I know I have an addiction, but I can’t help it. I’m obsessed. Everyone tells me I need help, but they only feed the addiction. They’re enablers. Dirty, rotten enablers.

I stare at the stuffed cat I won, one that looks like the black childhood cat I grew up with, and notice my own cat glaring daggers at it. Ollie tends to get jealous easily, even over inanimate objects. There’s no denying he’s a total asshole, but he’s mine. A pain in the ass I can’t live without.

I’m certain that, if I had more space, I’d have more than one cat. Actually, I know I would. Hence why everyone says I’m destined to be the crazy cat lady. Will thinks I’m in training for it, like I have some sort of cat-lady guide in the mail waiting to be opened and read. I just learned that people are disappointments, unpredictable, untrustworthy. Cats may be annoying, but they still love unconditionally. I can’t say that about humans.

I sneak a peak at my less than enthused cat as he slowly reaches his paw out to touch the plush toy between us. His movements are slow and calculated, like he’s planning for an attack. His butt goes into the air and wiggles, ready to pounce on the vicious stuffed animal taking over his turf.

“What is he doing?” Will asks, causing both Ollie and I to jump. While I mostly just feel a jolt from being startled, Ollie jumps a good foot in the air, somehow landing on his feet at the end of the bed.

Will snickers at Ollie, and Ollie shoots him his typical death glare. It only makes will laugh more, which doesn’t sit well with my cat, so he struts out of the room with his tail raised up in the air.

I swing my feet over the side of the bed. “I think he just told you to kiss his ass in kitty language.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he replies casually, walking over and picking up the stuffed animal. He looks at me with his brows raised in question.

“Don’t judge,” I warn.

Shaking his head, he sits down, the stuffed cat in his lap. “I think it’s time we have an intervention,” he teases. “Your problem is getting out of hand.”

To emphasize his point, he gestures to the blue waffle chair I have in the corner of my room that has other stuffed animals on it. Mostly cats, different colors and styles.

I told you I have a problem.

I stand up and walk over to the chair, picking up the fluffy white one. It’s my favorite, with piercing blue plastic eyes. A pink stitched smile and fake wired whiskers greet me when I turn its face to me.

Holding it up so he can see it, I smoosh my cheek against it. Will expects me to be a nut case, so I’m never ashamed of being weird around him.

“How can you hate on this face?” I coo.

He rolls his eyes, settling farther up on my bed. He props himself up on my pillows, crossing his arms behind his head and making himself comfortable.

“Plus,” I proclaim, setting the cat back down on the chair with the others, “can you remember who gave this cat to me, William? Hmm? I’ll give you a hint. He’s always annoying me.”

Gasping, he glances around my small room. “I didn’t know Ian was here.”

I snort. “Ha ha. Very funny.”

He grins. “I thought so.”

I pick up a different cat, this one orange like Garfield. It even has the same lazy look stitched onto its tiny face. “Fifth grade. The day after Valentine’s Day. I was sad because nobody got me candy. Seriously, everybody got candy but me. It was embarrassing. Then, I go to my locker, and see a white tail hanging from the space on the side of it. There, on the top shelf, is a beautiful white stuffed cat and a box of chocolates. Not just any chocolates. My favorite Lindor Truffles.”

Will’s smile says it all. He remembers.

“Then, I get home, and find an orange cat perched on my bed, in between my pillows.” I stroke the orange cat’s fake fur in my hands. “With a card, if I recall. And what did it say, Will? Refresh my memory.”

He chuckles at my coaxing. “It said, ‘I’m sorry for eating all your candy in class’.”

I put my free hand on my hip. “Yes, it did. I still can’t believe you went into my bag and ate all my candy before I could even see what there was! I totally thought everybody hated me!”

He rolls his eyes. “I bought you those truffles because I felt bad, didn’t I? And the cats. I spent, like, two weeks of allowance on your cat-obsessed ass.”

I throw the cat at him. He manages to catch it, hugging it close to his chest.

I pick up a brown cat. One of the button eyes fell out a long time ago, and its missing half of the whiskers on its face. My parents’ dog got ahold of it not long after I got it, tearing it apart. Mom tried fixing it, but it still looks pretty demented.

“Sixth grade,” Will says, staring at the cat. “We went to the school carnival, and you fell in love with that cat but you couldn’t win any of the games to save your life.”

I eye him, wanting to argue. But I always sucked at playing games, especially when prizes were available to win. I have no aim, my coordination sucks, and usually people just take pity on me and give me a prize based on how pathetic I am.

Whatever.

“So,” he continues, grinning, “you begged me to play the bottle toss game because you just had to have it. Really, I don’t see why. The thing is hideous, even before Baily got to it.”

I huff. “I didn’t beg you.”

His brows arch. “You pulled me to the game booth and told me that you’d die if you didn’t have the stupid stuffed animal. I recall you saying you’d get on your hands and knees and kiss my shoes. Then you said you’d come over and do night chores for me at the farm in payment.”

Oh yeah.

“Which, by the way, you didn’t do,” he reminds me.

I open my mouth to say something witty, but I have nothing. So, I just shrug and nod, because there’s no denying it. Let’s be real, he knew damn well I wasn’t going to do his chores for him. He agreed anyway.

Putting the cat down with his stuffed animal family, I pat its misshapen head a few more times before walking back to my bed. I pick up the black cat I won yesterday, and put it on my lap, sitting cross legged next to Will.

“So, you conned a carnie to get that thing?” he asks, still hugging the Garfield wannabe in his arms.

A slick grin tips my lips. “Yep.”

He can’t help but chuckle, although I see the desire to roll his eyes and lecture me. That’s Will for you, always trying to get me to do the right thing. He goes along with my antics, but never lets me get away with them easily. He insists on heckling me for a solid minute before he realizes that my conscious is AWOL and I’m going to do what I please anyway.

Then, he succumbs like the good bestie he is.

“If it makes you feel better, Ian really did pay the guy an extra dollar before we left,” I offer nonchalantly. “I don’t think he approved of my methods. Some rock star he is, am I right? Aren’t they supposed to, like, trash hotel rooms and break guitars and stuff? Nope. Ian takes me to the fair, buys me all I can eat fried junk food, and pays carnies extra money.”

Now he really is rolling his eyes. “As much as I hate to say this, I’m glad he did that. Poor carnie could probably get in trouble otherwise.”

I deadpan. “I took one measly dart.”

“Which is cheating.”

“He would have totally given it to me if I just batted my eyelashes at him,” I retort, determined to win this argument. “All I would have had to do was get my flirt on.”

“Your flirt on?” he repeats, a lopsided grin pulling up the right side of his lips. “I don’t know if you’ve got it in you, Tess. Maybe it’s better that you cheated.”

My eyes narrow at his lack of belief in me. “You don’t think I could do it? I’ve been told I’m quite the flirt. Old man Jenkins would even be falling for this.” I gesture toward my body suggestively, wiggling me top half.

He tips his head back and laughs. “Did you just pull a SpongeBob character into this?”

“The old geezer is sour in the show,” I argue.

“He’s also fictional.”

I sigh loudly. “Not the point, William. The point is that I’ve got game. Hell, if I showed a little cleavage he would have given me two prizes.”

Will’s eyes harden, his lips drawing together in a thin line. “No,” he says in a low, stern voice, “that would not be a good idea. Jesus, Tess, really? Flashing some stranger just to get a damn cat?”

Whoa. Did not expect that reaction from him.

I feel my cheeks heat up, blossoming with slight embarrassment as he looks at me through slit eyes. “Chill, Will. I’m just kidding.”

My words are no more than a mumbled response, but he hears them nonetheless. The tension in his shoulders subside, and his eyes turn from “you’ve got to be kidding me” to “glad you’re not ho-bagging it with a carnie.”

Honestly, does he think I’d just pull my shirt up and give a show? I’m offended to think he does, but based on the darkness still lingering in his forest green eyes—which are usually a lighter shade of emerald—he’s thinking exactly that.

I slip off the bed, leaving the cat beside him. “Real nice, Will. I’m not a ho, you know. Despite the majority vote on the matter at school. I was just teasing, you didn’t have to get all judgy on me.”

Memories from freshman year resurface, no matter how hard I try pushing them away. The rumors. The lies.

She’s the school slut, my old roommate told everyone. Didn’t you hear?

Only I wasn’t, but the school’s small campus meant the rumors spread like wild fire. The number of side-eyes and snickers from everyone I passed made me want to crawl out of my skin. And why? Because I didn’t get along with my roommate? Because she felt the need to make everyone turn against me?

I dealt with the rumors the best I could, ignoring them. Ignoring the weird looks or commentary. I stopped hanging out with the small group of “friends” I made because they were just as toxic as my roommate turned out to be.

Don’t let them get to you. Don’t let them win, my parents would tell me.

Some days it was easier to accomplish than others, especially with Will sticking by my side. When everything was going down, he stayed beside me. He dispelled the rumors. He defended me when people came up to me and asked stupid questions or made ridiculous comments.

Hearing him act like I’m the person everybody accused me of being cut deep. It was awful when Becky, my roommate, started rumors and broke what little trust I thought I had for her. With Will, it was ten times worse. Like he took a knife to my back himself, and twisted it.

I busy myself by going to my desk, opening my laptop to work on editing my photos. I don’t want to think about freshman year, or my roommate, or all the people who are no longer than in my life. Slowly, ever so slowly, I came to realize that dwelling on what people did wasn’t worth it. Do I still do it? Yes. I always will, because I’m human. We relive the pieces of our pasts that consume the most emotions, because it’s how we feel alive.

I used to think it didn’t make sense, but now I see the truth in it.

I don’t hear him get off the bed or come up behind me, but before I know it, his hands are on either side of my body, spinning the office chair to face him.

I refuse to look at him.

Well, I try to refuse to. He tilts my chin up so we’re looking at each other. His normal green eyes—like a gemstone you’d only find in Oz—greet me, easing some of the irritation planted in my chest. Actually, it melts my irritation altogether, which in itself is annoying. Will can be such a protective pain in my ass, and he annoys me when he reacts the way he does sometimes. Yet, one look at his soft eyes and hard features make me forget why I’m even angry with him.

It’s not fair, the pull he has on me. I try to tell myself it’s because best friends don’t fight—that they make up and love each other no matter how stupid the situation.

A feeling deep down in the pit of my stomach tells me it’s more than that.

I push the feeling away, burying it deeper into the pit it’s trying to worm itself out of. The little bastard is trying to cause trouble, and I don’t want that.

Do I?

I have no other choice but to meet Will’s gaze. He gives me a small smile, the corners of his lips tipping up and revealing the dimple he knows I love.

Damn him, playing unfairly.

“Stop giving me the look. I’m mad at you.” I force myself to turn my face away, my eyes traveling to the camera in my lap. I clench it in my hands, fingers brushing the button.

“I don’t want you to be mad at me.” His voice is softer than it was before.

“Well too bad,” I grumble, trying to sound mad.

He does what he knows I can’t resist. He gives me the puppy dog eyes, his eyes rounding, his plump bottom lip sticking out, and his eyelashes fanning in plea.

I hold my own, staying silent for a good thirty seconds before I break.

I’m weak.

“God, you’re so annoying,” I groan in defeat.

He winks at me. “I know. Nothing I can do to change that.”

“Except maybe, I don’t know, stop being annoying? Ever tried that?”

He thinks about it. “Nope. No can do, Tess.”

I roll my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he finally apologizes. “I didn’t mean to react that way. I just don’t like you joking around about revealing yourself to a stranger. To any guy.”

I stare at him, voice breathy, “To any guy?”

He nods once, his eyes darkening. The gold flecks are changing the color. They’re flashing. Heated.

My heart does a weird fluttery thing in my chest, and I squirm in my chair. Two contradictory reactions to his heated gaze, tearing me apart to figure out what I feel. How I feel. My reactions are physical, not emotional. Not mental. The way he looks at me is like how I see my mom look at my dad. Hell, it’s how I look at cheesecake. Sad, but true.

But I don’t know if it’s how I want him to look at me, because he doesn’t deserve to settle for someone like me. Tainted.

I fidget with my camera, scrolling through the gallery to figure out which to upload and edit next. I scroll over the selfie Ian made me take with him, not wanting to focus on it compared to the others. It’s the odd one out of what I captured that day. I want to send the compilation of finished pictures to Ian so he can use them for his social media sites. Candid shots are always my favorite, and most of them would be great for promotional uses if the band wanted them to be. The picture of him and I won’t make the cut to help anybody.

Especially myself.

Will blinks, and whatever heat I thought I saw disappears as quickly as it appeared. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m reaching for something.

He clears his throat, drawing back. “Yeah,” he reasons, giving me a loose shrug. “I just don’t want any guy taking advantage of you. If you give them a show, they’ll think you’ll do more.”

My heart deflates for more than one reason.

I collect myself, mentally shaking off the stupidity I let my mind wrap around. “I don’t need you to get all overprotective, Will. I have a dad for that.”

He winces. “I know. I’m not trying to be like him. That’d be … well, creepy as hell.”

I laugh in agreement, easing at the fact we’re back to our usual selves. “That doesn’t stop girls calling attractive guys daddies though.” I shudder at the thought. “Seriously, Freud would have a field day with our generation, don’t you think?”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year.”

We look at each other in silence, comfort thick in the air between us. Mom always told me that it was important to find somebody I could sit in silence with comfortably. Will and I never have to talk when we’re together. We can lay in silence for a solid hour just relaxing without it being awkward. Just being in each other’s company has been enough.

I smile at the thought.

“We good?” he asks, breaking the silence first.

I’m about to ask from what, when I remember what we even started fighting about. He isn’t asking if we’re good after the look he gave me, or how it made me question what it meant. How could he? He may be my best friend, but he’s not a mind reader.

He’s asking if we’re good after his momentary, and totally unnecessary, freak-out. The one caused because he’s overprotective, not because he’s jealous. The one that means we’re best friends, and not anything else.

I find myself nodding, an empty gesture. “We’re good.”

His smile is back to normal, playful and carefree. I can’t help but smile back the same way, because it’s easy with Will. There are no complications, no second guesses.

Well, not anymore.

If I let myself think the way I was before, I’d lose my best friend. And I couldn’t afford that.

Picking up the black cat from my bed, he brings it over to me. “It’s a cute addition to your collection, Tess.”

“Sure, now you say that,” I scoff, holding the animal close to me. “Just a few minutes ago you were criticizing me for it.”

He grins. “Well, since I’m not responsible for giving you this one, I can say whatever I want about it. Now we can blame Ian for your growing cat family.”

I don’t give him a verbal response, because Ollie waltzes in and right over to the unexpecting Will. Before I can warn him of the evil in Ollie’s olive-green eyes, Ollie bites the back of his foot.

“Son of a—” Will hobbles, his stability wavering, and Ollie makes a break for it out of my room.

I shouldn’t laugh. In fact, I should go yell at Ollie. But, somehow, I’m laughing instead. Especially when Will loses his balance and topples over, bouncing off the edge of the bed and onto the floor. His arm reaches out, trying to catch himself. He ends up swiping the chair with my stuffed animals on it, and all of them fall from where they’re resting and land on Will’s body.

The image of him covered in fluffy stuffed animals is more than amusing to me, and blurred by the tears forming in my eyes. I try to catch my breath and calm down, especially when he sits up and glares at me, pushing stuffed cats off him with disgruntlement.

I let out a snort that sounds like a pig being strangled, which makes Will’s lip twitch into an almost-smile.

He sighs loudly and declares, “Your cat is more than an asshole, Tess.”

I wipe tears off my face. “You shouldn’t have laughed at him. Even cats who are assholes have feelings, William.”

Standing up, he shakes his head. “You’re lucky I love you,” he grumbles, taking in the mess of cats scattered on the floor.

I finally calm down. “You’re going to clean that up, right?”

He eyes me, but doesn’t argue before picking them up and placing them back on the chair as they were.

“And for the record,” I add, coming over and wrapping my arms around his waist. “I love you, too, you cat-bully weirdo.”

My shoes are covered in mud by the time I make it to the peak of the cow path, a dirt hiking trail that goes through the woods behind the college. It leads to an open meadow, one overlooking a majority of Bennington.

Not the bustling part of the city that’s filled with strangers who are too busy staring at the screen of their phones to pay any attention to you. No smiles or waves, or friendly greetings as you walk by.

Here, the view is all country. A part of Bennington that reminds me of Clinton with the open fields surrounded by patches of pine trees. The cow path is my home away from home, where the fresh breeze flows through your hair without smelling like fast food that overwhelms your senses. Where the sun kisses your face full-on without tall buildings blocking its rays.

Out here it’s freeing. Light. Open.

My camera strap weighs heavily on my neck, my camera resting against my chest. My fingers ache to catch every angle I can, but I tell myself to take in the view first. It’s my favorite one, especially when the sun is setting. Someday soon, I’ll have to come when the sun is saying goodbye to another day, when I can watch the mixture of pinks, purples, and oranges bleed together like an open watercolor in the sky. The yellow sun illuminating the end of another day. The darkness of the fading colors assuring another yet to come.

Some people find the darkness discomforting, like it’s an evil that should be gotten rid of. But I find the dark welcoming, like there’s a promise that the light will come again. A hope that bubbles past the surface of uncertainty.

This is where I come to think without judgement, feel without criticism, and be without having to put on a face. The pressure of the past still weighs heavily in my chest, like an anvil is laying on top of me with no chance of moving. But every day, a little piece of me finds the strength to push it up. To breathe. To think.

You can’t just wake up one day and decide you’re not broken anymore, it’s a process that takes weeks, months, years. An infinity of back and worth—to be forget or to remember. To use the strength or accept the weakness. To move on or to hold on.

Nobody will fully understand the reason. Nobody will fully understand the journey. Not even I do, which is why every day is a new struggle. My mind warps with questions surrounding the process of admission, like if I say it out loud, I’ll heal. Like if I just go back to therapy, I’ll be better.

But nobody can tell you how to heal. You have to do it on your own, find your own way to figure it out.

You have to figure out what kind of support you need, and what kind you don’t.

Will … he’s my main support, even if he doesn’t know it. Our friendship has been rocky at times, especially since he found me in my dorm that night. I pushed him, and everyone, away. I didn’t want to be near anybody, be touched. Be told I was okay. I knew I wasn’t. Not even Will could pull me from that at first.

I went through the stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression. But acceptance? Still working on that one. At first, I told myself it didn’t happen. That I didn’t leave my door unlocked. That the creep didn’t come in unwelcomed. That he didn’t put his hands on my sleeping body.

But he did.

He did that and then some.

Which led to anger. Anger because I couldn’t stop him. Anger because I took cold medicine that night and it knocked me out. Anger that he went there because my roommate told him I would open my legs for anyone.

It’s probably from all the dick in her mouth. I can still hear her words ring in my ears, just as clearly as they did when she announced to the whole dining hall that I was only sick because of some STD I contracted from whoring around.

After days of being holed up in my room—not answering the door for anyone, not going to class, not answering any of Will’s calls or texts—I started bargaining. Bargaining for a redo, for a rewind. For anything that would make me forget what happened. I prayed to God despite not going to church a day in my life, despite considering myself an atheist.

I wanted him to take it all back. What if I promised not to move out and just live with my roommate and her drama? What if I promised to go out more and appease her irritated criticism on my introverted tendencies? Would it be enough to erase that night?

Depression. The stage that left me sitting on the tile floor of the shower stall crying for an hour while cool water pounded on my frozen skin. The stage that left me feeling like the world was hollowing me out like a pumpkin on Halloween. I carved an expression on my face to show everybody I was okay when I did leave my dorm room, but the truth was inside the shell I was hiding in.

There was no candle to dim the swirling what-ifs that worked to create the insomnia that wouldn’t let me get even an hour of sleep.

It was the depression that made me want to drop out of college altogether. After missing so many classes, it seemed like the logical step. To get away from the people who caused it. To get away from the toxins following me. It was this stage that made me fill out the paperwork to withdraw from school and click submit without blinking an eye.

But then something else seeped into my bones.

Guilt.

Guilt for giving up what I always wanted. To go to school. To live in an apartment. To get my degree, no matter what the major. Guilt for letting down my parents who wanted me to graduate, for letting down Will who wanted to do college together, for letting down myself who wanted to be stronger than the people who lived off of tormenting others.

For almost two months following the assault, I let myself sulk in pity. Pity that I deserved to live in. Anger that I deserved to feel. Hopelessness that I needed to drown in just enough to want to breathe again—to fight again.

It wasn’t until after the weekend I submitted my withdrawal papers that I got them reversed and went back to classes. My attendance record was spotty at best, but I always got my homework done. My professors worked with me, my advisors worked with me. Will … he was there every day, even when I didn’t want him to be.

When I shut him out, he would come by my room every day. He would send me good morning text, endearing texts, good night texts. He would leave voicemails of him telling me about his day, events he thought I’d be interested in.

Every day at five o’clock, he would sit outside my dorm door and eat his supper. He would leave me a take-out container of food from the dining hall with a note.

Every. Single. Day.

Even when I didn’t let him in. When I didn’t answer the door. When I wouldn’t return his calls or texts. He never gave up on me like I wanted him to.

My rock. That’s what Will is.

My anchor when I insisted on not needing one. Even when I wanted to tell him to go away when he’d show up every night, I never did. Instead, I would sit on the other side of the door, wanting to tell him everything. Wanting to voice every feeling, release every tear, until there was nothing left.

It was the same morning I decided to go back to classes that I texted Will back and told him I would be at the dining hall at noon. Nothing more, nothing less.

Still, he showed.

He showed with scruff on his face that he never grew before, looking like he went through hell and back just like me. Maybe he did, after pulling the creep off me. I owe Will everything for stopping him, for saving me. If it weren’t for him, the nightmares would be worse.

The memories would be, too.

All it took that day in the tiny café we met in was one little smile—the slightest tip of the corner of his lips—to make me realize he was what I needed.

My support.

My Will.

I wanted to hug him. To hold him. To cry.

But I wasn’t ready, and he understood. So we ate lunch, mostly in silence, and we studied each other like we hadn’t seen each other in years.

It felt like we hadn’t. Like I was a completely different person than I was only months ago. In his eyes, the green pools of emerald, he saw that, too. I saw worry, caution, pity.

I didn’t want him to see me that way, like I was a cracked piece of glass that could shatter any second. I told myself that day that I had to try. So I put myself out there, finished with classes, went out to eat with Will every day, hung out in his dorm room and watched movies.

Slowly, freshman year ended. The chatter around campus became less and less as Will busied me with random outings. The campus police worked with the town police to handle my case, and Will was there helping me through every question they had.

I didn’t ask for the guy’s name. I didn’t need it.

I just needed to know he wouldn’t hurt anybody again, and Will made sure of it. He got in trouble, put on academic probation, until he was cleared by police. They deemed what he did an act of defense. He could have lost everything because of me.

More guilt.

I was always told that after depression comes acceptance, like a magic switch just turns on and suddenly everything is peachy perfect. Well, that’s bullshit. There’s a stage in-between the two, like a limbo of waiting where you figure out the next step to take.

That’s where I am, even two years later.

I believe there’s different forms of acceptance, I just haven’t found the right one for me. Someday, hopefully soon, I will.

I sit on the top of the hill, among the blooming purple carpet phlox and ragweed spread over the grass. Drawing my knees to my chest, my black leggings covered in dirt and dust from the ground, I take everything in. I raise my camera to the skyline.

Click.

I move the camera to the patch of trees.

Click.

Amidst the grass is a yellow butterfly fluttering its wings on a flower.

Click.

There’s something about the solidarity of being in nature, far away from people, that relaxes me. Breathing in the fresh air, the soft scent of flowers, it eases the tension building in my shoulders.

I lay down, my camera angled to the sky. It’s blue today, barely any clouds. A line of birds flap their wings overhead, chirping to each other as they make their way to their destination.

Click.

I can take pictures of every little thing I see, capturing the moments I find beautiful. Photography is my outlet to creation—becoming part of something that is beyond the realm of understanding. What I find beautiful is immortalized into reality, becoming a memory that overrides the ones I don’t want.

Every picture, every angle, every edit has a purpose.

A purpose that only I can give it to emphasize the beauty it holds.

That kind of control is my own therapy. My own freedom.

Resting the camera on my stomach, I stare at the sky. When Will and I were little, I would make him watch the clouds with me like I saw people do on TV. I could never pinpoint a shape, so I would make something up. Will? He was never that creative.

“It just looks like a cloud,” he complains, squinting like it’ll help him see something.

“It can be anything you want,” I chirp, pointing at one directly above us. “That one looks like a heart.”

He looks at it. “It’s a deformed blob of white.”

I frown. “Will, you’re no good at this.”

“How can anybody be good at staring at clouds?” he doubts, sitting up.

I sit up, too. “It’s supposed to be fun.”

“Well it’s not.”

I cross my arms on my chest, bottom lip sticking out. “William, you’re lucky I like you, or else I would walk away.”

He mimics me. “Who else would you play with? Damian across the street?”

I scrunch my face up. “No way! He’s mean!”

“You don’t have any other friends,” he points out, almost making fun of me.

“I can play with Ian.”

He makes a face. “Ian doesn’t like hanging out with girls. Plus, he’s my friend.”

Will and Ian always hang out. Sometimes, I wish they would invite me over, even if I just watch them play video games. But they told me it was boys only, no girls allowed.

“Fine,” I grumble, standing up. “But you should be nice to me.”

He stands up, too. “Why?”

“Because we’re destined to be friends,” I inform him, nodding confidently. “Best friends, in fact. My family didn’t just move in next door to anybody. They moved in next door to you.”

“What’s your point?”

“My last name is the same as your first, William,” I point out, smiling. I rock on my feet, watching confusion weave into his eyes. “And that is why we’re going to be best friends.”

A twig snaps from behind me, causing me to whip my head around. The hiking trail isn’t always busy, especially not in the summer. Usually, it’s at its hype when college is in session. It’s why I love coming here now, when there’s little chance of being bothered.

The sunlight hits my eyes so I can’t see who’s coming, so I squint past the brightness.

Slowly, two figures come into view.

I straighten up, camera rolling off my stomach. The strap keeps it from falling onto the ground as I stand up.

“Ian? Ryder?” My face screws with confusion as I brush dirt off myself. “What are you guys doing here?”

Ryder answers first, coming up to me and draping his arm over my shoulder. It’s irritating how he’s taller than me, yet four years younger. I swear, as soon as he hit sixteen last year, he shot up. Now he’s almost as tall as Will, which is nearly a foot taller than me.

I blame my mother for my shortness.

“Ian wanted to know where you were, so I figured here would be a good place to start,” he explains, grinning down at me. He’s got the same eyes at Will, just a slightly darker shade. Everything else is eerily similar. There’s no mistaking them for anything other than siblings.

“You know I come here?” I shouldn’t be surprised, because a lot of people know this is my favorite spot in Bennington. But Ryder usually doesn’t pay attention whenever I talk. Half the time, the punk is staring at my chest, or texting some sap on his phone.

His lopsided grin stretches on his face. “Will might have mentioned it a time or two.”

Now that makes sense.

Rolling his eyes, Ian shoves Ryder’s arm. “Plus, we stopped at your apartment first and there was no answer. This is actually our third attempt to find you.”

Third? “Where’d you go after you tried my apartment?”

Ian chuckles. “The food court.”

I elbow Ryder in the side. “Really? The food court?”

He puts his hands up in defense. “Hey, you like to eat. That’s not a bad thing. You always talk about the froyo place, so I figured it’d be a good bet.”

“Well you would have lost,” Ian muses.

Ryder grumbles.

I pull away from Ryder. “So you found me … what do you want?”

Ian puts his hand to his heart, and tsks. “You know, it’s a good thing I don’t have feelings, Freckles. Or you might just hurt them. Maybe even damage my ego.”

Yeah, that would be the day.

“Your ego is fine,” I deadpan.

“If you must know,” he says, sighing dramatically, “I showed the guys the pics you sent to me. They like them.”

A sense of pride swells in my chest. “I’m glad.”

“We talked it over, and we were wondering if you would do some more.”

I stare at him. “Some more? What other concerts do you have?”

He shakes his head. “Not just concerts. Our band manager wants us to do some photo shoots for a few different magazines, maybe some promo stuff. But we’ve already gone through three crappy photographers who can’t get our image right. They’re trying to morph us into cookie-cutter popstars. It’s awful.”

I nod along slowly, trying to grasp what he’s saying.

He eyes me. “You’re not getting it, are you?”

“Nope.”

He sighs. “We want to hire you to be our photographer. The photos you sent were awesome, Tessa. They captured what we were, not what people want us to be. If you can do that during concerts, you can do promotional shoots. Right?”

“Uh …” I blink a few times, soaking it in. “Wait a minute. Your band wants to hire me to take photos of you? Like for magazines? I’m pretty sure magazines have professional photographers who work for them on stuff like that. Hiring a nobody isn’t going to fly with them.”

Ryder nudges my arm. “You’ve won competitions with your photos, Tess.”

I blush, surprised he remembers. “Those were just landscapes and stuff. Plus, the contests never amounted to much. They were for school and small cash prizes.”

“We’ll pay you,” Ian tells me. “Our manager told me I could handle the schedule for it, and he would negotiate money. We’re not going to any shoot at the magazine itself. We have a deal to send in photos we see fit for spreads in People and Seventeen.”

Wow. “That’s great coverage for you. Especially with your teen following.”

He nods once. “So is that a yes?”

I nibble on my bottom lip.

Capturing them could be fun, especially if I have free reign to do it as I want. “It doesn’t have to be a nude shoot, does it? Because I’m not so sure I want to see that much of Relentless.”

Ryder bursts out laughing.

Ian’s eyes twinkle with humor. “It can be whatever you want, Freckles. If you want us to take our pants off, I’m game.”

The blush on my cheek deepens. “Um, no.”

Humor still in his features, he sobers up a little. “So what do you say, Tessa? Relentless loves what you did, and we think you could really help us boost our promotion with more photos. It can be whatever you want, we’ll listen to you. Trust you.”

“Why me though?”

“We know you.” He shrugs loosely. “Those other photographers just wanted the money and the chance to say they worked with us. We’re not that famous yet, but we’re starting to be. Them getting the chance to say their pictures made us that way is a lot of credit to their careers, but not if we don’t like them.”

“And you like me?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious,” he states.

I contemplate it, weighing my options. Getting paid to take pictures of one of my favorite bands? It isn’t a bad opportunity, and I could always build a portfolio off of it. Maybe expand it to a business someday. It has its perks, like Ian says.

“When and where?”

“That’s all up to you,” he tells me, a smile spreading on his face. It’s full of relief, like he was banking on me telling him no.

Clearly, Ian doesn’t know me that well.

I nod along. “Can I let you know? I want to do it, but I’ll need to come up with some ideas.”

“No problem.” He glances at Ryder, then back at me. “You guys want to grab something to eat? You’ve got me thinking about froyo since you mentioned it.”

I laugh. “I’m always up for froyo.”

Ryder rolls his eyes. “I told you.”

I playfully hit him. “Is Will back yet?”

It’s been a couple days since I’ve hung out with him, because he’s been out of town with his dad at some tractor auction in Pennsylvania. Ryder and his mom, along with some temporary hired help, have been keeping up with chores at their farm while they were away.

“I think they’re coming back later today,” he announces, stuffing his hands in his pockets as we walk down the trail.

I frown, because I didn’t know that. Will usually tells me when he’s planning to come home.

“He says he texted you,” he adds.

His words perk me up. I reach into my pocket, and take notice to the fact I have my phone on silent. Whenever I’m alone, I like total quiet. Sure enough, there’s a string of texts from Will waiting for me in my inbox.

Will: Movie night. My house. Eight.

Will: Are you not interested? We’ve got popcorn.

Will: I’ll even add soda.

Will: Hello? Do I need to bring cheesecake, too?

I can’t help but laugh at his bribery.

Tess: Miss me that much you have to see me?

His response is almost instant.

Will: Don’t pretend you didn’t miss me, too.

I follow aimlessly behind Ryder and Ian.

Too. It doesn’t surprise me at all that he missed me. In fact, I knew he would. But hearing him say it, or text it I guess, makes me giddy.

And I don’t know what that means.

I brush off the doubt.

Tess: If you’re even five minutes late, I’m starting the movie without you.

Will: Who says you get dibs on the movie choice? It’s my movie night I’m inviting you to.

Tess: I deserve to choose since you left me on my lonesome forever to take care of your family obligations.

I can picture him rolling his eyes as he reads it.

Will: Fine, but it better not be some sappy chick flick again. If I see one more Channing Tatum ass …

I snort out loud, which causes Ian and Ryder to look over their shoulders at me. I smile sheepishly and text back a reply.

Tess: I’ll save your precious eyes from looking at a (perfectly fine) booty. I’ve got the perfect movie in mind.

And I do. I’m sure that he’ll expect nothing less of my choice, and criticize me relentlessly for it. But that’s just our cycle when it comes to planned movie nights. He never once tries to choose a movie to watch, leaving it up to me every time.

So, really, it’s his fault.

Although, we both know that he wouldn’t have it any other way.