On the ride home, I play with the hem of my dress to keep my mind from spinning out of control.

Drew and I had sex.

And now we're going to do it again.

It's enough to make me dizzy.

He stops at a red light. His attention turns to me. His lips curl into a smile. He drags his fingertips over the inside of my knee and up my thigh.

And there it is: the only snag in such a perfect plan. I can't put it off anymore.

I have to tell him and pray he won't run away.

He's staring at me with that same penetrating look he always has. His eyes are wide, filled with this strange mix of enthusiasm and concern. Usually, that kind of concern makes me feel empty and exposed. On Drew, it's not so bad. It's almost sweet.

The light turns green and Drew hits the gas. My attention goes back to the road. His hand stays on my thigh. Close enough to my knee that I can delay this conversation until we're home.

* * *

Drew throws open the sliding door. Cold air rushes inside. It doesn't faze him at all.

He looks at me with wide-eyed enthusiasm. His voice is light. Teasing. "We still haven't gone skinny dipping."

"It's still freezing."

He pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it on the concrete. He raises a brow. "Don't you want to see me naked?"

My cheeks flush. I try to think of some excuse that isn't I'm not ready to tell you about this yet but nothing comes.

He takes a backward step, planting his foot on the concrete outside. His hands go to his jeans. Button, undone. Zipper, unzipped. The things fall to the floor.

Nothing but boxers.

Heat builds in my body, until the air doesn't feel cold anymore. Even my cocktail dress is far too much clothing. If I don't get in that pool, I'm going to catch fire.

It's glowing with an aqua sheen. The light dancing off Drew's torso is utterly gorgeous but it also means there's nowhere to hide.

Deep breath. Here goes nothing.

"Drew, I have to tell you something," I say.

He drops his playful expression. "Important?"

I nod. "I'm terrified you're going to run away."

"How could you think that?" Hurt flashes in his eyes. "You're my best friend."

"But that doesn't mean..." I bite my lip. "Can I get that promise in writing?"

His eyes pass over me. That same penetrating look. That same concern.

This might be the last time he ever looks at me as anything besides the pathetic, damaged girl.

My chest gets heavy. A deep breath does nothing to break it up. He's staring at me all curious and confused and there's nowhere to go.

I try to hold Drew's gaze but it's too intense. I look at the concrete instead. "I used to cut."

My stomach drops. It's like I'm on one of those free-fall roller coasters, only there's no bar for me to hold. There's no harness keeping me safe.

"I have scars all over my thighs," I say. "Deep, ugly, red scars."

I finally meet his gaze. His eyes are filled with the most awful hurt.

"When?" His voice is heavy.

"In high school."

"When in high school?"

This isn't how he's supposed to sound. He's supposed to hold me and stroke my hair and tell me it's okay. He's not supposed to stare at me with all this awful accusation.

Like I'm letting him down.

Like I'm failing him.

Like I'm not good enough.

I keep my eyes on the concrete. "It started when my dad was sick and everyone was expecting so much from me." I run my fingers over my shiny silver wrist watch. "My wrist at first, but that was too hard to cover. So I switched to my thighs."

Drew's stare guts me—rips me into little pieces and pastes me back together again.

"We were friends," he says. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't tell anyone."

"I would have helped you."

"When?" I ask. "Because the way I remember it, you ditched me the second you got popular."

His voice softens. "It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?"

He runs his hand through his hair. There's this look of agony on his face, like there's more to the story.

But he doesn't say anything. He never does.

It's always questions directed at me. He's always desperate to know all of my feelings. But the second I bring up something that hurt him, he shuts down or changes the subject.

My temper flares. "You have to do more than show up at my house with a guitar and a promise that we can be friends again." I play with the hem of my dress. "I didn't want a pity friendship and I still don't."

His expression hardens. "And what about the last six months?"

"No one knows about this. No one but my asshole ex-boyfriend who dumped me for it."

He reaches for my wrist, the right, and holds it tightly. "You think I'd dump you over this?"

"We're not anything that can be dumped." I take a step backward. "Where do you get off getting upset about this? What secret have you ever told me?"

His grip slips. He grabs onto my hand. "You're the only person I tell anything."

"What about Vivian? There must be a reason why I never hear a word about her."

"Because it's not important."

"Bullshit."

I back into the house. He's still staring at me with the same look he had in the kitchen that day: sad and angry and utterly confused by his own reaction.

"You're my best friend, Kara."

"But that doesn't give you the right to my feelings." It's dark, but I can just make out the stairs. I stumble over something. Stupid heels. I brush myself off and climb the first step. "They're mine. I don't care how much you want to hear them or how much you want to know every part of me. You don't get to unless I say so."

"Kara."

I rush up the stairs and into my room. I press my back into the closed door, sink to my ass, and hug my knees.

That awful heavy feeling spreads from my chest to my stomach and shoulders and hips. And then it overtakes me completely.