his teeth. In eighth grade, he had a growth spurt and never really stopped. By the time tenth grade started, he’d dated more than his share of girls. Now, at seventeen, he topped out at 6’2” and showed off muscles in places I didn’t know existed.

He was too much.

He wasn’t enough.

“Don’t forget your phone,” I tell him, lying back down.

“I’m not leaving.”

I glance over at him just in time to see him pull on a pair of his sweatpants. “You’re not?”

“Unless you want me to,” he says, eyes on mine.

After seconds of waiting and no response from me, he shakes his head, his gaze shifting to the floor. “I’m going to brush my teeth, and then we’re going to talk because something’s going on with you and we need to deal with it.” He makes his way to the bathroom, and I follow behind. It’s a routine we’ve done many times before; we stand in front of the mirror, brush our teeth, take turns to spit, pass each other the mouthwash, then I leave so he can do his business, and when he’s done, I do mine.

He’s back in bed when I get out, his gaze fixed on the bathroom door, waiting. “So?” he says.

I shrug. “So.”

He pats the spot next to him, and reluctantly, I do as he suggests. I lie beneath the covers and wait for him to put his hands on me, somewhere, anywhere, it doesn’t really matter. He opts for his fingers on my forehead, pushing away my bangs so he can look in my eyes. “What goes on, Lane?”

I shrug again, but there’s a backlog of tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat and I know he can see it because his eyebrows bunch and he moves closer again, so his head’s on my pillow. “Was it about the party last night? The whole class was invited and if I thought that you’d go—”

“It’s not about the party.”

“Then what?” His voice is soft, unmasking his concern. His gaze fixes on mine while mine searches his and I find nothing. Not a damn thing.

He licks his lips, his eyes narrowing even more. “Are you worried about school starting tomorrow? Because if you are, you don’t need to be. It’s only senior year. One year of our entire—”

“Why do you come here, Luke?” I cut in.

He rears back an inch. “In general or…”