“What kind of doctor?” I ask, the question muffled against her hair.

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe one that deals with brains.” As she speaks, her hair tickles my chin.

“Brains, hm?” I lean back a little, not loosening my grip on her, but just enough so I can look into her eyes.

“What’s so appealing about brains?” I ask her.

Evie snorts. I feel her little breath against my throat, where her lips rest.

It’s the middle of the night one snowy evening just after our Thanksgiving break. We’re in my bed, on our sides, facing each other.

“They seem like the most important part, you know,” she tells me. “Cardiology is considered so glamorous, at least it is from what I gather, but the heart is just a big ol’ boring muscle.”

That makes me chuckle. “I’d say you’re under-rating it a bit.”

She tilts her head back, so she can see me better. “Meh. Brains are everything. They make you who you are. To me the brain is like the computer, and the rest of the body is basically a stupid, plastic case.”

“Evie…” I go to thump her nose, then decide to stroke it instead. “You’re just plain wrong. The plastic is the skin, and even then, the skin is more dynamic than a plastic case. You’re going to be one very snobby brain surgeon.”

She grins, making me laugh.

“I think you know you are,” I tell her, mock accusingly.

Her hand strokes my cheek. “What about you, Mr. Smarty Pants? What type of doctor do you want to be?”

I’ve told her in the past that I, too, want to be a doctor. Evie knows me so well now, I don’t think it surprised her. She never once asked if it had anything to do with living here in this house, or with her parents. It has everything to do with me, and nothing to do with the Rutherfords.

I chuckle. “What if I say heart surgeon?”

She kisses my chin. “I don’t think you will. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you said surgeon. I’ve seen you at the dinner table.”

I roll my eyes. Evie loves to talk about my precision with a steak knife, which I think is slightly silly.

I shrug. “Oncology, maybe. I’ve always thought of doing something with kids.”

“Kids?” She looks aghast.

“I know, so crazy. Why would anyone want to save children? Evil little bastards.”

“It’s just...so sad.”

I shrug the shoulder I’m not lying on. “Sometimes shit is sad.”

“Not oncology. Landon, I’d need to prescribe you antidepressants.”

“I don’t think it takes a neurosurgeon to do that.” I nip at her throat, bring one hand up to stroke her through her soft camisole. “In any event,” I say as I trace the smooth line of her collarbone, “you seem a little not yourself tonight. A bit…heartless, one might say. Maybe I should examine you right now…just to be sure everything seems normal…”

* * *

We drive to and from school together, holding hands, exchanging kisses, sometimes leaving the house early for some made-up something—which turns out to be a stop in one of those gas station car washes, where we get dirty instead of clean.

At school, we have to play it cooler, which bothers us both. Makayla knows the truth, and Tia has suspicions, but she’d never ask. We try to act like good friends and nothing more, and hope the truth of the good friends part will shine through.

Parties, football games, field trips…everything and anything that comes up hurts, because we can’t be who we are. We save it all for nighttime—and those wonderful car washes.

I wonder sometimes whether it’s so good because we have to save it up. But I know better. Landon is mine, and I’m his. It’s an objective fact, in the same way the heart has four chambers and the spine thirty-three vertebrae.

For all the hiding we have to do, we’re such a natural fit. Sometimes it makes me sad that I can’t tell my parents. They already love Landon, and I know they want me happy.

Of course, we have to hide. If my mom and dad found out, Landon would get moved to another house. So we make do. I learn the rhythm of my parents’ sleep and even Emmaline’s. I learn the path to Landon’s room in pitch black night. I learn how to walk quietly down the stairs.

Sometimes, Landon reads to me, and I lie on the bed beside his. He likes classic literature, especially Steinbeck and Hemingway. When he’s tired of reading, he’ll come kneel beside the bed I’m on and kiss me, from my toes up.

Some nights, when only one of my parents is home, I stay almost all night downstairs with him, the two of us crammed into his twin bed like sardines. We hold each other, breathe each other, touch each other. Every moment I am more convinced that Landon is my miracle. As for Landon’s part, he sleeps well, dreams well, and loves me oh-so-well.

This is how it goes with all things sweet and lovely. It’s the greatest thing I’ve ever known before it has to end.

* * *

It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m lying on my bed, staring at the snow-heaped skylights in my ceiling. At eleven o’clock, the house is quiet in the cozy way it’s only ever quiet on winter nights, when you’re wearing fuzzy socks and staring up at snowy skylights.

Today was one of my favorite days in years. Maybe ever. We built snow people with Oreo cookie eyes and Chick-O-Stick noses. Emmaline used her homemade cotton candy maker to spin pink hair for the snowwoman and blue for the snowman. After we got tired of that, we had a snowball war, and after that, we used pool floats as sleds and sailed down the slope beside our neighbor’s house.

Landon was there. I got to see him smile a lot, and hear him laugh in the cold air. He wore a flannel shirt, some insulated jeans Mom bought him a few weeks back, and his new snow boots, plus a gray beanie, his new black down jacket, and a maroon scarf.

There is nothing better than seeing your guy in winter wear, flashing a rosy-cheeked grin.

More so than any other day, on this day, Landon really seemed at home. Like he belongs here with us. Once, when Em crashed on her “sled” and Landon hauled her back up to the top of the hill, I couldn’t help but think in centuries past, I’d be old enough to wed right now and welcome him into our family in a much more fitting way. The Oregon Trail, the Revolutionary War, even the early 1900s when the stock market crashed…we’d have been happy to welcome another able-bodied person into the family, and if I partnered off with him, all the better. Make some babies, and they’d help us plow the farm.

I know I’m over-simplifying (no doubt we’d all have died of typhoid), but I want it so much. I want Landon in our family, but I also want to love him without lying.

Why is it so wrong to love him? I know that we’re young, but why does youth disqualify us from something so essential? I know he’s living at our house, but didn’t people live in tribes in close proximity to people of the opposite gender for like, most of humanity? I don’t know. I don’t know my history that well. I just want to hug him in the snow.

Finally, around noon, Mom and Dad run to the grocery store, and we get our moment in the laundry room. We kiss, and then he hugs me to him. He feels so good against me—warm and solid and familiar. Merry Christmas.

We go to the candlelight service at church, and all I can think about as I watch the families, with their faces all aglow, holding hands and whispering to children, is that someday, it will be our turn. We won’t always have to be a secret. In just over a year, we can go to college together. I can go where Landon gets a scholarship, and over time, we’ll be able to tell my parents. I hate sneaking around behind their backs. But this will all be worth it.

After we come home, we initiate Landon into the holiday tradition of roasting marshmallows on the back porch, sipping hot chocolate, and leaving cookies and milk for Santa. Emmaline is swinging from the ceiling by the time Mom ushers her to bed. But Landon seems a little quiet to me. Preoccupied.

He hasn’t said so in as many words, but I feel like the holidays are extra hard for him. I know him so well now, I think I can feel him struggling, even if he’s across the room and even if we haven’t really talked all day.

I think of texting him once I get up to bed, but I don’t think that I want to. We’ve had to cut back on our texting, lest my parents notice it on the cell phone bill, and anyway, what’s he going to tell me over text?

Before bedtime, my mom told me to be sure Em stays in bed all night.

“Don’t let her sneak downstairs,” she whispered. “We’re setting our alarms and getting up at three.”

It’s only eleven now, so I have plenty of time to sneak downstairs myself, snuggle with Landon, and get back up to bed before my parents wake up to do Santa. I only think about it for a minute. Then I’m pulling my red robe on, rubbing vanilla-scented lotion on my legs, and sneaking downstairs to the main floor.

All the lights are off. I’m all clear—and elated to race down the stairs to him.

I find Landon sitting up in bed, with all the lights off. From his basement room, he can’t see the lawn or street from his windows anymore than I can out of my skylights. Snow is piled along the bottom of his egress windows. In the gray light spilling from a moon that we can’t see, the snow looks like it’s glowing.

“Hi, you.” I smile as I drop my robe and sashay through the shadows. Landon’s eyes burn as they follow me, as I pull my shirt over my head and climb into his bed beside him.

Landon wraps me in his arms without a word. I feel his kisses near my ear, before he lays me down and wraps himself around me. We kiss until my lips hurt from the pressure of his mouth on mine, until my body is lit up and burning under his. When he stops kissing me, I peer up at him, panting slightly as his head hangs. “Why’d she leave me?”

He lies beside me, arms around me tightening as his ribs expand. His face is up against my neck, his words right by my ear as he says, “Was I trouble, Evie? Was she sick?” I feel his body slacken, then go tense again, his arms taut as they wrap me closer still to him.

I catch a brief glimpse of his eyes—silver and ink—before they shut and his forehead nuzzles my upper arm. “I wish that I could think she didn’t want to go. That someone made her. But that name…”

Ash Ville.

The way she left her name has always made him think his mother didn’t want to be found. That she planned to leave him. That it’s why she went there to begin with.

I run my fingers through the back of his hair, hating that he bears this burden. Hating her, this woman I don’t even know, for hurting Landon. Making him feel unworthy, unwanted.

“Maybe she was troubled,” I say softly. “She could have worried that she’d get found out for something. Who knows? It’s impossible.”

I feel his wet cheek up against mine as he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry.” I hug Landon tight, with all my strength. I even wrap my leg around him. I can feel his desolation, feel the way the darkness swallows him, the mystery haunts him.

“I want you,” I whisper. “I love you.” I tuck his head against my cheek and whisper, “If you want to, we’ll go look for her one day.”

His cheek presses against my jaw. His hand strokes through my hair. “Stay with me forever, okay,” he says softly. “I don’t ever want to live without you, Evie.”

“You won’t have to.”

“Never leave me.”

“Never. I’ll be here until you send me packing. You’ll be begging me to leave,” I murmur.

I’m kissing his damp temple, smoothing back his hair, when I hear creaking. Floorboards groaning under weight.

That’s footsteps.

My jaw drops as Landon’s body tightens.

“Fuck—Evie.”

We push away from each other, and I start flailing in the covers. “Oh my God, Landy, where’s my shirt?” I sit up more fully, then hop off the bed as I shake the duvet.

“Go into the bathroom,” he growls.

“No, I can’t! I need my shirt. If she comes in and I don’t have my shirt—” I’m such a moron. Why did I take off my shirt? How stupid!

“It’s okay,” I say as I sift through his sheets. “Sometimes my mom gets water.”

The footsteps get louder. Faster. Oh my God, they’re coming down the stairs. I’m frozen there without my shirt, my heart in my knees.

“Shower, Evie! Go.” Landon shoves me, and right then I see my shirt: I must have thrown it, and it landed on the footboard. I swipe it and swivel. I am lunging for the bathroom when the door opens.

The light flicks on, and I can’t see, but I can hear my mother’s gasp.

My eyes adjust as her face slackens. She’s aghast as she says, “What on earth is going on? Evie, why are you down here? And where’s your shirt?”

She says it like she thinks it might have gotten lost by accident.

Her tone drops lower. “Landon.”

“It’s right here,” I say, about my shirt. I pull it over my head. “I just—”

“It’s not—” Landon begins.

“What are you doing down here?” Mom cries. “Evie! Landon—what on earth is going on! I needed wrapping paper from this closet. Landon—” her eyes widen on him, then fly back to me as her face crumples. “Please tell me it’s not— Evelyn, tell me you were not—”

“Mom, we love each other. Listen, I know that it’s—”

“What did you say?” Mom’s face tightens, and I feel the blood drain from my own. “Mom—”

My mother takes a few strides toward me, and then she turns to Landon. “In your bed?” Her eyes are huge as she whirls back to me. “You were in his bed, Evie—without your shirt! What do you think this is? Landon’s— Landon—” She turns back to him. “Is this how you— Is this what you think—” Her head shakes, so forceful that her cheeks quiver. “This is unacceptable,” my mother roars. “Evie, what the hell is wrong with you?”

She closes the space between herself and me with one fast stride. Her fingers close around my arm. “Get out. Evie, get out of this room RIGHT NOW.” Her voice thunders in fury. “Out of here, before I—” I do what she says, my numb legs moving me into the stairwell.

“Mom—”

“Catherine,” Landon starts, behind us.

“You be quiet!” She pushes me. I whirl around, and I see Landon’s helpless face behind her.

“Mom, just listen. If you listen, I can—”

“Get upstairs! You better get upstairs RIGHT NOW, young lady!” She sounds furious, so filled with rage that I turn and I go, my instinct urging me to lead the threat away from Landon.

As I reach the top of the stairwell, another light comes on, and I see my dad’s confused face.

“Dean, you won’t believe this! You will not believe—” My mother grabs my arm. “Evie—Dean, she’s— I found Evie in his bedroom! Landon’s bedroom!”

Dad’s jaw drops. I hear a clatter and look down to see a pile of glass and purple liquid. Dad was pouring wine, but now he’s staring at me, totally aghast.

“You’ve been lying to us!” Mom shouts. “Evie, how could you?”

“Listen, Mom—”

“It’s been months!” Her face is red; her words are shaking. “It’s been months of this! I just ignored it, didn’t think my daughter…Evie, I would never think that you would become such a liar!”

“What is this—” My dad is right in front of me. His face is bent in horror. “What’s this that she’s saying, Evie? Why were you downstairs in Landon’s room at this hour?”

“Because we’re friends,” I wail.

I start to sob, and then I’m so embarrassed—shamed, panicked—that I take off toward the family room.

I hear my parents’ frantic voices in the kitchen, and my mind whirls. Will they make him go? Where is my phone? Oh God, I left it down there! Landon!

I rush back into the kitchen, trying to get around my parents and go back downstairs.

“Out! Evelyn, get out while Mom and I discuss this!” My dad looks mad enough to spit.

My mother looks as if she hates me. “Get into the family room! And don’t you move!”

I do what I’m told, shaking and panting, little sobs hung in my upper chest. I clutch the pool table and start to sob again as their loud voices rise and fall, and then the house goes quiet.

I take two deep breaths and rush back down the hallway, sneak onto the basement stairs. I can hear Landon’s voice, but not his words. I think I hear him say, “Yes sir.”

Yes what, I wonder, terrified.

Then I hear movement and see my mom start up the stairs. I try to dash ahead of her and back into the family room so I can listen, but Mom catches me before I get out of the kitchen. “You are going upstairs, right now.”

“No! Where’s Landon?”

“Evie Rutherford, you get upstairs or—”

“Where is Landon?”

“Landon’s leaving.”

“No he’s not. It’s Christmas Eve!” I start to sob again.

“Oh, yes he is. He’s going to your aunt’s house right this second, packing his bags right now!”

“No! You can’t, it’s Christmas!”

Mom laughs bitterly. “Oh, I’m aware of that.”

I push around her. “Landon!”

Her hand catches my wrist. “Evie, what is wrong with you?”

“I have to see him! You can’t send him off! It’s nighttime! He’s upset!”

My mother’s face caves. “I’m upset!”

“Mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t— I just— We couldn’t help it! It’s not bad or something scandalous, it’s love. I would have told you but I didn’t— I just—”

“Evie,” her face hardens, “you have lost your ever-loving mind. Landon is leaving. For your aunt’s house. He’s leaving tonight, and you will say goodbye to him. He will not be living here. No more!”

“No… Mom, no, please… We can change and be different, I swear we can,” I sob. “We’re best friends first—”

“You’ve lost your mind, and I have let this happen to you.”

Dad appears, and behind him—Landon. I rush to him, and he hugs me so tight. “Evie, I’m so sorry.”

I sob, and Landon’s hands are on my face. I see his eyes, and they’re red-rimmed. His face is pale, his mouth unsteady.

“It’s okay,” he tries to tell me. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“No, tonight!”

“This is enough,” my father says behind us.

“Evie, that’s enough.” My mom sounds sterner now.

“Landon, grab that bag. You can get the rest of your things another time.”

Those words rip through me with so much force, I sob anew—for Landon, orphaned now again at Christmas. Dad attempts to usher Landon to the garage, and when I grab his arm and try to hold onto him, they change course, and Dad shoos Landon toward the front door.

My mom grabs me. “Say goodbye now, Evie.”

My fingers lose their grip on Landon’s flannel shirt. He looks back at me, and his face— I’ve never seen him look like that. Like someone broke him. Just as quickly as I see that look, it’s gone, replaced by something fierce and tender. “I’m cool, Ev. I’ll be okay. Just go to bed. We’ll talk soon.”

And that’s the last thing Landon says to me before he gives me a tight smile and he’s led out the door into the freezing night.

I’m marched upstairs by Mom, who is now weeping.

“This was not going to work, just not going to work,” she keeps murmuring.

“You could bring him back. You’re kicking him out at Christmas!” My voice breaks. “He needs to know that someone wants him.”

I’m sobbing again, and Mom squeezes my shoulder. “Evie, quiet! Your sister!”

“I don’t care,” I wail.

She leads me to my room, where she hugs me briefly with a dazed frown, then shuts the door. I listen as her footsteps fade, and then I follow her, peering out a front window in time to see the last pinch of red light from Dad’s brakes.

The next day, I get a phone call with Landon. His voice is quiet and tender, low and hoarse. “I love you, Evie. Hang in there. We’ll figure out a way to see each other.”

After we’re off the phone, my dad tells me that Landon isn’t at my aunt’s house. Last night, Dad took him back to DHS. When I talked to him just then, he was at a group home.

I go upstairs, and I don’t come down. I won’t talk to my family until I can see Landon again.

That is not to be.

Four days later, after non-stop throwing up and non-stop sobbing, I pass out in the bathroom that I share with Em. My sister finds me when she goes to wash blue marker from her doll’s hair. Several hours later, Mom presents me to our family doctor.

She tells him the story, the abbreviated version, and he judges me with one shake of his head.

“These are unwise choices,” he says sternly as my mother looks down at her lap. “Unbecoming for a nice young woman.”

I’m put in a gown and questioned like a criminal. And when he reads the verdict to me, I can’t say I’m unhappy.

I’m not a nice young woman anymore. I’ve been loved. I’ve given my heart up and gotten something in return.

I’m pregnant.