B essie Lincoln had no time for bullshit. At least, that’s what she told the person on the other end of the phone. He should have known that already. They’d managed ten years of marriage before Dash Justice’s interests got in the way .

“Utterly ridiculous and you know it, Nathan. I have the paperwork in my hand. It’s just waiting on a signature. I called as a courtesy.” There was a pause, and I glanced at my lawyer, taking in the way her eyes narrowed into a squint and how her thin mouth puckered as she listened to whatever Dash’s attorney had to say. “No. Absolutely not,” she said and that puckered expression hardened. “Her name was directly used in the song. Your client is courting a slam dunk libel suit and you know it. Yes. Of course, but…no.” She looked at me, tilting her head so that the phone rested between the side of her face and her shoulder. She motioned me over, furiously scribbling on the yellow note pad with a million jumbles of other random notes and cat scratches. On the only clean space left available she wrote, you sure you still want to meet with him ?

I did. At the moment, that’s all I wanted. I wanted to see if there was anything left of Jamie in that hardened rocker’s eyes. I wanted to see if there was anything decent left of him at all. More than that, I wanted him to know I wouldn’t back down no matter what he said or thought about me. I’d done damage, but I refused to pay for it forever. The understanding, patient Iris had died a long time ago. Somewhere around the time that Dash decided to bed my mentor .

I gave Bessie a nod and ignored the exaggerated eye roll and the litany of cursing she invoked under her breath when the voice on the other end of the call said something that got under her skin .

“Nathan, you know damn well Iris isn’t going to take a payoff. She’s got more integrity than that. She wants a meeting…I don’t care how important that presumptuous, misogynistic asshole thinks he is…” Bessie cleared her throat, pulling the receiver away from her face as she breathed in through her nose, exhaling between her parted lips. Then she continued, as though she hadn’t just lost her temper. “He can take a half hour and have a conversation .”

She wasn’t wrong. Dash Justice was all those things. Presumptuous—he did seem to believe every woman wanted him. Misogynistic—that too, if his lewd lyrics and videos with half naked women in all sorts of common, unimaginative arrays of activity and dress were to be believed. Asshole—well, it did take a special kind of asshole to invoke the name of his first girlfriend as fodder for laughs and ridicule .

But he hadn’t always been that way .

The rocker persona, that shocker rock asshole, hadn’t always been there .

Once, he’d been awkward and sweet. Once, he’d been shy and fumbling. Once, he’d only cared about the volume of an old stereo and if the vinyl did justice to Will Lager’s deep baritone .

But that was a long time ago .

* * *

O n Wax was a grungy little record shop that skirted the Raymond railway tracks and Brighton Circle—the poor end, which meant homes in the high six figures, not like the rest of the Circle and those seven-figure monstrosities. Indianapolis was miles away, Chicago even farther, and Willow Heights, Indiana, our tiny home, was a world away from resembling anything that wasn’t small town. But there were no monetary classes inside that record shop. No one bothered me and Jamie, except maybe his uncle Hector whose glare Jamie skirted for keeping me company instead of dusting the shelves of the vinyl records at the back of the store .

Jamie was smooth like bourbon, just the look of him—skin like a river bed, eyes like melted chocolate. His handsome face was like his mother’s. Or at least, what that face had been before the men. Before the booze. I’d seen pictures. Ms. Vega as a girl, looking flawless, stunning. But Jamie had more of that striking Puerto Rican beauty than even his mother .

I’d noticed it that first day during freshmen orientation when Jamie sat next to me, ignoring the looks he got from the blond-haired, blue-eyed Midwestern hordes that surrounded us. We were the only brown kids in the school. Made sense we stuck together. That day, as Mr. Mellings went on about starting our first year of high school with the last in mind, Jamie Vega passed a note to me, asking me a question that required zero thought :

Nine Inch Nails or Seether ?

There was only one response I could give him :

Led Zeppelin

Then Jamie smiled at me, a real, honest, heart-wrecking smile, and I tuned out Mr. Mellings and all those gawking Midwesterners. That smile stole all my attention .

There was a curve at the top of his mouth, and a natural pout that had all the girls in our senior class tripping over themselves to hold his attention. They never could .

“Too vapid. Too common,” he’d always tell me any time one of those Barbie dolls at Willow Heights High shot long, hopeful looks his way. Then Jamie would affect that half-held pout and look me over, side eye sharp, smirk set firm. “Not my type,” he’d promise with a voice so deep, so sweet I half-hoped his type somehow added up to me—round butt, big boobs, and a small gap between my front teeth. I couldn’t have been more different than the Willow Heights Barbies .

That was a hope I still held onto that day sitting on the floor in the back of his uncle’s record store .

“I found the unicorn,” he said, holding up the record like it was sacred, some holy object that could only be handled with reverence and care. “Mami , I promise. This one will change your life.” Jamie pulled the black record from the sleeve and placed it to the player. There was a smoothness to his movements, like the air around him stilled, slowed because this moment would be monumental. “Hawthorne,” he said, coming to sit next to me on the floor. “I almost feel like we should listen to this record with the lights off and burning candles flickering around the room, but …”

“But your uncle would call you a pendejo for letting wax melt onto his hardwood floors ?”

He smiled then, looking impressed before he settled at my side. “You catch on quick, florecita . ”

My skin wasn’t pale like the Barbies, but I was still lighter than Jamie. That meant he could call me florecita , Little Flower, something I didn’t mind so much, and he’d know, the second he did that I liked it—a pleased blush would shoot over my cheeks no matter how hard I tried to hide it .

“There it is,” he whispered, but I ignored him, choosing instead to wrap my lanky arms around my lankier legs and wait for the crackle and pop of the record to give way .

“What year is this?” The guitar was low, like a whisper, and the sound did something to my stomach when that melody moved around notes and rhythm .

“Listen.”

The music came slowly, the flux of notes that felt like a seduction, the spin and moan of a bass line, then the low, deep timber of a voice that felt like brutality and a fevered kiss all at once. My eyes slipped closed all on their own, pulled down by the weight of what that music did to me. I didn’t know anything just then but the heady mix of lyric and melody and how it consumed. It felt like haven and home .

“Hawthorne,” Jamie said again this time awed, reverent, his voice coming closer, his proximity like a weight I’d gladly carry. “Heartache in Blue.” The air grew warmer at my side, with the heat of his body close, his scent just a swift inhalation away. “Nineteen eighty-four at the CBGB. Only five hundred pressings, and Lager never performed this one again.” Jamie’s breath fanned down my face, and I blinked, surprised when I looked up at him and my friend didn’t move away. There was an energy in the room I guessed had nothing to do with the music .

Four years was a long time to skirt around something I was sure was a figment of my imagination. Maybe it was just wishful hopes. But even I knew something drew us together. Jamie was my friend. I was his, but there was something pulsing between us unwritten, unspoken that we never talked about .

We told everyone who asked that we were friends. Even Isaiah seemed to believe the story. It was old hat: ‘no, we’re not dating’ or, more often, ‘no, he’s not seeing anyone that I know of.’ That was an irritating little blanket statement that I always complained to him about .

But there had been times when hope wasn’t the only thing clogging my head. Something I couldn’t fully ignore. Like what happened the night of Rachel Baker’s eighteenth birthday party .

“We got a gig!” Jamie had told me, slamming against my locker after sixth period .

“What? When ?”

“Tomorrow night.” He’d bounced on his feet, seeming unable to keep still. “Rachel Baker hired us. A hundred bucks !”

“She’s never heard Omen play,” I said, tilting my head. I’d wondered what Rachel thought that hundred would buy her .

“Who cares?” Jamie had said. “It’s a gig. Can you drive me ?”

I had, bringing Jamie to the sprawling farmhouse on the outskirts of town. Cars had lined the driveway and Rachel had made a big deal of centering the party around the band; the tables full of food and drink, the games and favors all circled around the back patio, facing a mock stage. Jamie had looked nervous, kept holding onto the mic and searching the small crowd for me .

You got this, I’d mouthed, hoping my nod was encouragement enough to relax him .

He’d smiled, returned my nod and counted off the music. The notes were flatter than the beer, but Jamie sang like a real artist, raw and passionate; the only way he knew how to sing. I wasn’t the only one to notice .

Two hours later, Rachel had moved closer to the band, only agreeing to blow out the candles on her cake if Jamie sang to her. Just her. He’d agreed because a hundred bucks was still a hundred bucks even if got split between him and the three other guys in the band .

“Coño, help me,” he’d shouted, grabbing my wrist when Rachel and her greedy, grabbing hands, went right for him. We’d hazarded one quick look over our shoulders before we took off, leaving Isaiah and the rest of the band to Rachel and her friends .

We drove my mom’s Blazer to Crooked Creek Bridge, our favorite spot to hide, laughing, listening to Zeppelin and Hawthorne as Jamie passed a joint between us .

“She wants you,” I’d declared, howling with laughter when Jamie made a face. “No seriously.” I took the joint from him after he inhaled deep. “She’s, um…nice…pretty even.” Rachel Baker had terrible acne, she never cleared away the crumbs from her mouth or kept the plaque from her teeth, and she wore a bra two sizes too small so that her huge boobs made bumps and bulges under her shirts, which were also always too tight. “You should go for it .”

“Mierda,” he said through a gasping choke of a laugh. “So not interested in the little pendejos around here .”

I’d been a little high. Drunk on laughter and pride of how brightly Jamie’s star shined that night. I hadn’t realized what my question implied until after I asked it. “Not any of us pendejos in Willow Heights ?”

The smile had left Jamie’s face, and he’d lowered his hand, pinched joint smoking between his fingers as he watched me. “Mami, you’re nothing like these people. They can’t fucking touch you .”

I didn’t think about what I did just then. One minute my hand was on my thigh, the next it was by Jamie’s. This time, he rested the top of his hand against mine. The air in the cab of that Blazer crackled as Jamie watched me, mouth bobbing open and closed as I tried to find words, sentiments that wouldn’t make me look like an idiot. None came to me, and when Jamie’s dark gaze flicked from my eyes, down to my mouth, then up again and I still said nothing, he hesitated, leaning toward me before the ash from the joint had him yelping, flailing his hand to shake away the pain, and we laughed until our stomachs hurt .

Then the semester ended, and Jamie convinced Hector to give him a job, and I’d gone off to New Mexico with my mom, spending the summer with her cousins. Jamie and I texted. We chatted online, but we never discussed that almost kiss again .

Now there was no burning ash to stop Jamie. There was no joint to dull my senses as he went on watching me, breath warm, close enough to shift the loosened hairs from my pony tail against my cheek. It tickled and I scratched my face, fishing for anything that would loosen the tension in the room. “Lager?” I tried, a little breathless when Jamie inhaled, working himself up to do, what, I didn’t know .

Then he touched me .

“Fuck Lager,” he said, long fingers against my face, thumb sliding down to graze my mouth. The smallest sound moved up my throat, pulsing right along with the slow throb of my heart as Jamie moved his hand, navigating my face closer. “Mami… ” he tried, a question in that endearment I thought he might want me to answer .

I didn’t .

Jamie was light, the swirl of brightness that had shaken loose all the dark gray that made up the life I led with my mother in our two-bedroom rented Queen Anne. Until he’d come along there had only ever been books and libraries and Women’s Studies lectures up in Indy, where my mom loved dragging me once a month. Jamie brought in color, music and sound and laughter, so much laughter that sometimes I couldn’t remember what my life had been before he moved to Willow Heights .

All that time, probably even since that first note-passing introduction, I’d wanted him. Now he inclined, moved inch by inch closer toward eradicating everything we had resembling a platonic friendship .

He stopped short, left the smallest space between our mouths, both hands now holding my face still, damp forehead against mine as he made his decision—like he wondered if I’d stop him .

I tilted my chin, moving closer, laying the smallest brush of my mouth against his. He tasted of the peppermints he liked to lift from the fishbowl on his uncle’s front counter and something else I couldn’t place. Both scents left me a little drunk, a little desperate and I chased the sensation running through my veins. I wanted him. It was a compulsion I’d never felt before; something that worked up fear right along with thrill .

“Jamie.” It was the last sound I heard as we came together, soft, sweet, barely a brush of our lips before the record went silent and Hector fired off a litany of fierce Spanish cursing that had Jamie jerking away from me in his mad tumble to leave the floor and pretend as though we hadn’t just been close to something we might regret .

I caught the loud chants of “pendejo” and “cabrón,” as Jamie’s uncle went on fussing, all insults I knew he didn’t mean .

“I’ll see you later,” I told Jamie when the old man pushed his nephew toward the front of the store, shoving a broom against his chest .

“Wait,” he called when I was nearly to the door. Jamie tilted his head, tugging on my jacket before I had it over my shoulders. He shot a quick glance at his glaring uncle, lowering his voice when he spoke again. “That was …”

“Yeah,” I supplied, uncommonly shy with him .

He tried, I could tell, to keep himself from smiling too broadly, but his mouth was wide, lips trembling as he fought for some semblance of cool. “So tonight …”

“Tonight is…well .” I shook my head, remembering things aside from how soft Jamie’s mouth felt and how warm his fingers had been on my face. “Today…oh. ” I only just remembered, shrugging when he moved his eyebrows up, as though he expected me to explain myself. “Today is my …”

“Birthday.” That wide smile stretched farther, broke out into a gesture he didn’t fight and he stepped closer, earning a low mutter from Hector as he fiddled with a stack of CDs behind the counter. “You think I forgot? Eighteen is a big deal . ”

“Well, you didn’t say anything …”

“I wanted to surprise you.” Hector cleared his throat, stopping his nephew before he could elaborate. After another quick glance behind him, this time with an added wave of his hand, and Jamie’s attention was mine again. “Tonight, after your mom does the pie…” one dimple deepened when I lifted my eyebrows, telling him with one look that I was impressed he’d remembered the tradition my mom and I had for cake-less birthdays. She could work pudding and store-bought pie crusts, but not flour and mixers. “Maybe I can drop by. Give you the present I’ve been working on for you .”

Curiosity had me stepping toward him. “Working on it as in …”

“As in, you’ll see.” He started to advance, and I laughed at the frown that tightened his mouth when I stepped back. “Where are you going ?”

“I need to walk away now.” Hand already on the doorknob, I shrugged, not sure why I felt like laughing. “If I don’t…well I’m not sure what I’ll do .”

“Promise or threat ?”

Another shrug and I opened the door, taking two steps over the threshold before I stopped and looked back at him. “That kiss?” He grinned, the only answer he’d give me. “Was that planned ?”

He waited, moving his lips together in another half-hearted attempt to keep from smiling too broadly, but then Jamie grinned, lowering his voice to something that had my stomach twisting pleasantly. He took a step, dropping the humor, but not his grin .

“Only for about four years .”

“Oh.” It was stupid to feel nervous, shy around him. Jamie Vega knew more about me than anyone, except maybe my mom. He was my friend, closer than a brother. But just then, I didn’t see him as my brother. I only saw the honesty and raw emotion at his admission. It made every wild daydream I’d ever had about him seem boring and stupid. But, I couldn’t quite get my mouth to work or remind myself that this was Jamie. My friend. Jamie, who I desperately wanted to try to kiss me again. “Well…” I finally said, unable to look at him for too long .

“You liked it?” I nodded, and Jamie stepped closer, bolder than I’d ever seen him, he grabbed my hand and held it. “You…” He cleared his throat, looking shy and self-conscience. “You wanna do it again ?”

His smile was hopeful, easy, reminded me of all the times he teased me, all the times we laughed together in my mom’s Blazer .

“Would that be my present ?”

He relaxed his features, mouth easy. “Maybe.” The fight to suppress his smile died, but his eyes were sharp, piercing, as though he wanted me to see something he couldn’t say with his uncle watching us like a prison guard .

Jamie moved his lips together again, breath held as though he waited for me to speak, but the fierce glint in his eyes did not dim. I nodded, stepping out of the shop. The wind kicked up, whipping my hair into my mouth, but I still smiled, shooting a glance at him, before I turned, tossing an invite over my shoulder .

“Be there at ten. Tap my window as usual .”

I didn’t catch his expression, was in too much of a hurry to leave the shop and see his reaction. But as the old door creaked to close, I heard Jamie’s laughter and spotted the shadow of his fist punching the air as he shouted, “It’s a date .”

* * *

“D o you like it?”

“Of course I do.” The chain was pure silver. I’d played with it for as long as I could remember when she kept it on her nightstand. It stayed there forgotten most days, because my mother only remembered to wear it on my birthday or the middle of June. She never mentioned why. Now she gave it to me. The charm was different, a dragonfly, tuzueca , as she always called me. “Are you sure you want me to have it ?”

There were remnants of chocolate pie on her plate and the fluffy glob of meringue around the crumbs she’d left on the edge. “You’re my only daughter. My huku gave that to me on my eighteenth birthday, just before I left for Purdue .”

A shadow moved across her face, and my mother’s forehead became a map of furrowed worry. Her mother had died the summer after she’d left for college, but I didn’t think it was that memory that had forced the smile from her features. Her face was mostly smooth; that came from genetics and the organic diet she’d forced upon us ten years before. My mother never ate sugar or touched caffeine, with the smallest indulgences for special occasions—like my eighteenth birthday .

“Why do you do that?” I asked her, slipping my hand next to hers on the table. A small brush of my fingers across her knuckles, and my mother stopped drumming the table. She glanced at me, eyebrows raised in question. “Anytime you mention college, you get all sullen and sad .”

“That’s your imagination.” She deflected, like she always did, hurrying to clear the table in attempt, I guessed, to avoid this conversation. We’d been having it my entire life .

She stood at the sink, washing clean the plates from dinner and the bowls she’d used for the pie. The sink, like the rest of the house was old; relics from the 40’s. The white porcelain stretched across the counter, taking up at least two feet. The cabinets were a muted Army green nestled snuggly into rich butcher block countertops. Overall, the small cottage had an earthy, homey feel, mostly because my mother kept it immaculate and filled with varying varieties of herbs and plants. There was always lavender in a pot on the large windowsill and something cooling on the grated rack near the stove .

“Fondness,” she’d always say, “comes from routine.” She meant the traditions we kept—canning our own vegetable and drying our own herbs, and leaving a plate of food out on the back porch as a mark of gratitude to the spirits. Traditions she kept and honored. Memory and disclosures were another story. Mom was never good at recalling the past. Not to me at least, no matter how much I’d pushed her toward it .

Slipping off the glittered birthday crown she’d given me, I tossed it on the table, before I brought the empty glasses to the sink, and Mom moved over, making room. “Is it…was it because you didn’t finish?” I asked, recalling the forlorn look that had taken over her expressions when she remembered Purdue .

She stopped washing, straightening her shoulders when I looked at her, and I hurried to ease the tension that had made her bearing stiff .

“Because you can go back. Single woman, lower middle class? Plenty of grants and such. And there’s online classes you can take.” She glanced at me, twitch moving her bottom lip. “University of Something.” I relaxed a little when she continued washing. “I bet you can get those clown lessons you’ve always wanted.” Now she didn’t hide her smile at all, snorting when I did mimicked a Farmer Brown style dance, feet kicked up, side to side. “You can call yourself Penny Wiser .”

“You’re being silly …”

I stepped behind her, hugging her waist, cheek against her back as she continued with the dishes. “Thank you for my present, Ina . I love it .”

She dripped water against my hand when she touched it, squeezing my fingers, I knew, because she liked when I used Lakota words. Maybe it made her feel like I wasn’t a completely hopeless case; maybe it made her believe I did pay attention when she tried to teach me .

“There was new snow on the ground that morning.” I smiled against her back, closing my eyes as she spoke. I’d heard the story a thousand times, but I never got bored of the way she told it. “My car was broken, worthless thing that it was .”

Her tone soft, but she lifted her chin, like she always did and went on speaking, recalling how she’d walked two miles in the snow to get to the hospital .

“They asked for my card before even looking at me. Like I wasn’t there at all. Another face. Another body.” Then she cursed, still irritated by the system, how it treated the sick and dying, before she went on. “I took no medicine .”

I let her talk, returning to the table to sit and watch her. She was so animated, her features so expressive when she told that story. Sharp, high cheekbones against a smooth face, my mother’s barely graying hair, down to her waist, waved against her back when she spoke. Every emotion—pain, anger, then finally joy and elation—came across as she talked about the day I was born .

Then she recalled the last part of the story. The part she never really explained. “They asked if you had a father.” Her movements slowed as she finished the last dish, drying the metal pot with a damp towel. My mother went on looking out the window, her narrow, dark eyes glinting in the moonlight outside. “I told that white lady, ‘I am her father and mother. That’s all she needs .’”

She had been. My whole life. There had been a husband, I knew that. The man who made me, but he was gone now. “Lost.” That’s all she ever said, but sometimes, when she drank whiskey, when she stayed on her phone talking to her cousin for hours, drinking until the whole house smelled of Johnnie Walker, I’d catch her memories. Then I’d see her tears .

“Stupid man,” she’d say. “Stupid, beautiful man .”

My mother blinked, folding the towel over the sink to dry and offered me a slow smile. “You should be out with your friends tonight .”

“Ina , you know Jamie is my only friend .”

The muscle around her mouth tightened and she crossed her arms, rubbing her nails over her triceps. “Hmm …”

“Don’t start, okay. It’s not…” I couldn’t lie to her. She’d see right through me. Instead, I tried deflection—I’d learned it at her feet. “Nothing is going to happen with me and Jamie.” She didn’t have to push. My mother didn’t have to pry. She had a way of narrowing her small, dark eyes, of pursing her full lips that would leave me nervous, anxious. The steel in that look would have me confessing inside two minutes like a man heading for the gallows .

When she went on staring, gaze sharp, appraising, and I could not take the flood of heat working up my neck. I gave up, waving my hand just to get her to stop staring at me. “Fine,” I said, breath rushed. “I like him. He likes me. We like each other …”

“This is not new information, Iris .”

“Ina… ”

She paused, head tilted, squinting as she watched me. “Did something change ?”

I busied myself with the newspaper on the kitchen table; stacking it together, pushing in the chairs under the table as I mumbled and tried my best to seem flippant. “It was just a kiss…nothing that, you know ...”

A quick glance and my mother exhaled, shoulders lowering. “What did I say about distractions ?”

“Jamie isn’t a distraction .”

“Oh, I think he is.” She stood in front of me, brushing back the long hair from my shoulder. “Even if you don’t see it, I do. For a long time, tuzueca .

“It was just one kiss .”

“The first one counts the most.” She hugged me then, staring a little longer than normal as she held my face. “Almost as much as the last .”

I wanted to ask her what scared her so much about me and Jamie. Had it been the same thing, the same type of decisions that put the sad, morose look on her face anytime Purdue was mentioned? Was it just her fear that I might give up all the things I wanted for myself for whatever was happening with Jamie? I meant to ask her, just then, but there was a strike outside the window, a sound I knew too well, low and harmless. Jamie was polite, kind to my mother, but he knew to keep his distance. Everyone did. Kimímela Daine wasn’t friendly. She didn’t like strangers and to her, everyone but me was a stranger .

Another rock sounded against the thick-paned window, and my mother nodded toward it, stepping away from me. “Make good choices. Today lasts a long, long time .”

She left the kitchen soundlessly, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway as I moved toward the back door. The snap of wind rustled the thin curtain that covered the door window when I opened it, and I pulled my sweater tight around my waist, staring out onto the driveway as Jamie bent to pick up another rock from the ground .

“Hey,” I called, smiling when he jumped, surprised that I stopped him before he threw the small rock up at my bedroom window again .

“Mierda,” he said, palm against his chest. Jamie brushed his foot around the guitar case at his feet and straightened, head shaking. “You scared me.” He moved his chin up, looking behind me. “Is this okay? She still up?” He walked forward, stopping just in front of me with his attention over the top of my head and into the kitchen behind me. “I don’t want to piss her off being here …”

“It’s fine,” I told him, opening the door wide enough for him to come inside. “She just went to bed, and she knows you’re here .”

He took a half a second to stare down at me as though he expected me to laugh, tell him I was joking, but when I only shrugged, he came inside, carrying the guitar case with him .

“Back porch?” I asked, leading him out of the kitchen and through the mudroom when he nodded .

The air had turned colder, and it felt like snow was looming. It made me wish for spring and the heat of the sun on my skin. Jamie and I always went to Brighten Park in the spring, usually to listen to whatever new music Hawthorne released, sometimes just to revisit the songs that we’d committed to memory .

Last spring, I laid next to Jamie on a blanket, our heads leaning together, sharing a set of earbuds so we both heard Lay Me Down , a solo track Lager released for some new Clooney flick. But I hadn’t thought about Clooney or Lager that day. The only thing that consumed me was the look on Jamie’s face as we listened, how he grabbed my hand and pressed my palm against his .

“You’re my family, florecita . You’re my home.” And right there on that patch of grassy ground, listening to the voice that had always connected us, I fell helplessly for my best friend. Now I was overboard, drowning in Jamie and he had no idea .

We walked outside, onto the porch and I looked up, watching the sky. There was a stillness in the night, like the world held its breath until the flurry of wetness crystalized and set around us. But my mother had thought ahead when she rented this place. There was a makeshift chimney at the base of the porch, with a row of steep steps that led down onto the small stone patio beyond the porch. Jamie and I sat on the ledge, our feet resting on the brick that made up the lower layer of the pit, a fire already roaring from when my mother and I had shared a nearly empty bottle of wine .

“Good pie?” he asked, pulling his guitar from its case. It was an acoustic Gibson with a horribly worn fret board, likely older than the pair of us put together. Jamie had saved his paycheck for over six months to pay for it, and it went everywhere he did .

“Great pie .”

I didn’t know what to make of the quietness that fell between us. It wasn’t awkward, sitting there, listening to him strum random notes together. We’d done that a thousand times before. But when Jamie started humming, that deep, rich voice like something out of a grimoire, magical and wicked, old, timeless, the silence grew heavy. It felt different—a prelude to something unfamiliar but sweetly anticipated .

There was no preamble. The best songs get their point across without any explanation .

“Happy birthday, florecita, ” Jamie said, then leaned back against the column holding up the porch roof and looked right at me as he sang .

S he’s rushing forward

Out of control

Reaching for something too hard to hold

H e owned the music. There was something ethereal about what happened to Jamie when he sang; like the words and melody were just things he used, elements he crafted to put form and function to beauty. I was frozen, caught in his spell as his focus grew sharp, as his attention remained on me and he worked each note, each line like a weapon, making my chest feel tight and my eyes burn .

S he has a hold on me

Has all the power

What I wouldn’t give her

What I wouldn’t do

To be loved by that sweet little flower

T here may have been other words. There was probably a chorus, but I didn’t hear anything. Just Jamie. Just that voice, the sweetest sound. That spell was heady, controlling, and I felt something weighted take root in my stomach as he continued to play .

He looked beautiful then, with the moonlight dripping over his dark skin and the hint of stubble inching around his face. The facial hair made him look older, his baby face hidden beneath that dark stubble .

W hat I wouldn’t give her

What I wouldn’t do

To get lost in that scent

Clear thought all a blur

W ithout her I’m in pain

Smallest touch, it’s never enough

Addicted to my sweet Iris Daine

W hen I went on staring after the last vibration from the strings went still, Jamie set his guitar down, keeping his gaze focused on my face, likely looking for the smallest shift in my expression .

There was none. The only thing I was sure was moving my features was utter shock and disbelief, maybe a bit of overwhelming pride .

His guitar leaning against the porch, Jamie sat forward, raking his top teeth over his bottom lip as he watched me. He kept still, silent, but his focus on my face sharpened, and I caught sight of blazing fire that came from his dark eyes .

Finally, when I couldn’t take the silence, when he kept staring, I exhaled, somehow managing to think of words and how they’re meant to move together to make sentences .

“No one has ever…” I stopped talking to clear away the thickness in my throat. I wished Jamie would speak. I wished he’d say something that would get me thinking coherent thoughts again. The only thing that came to me was, “Did…did you mean it ?”

The smallest shift of his eyes, right at my mouth, and Jamie offered me a slow nod .

“Okay…”

We’d barely kissed. We’d never discussed anything remotely close to a relationship that didn’t include Dutch-treat movies on Friday nights in Indy and Saturdays in the bleachers laughing at the blond horde that liked to run around trying to kill each other on the football field .

This, though? This was new. It was exciting. It was a little overwhelming. My tongue got twisted again, and I only managed to stare, taking in the way he kept watching. We’d ended up here alone, four years of looks, mild flirtation hidden behind long talks, precious hopes that we could only share between each other. Those four years pulsed between us like energy, drawing us close, making the cooling temperatures seem mild .

Jamie’s face hid nothing. I suspected mine didn’t either. I’d wanted him for a long time. Now he was there, waiting to be taken, but I couldn’t move .

We sat there for a long time just waiting, watching. My heart thundered in my throat and, despite the frigid air around us, I started to sweat .

Jamie, though was cool, settled. If he was nervous, if he was anxious, I couldn’t tell .

Over head the night was black. The only disturbance of all that darkness was the wafting smoking moving above us from the fire pit. I licked my lips, inhaling to catch the whiff of fire and burning logs. The only thing Jamie moved was his gaze, then the smallest twitch vibrated against the corner of his mouth. Then, he leaned forward, offering me his hand. Right there. So easy. Entirely mine after so many lost attempts. I rested my palm in his hand, and he closed his fingers around mine .

“Come here, mami . ”

He’d called me that a million times before; in class, in the hallway, when he laughed with me, when I was consumed with worry over my GPA or SAT scores. Somehow now, that tone, thick like bourbon, made it sound sensual and primal .

He didn’t have to ask twice .

He pulled me close, right next to him, sliding his hands to my shoulder, threading his fingers through my hair at the back of my head. He felt warm and his skin smelled like wood smoke and peppermints .

I thought he’d kiss me fast; some desperate, movement that would leave me panting and eager. But Jamie wasn’t one to rush a thing. He liked slow. He liked to think things through. Kissing me was no exception .

“I can’t get in a hurry.” His thumbs felt smooth against my cheeks when he held my face. Jamie’s eyes were darker somehow, his focus sharper and he didn’t smile as he finished. “I want you. You drive me loco .” Breath across my face, he inhaled like it took effort not to take what he wanted. “You listen like no one else does. You never stop surprising me. There ain’t no one like you, belleza. And I’ve watched you, wanted you a long damn time. But you matter to me. You matter a lot. I can get over wanting you if you don’t feel the same. Florecita , I can’t lose you .”

Jamie’s hands shook against my face, and I held his wrist, settling the movement as I looked up at him. “You won’t .”

“It’s not…it’s not simple for us. I’ve waited and wanted because this…our friendship? Merida, it’s the most important thing to me in the world. But, kissing you, it was like finding home.” He inhaled, swallowing so thickly that I heard the sound. “You found me, and I didn’t know I was lost. I…I don’t want to date you and see if this will work out.” He kissed my forehead, smiling against my skin. “I already know it will. I don’t need months to find out your favorite ice cream or to see if we like the same music. That’s all filed inside my head .”

“So, you’re saying …”

He pulled back, but didn’t move his hand from my face. Jamie licked his lips, gaze flicking between my mouth and eyes. “I’m saying I don’t want you telling any of the pendejos you don’t think I’m seeing anyone. From this second on, I am. Quiero que seas mía. Always. And you… you’re …”

“Jamie” I said, covering his mouth with my hand. “You had me at day one. I was yours from that Zeppelin note .”

There was the smallest twist of his lips against my palms and he kissed my hand, pulling it away from his mouth. “I wanted to kiss you that night at the creek, last year.” Jamie moved closer, tugging on my leg until it draped over his thigh. He moved his fingertips over my cheek, tracing the bone that stretched up to my brow. It was a simple gesture, slow and sweet, and a look glinted in his eyes, something that made me think he could go on touching me, finding things he’d never noticed about my features because he’d never been this close before .

“I know you did.” As he touched me, I stretched my thumb over his long fingers; he had beautiful hands, a musician’s hands with thick veins covering the tops and clean, trim nail beds. I even found the small callouses on the fingertips an enticement. It took a lot of control to keep those long fingers from my mouth. I inched closer, arching my neck when Jamie kissed along the curve, to just below my ear, making me shudder and grab his shoulders. “I…I wanted to kiss you, too .”

“You can now.” Jamie’s voice dropped several octaves and he watched me straighten, watched as I breathed in, touching his face, the bottom of his mouth, debating how to do this. I’d kissed boys before, but no one like Jamie. There had been nights I’d planned this in my mind, analyzed how to best approach his luscious mouth, how to kiss him so fully that he’d be left weak-kneed and panting. In the end, all my plans went right out the window. I bit the inside of my cheek and swallowed hard, a little shocked, a lot breathless when Jamie grabbed my face, moving toward my mouth with excruciating slowness. The last thought I had was that he must have had coffee with cinnamon and then, he pulled me close, mouth against mouth, and kissed me thoroughly .

My body felt electrified, like a bundle of raw nerves collected on my skin, in all the places Jamie touched as he kissed me—the curve of my neck, the shell of my collarbone. Everything felt exposed and I loved the sensation it stirred in me. I loved how Jamie responded to the soft sounds that came from my throat when he slipped his tongue against my bottom lip .

I took the invitation he offered, leaning to straddle his lap as our mouths opened, and I felt the tremor working in our limbs. We both shook, both grew breathless as the kiss deepened .

It wasn’t uncommon to forget yourself. It happens all the time. When you want something so long, the thing you’ve dreamt of, the solitary thing that has consumed your free thoughts, and it finally comes to you? It’s easy to forget were the line between fantasy and reality blurs .

Jamie Vega had been my best friend. He’d been my constant dream and right there on my mother’s back porch, with the fire in the chimney flickering bright, I forgot I wasn’t supposed to want him so badly, so quickly .

“Mami ,” he whispered when I moved against him, legs trembling and the sweet, hot throb of pressure pulsing between my thighs. He seemed to be conflicted—Jamie gripped my hair, moving my head back to lick a path up my neck, then pulled away, breath heavy, head shaking. “Ah …what are you doing to me?” he said when I tugged on his ear, fevered and dazed. But Jamie knew what I was doing to him. It was the same thing he did to me .

“I can’t…stop …”

It was honest. It was raw and for a few minutes I let myself indulge in the taste and touch of him. Jamie took over, holding onto my back, securing my legs around his waist as he moved us to the cold brick in front of the fire. It was warmer there, even with Jamie discarding his jacket for me to lay on. Not once did he stop kissing me. Not once did I think about asking him to .

“This…ay Dios mío , we have to…” but whatever Jamie thought we should do got lost between the feel of our bodies moving together and the desperate, greedy give and take of our mouths and fingers and eager touches .

We went on that way for a while, minutes, days, I couldn’t be sure. There was only sensation—the feel of Jamie’s mouth hot and wet against my neck, to the cleft of my breast; his nose rubbing against mine, his palm heavy and grabbing my hip .

Then he moved my legs apart, something done quick, likely without thought as the moment escalated and heat and fire took over sense and reason. When the heavy weight of his dick throbbed sharp and quick against me, we both froze .

His breath puffed into the frigid night air as he stared down at me with a stricken look of worry and fear darkening his eyes. We’d gotten too carried away, too quickly. Too overcome by finally having what we wanted .

I couldn’t take the anxiety on his features, the tightened muscle around his mouth pulling at his lips and so I hurried to calm him, the smallest graze of my fingers against his temple .

“I’m sorry…” he started .

“Don’t be.” I took a breath, eyes closed as I released it and then watched him again. “Don’t ever be sorry for wanting me. I like the way you want me .”

“It’s not going to stop. I promise .”

And for a long time, I believed him .