The words are clawing at my throat.

At my fingers.

I pace around my room. It's been hours since we got back from the beach. And he hasn't said another word about the journal entry I read him.

We went right back to teasing about music.

To talking about the concert.

About how desperate he's going to make me.

But this has been on the tip of my tongue all night.

I finish my last bit of Latin homework and put my textbook away. There. The night is mine.

Officially.

And he's... he's somewhere. With Dean, I think. One of the guys. Or several of them.

I grab my journal. Pick up my pen. Let all the thoughts spill from my fingers.

Brendon, I should tell you this. No, I want to. I want it off my chest.

It's just I don't want you to leave.

That's why I haven't told anyone. Because it's better swallowing it deep than losing another person I love.

I'd rather you care about the person you think I am than you not care about me at all.

But, really, I want all your love.

And I want it for the real me. Not the girl you see when you look at me, the one who can read two books a day and offer up a Latin quip anytime.

I've been on medication the last year.

I have depression.

It didn't start with anything. I let my therapist believe it started when Grandma had that heart attack and insisted I stay here for the summer. I let my parents believe that I needed help because I wasn't dealing with her illness well. But that isn't true. It was already there. I was already having all these ugly thoughts about making it all go away.

Whenever I would borrow Mom's car, when I was driving up or down the 405, I'd think about how easy it would be to crash into the divider. To not feel anything anymore.

I don't have as many of those thoughts anymore. That voice that tells me I'm worthless, a failure, that no one loves me, that I'm a drain, that everyone is better off without me—it's quieter now.

But it's not gone.

It will never be gone.

Sometimes it's stronger. One day, it might be strong enough to convince me to act on it.

Medications stop working. My doctor warned me about that. Offered a bunch of hotlines.

It's hard to imagine swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills. Or taking a razor blade to my wrists. Or finding some tall building.

But it's possible.

That voice was so loud and so ugly.

If it comes back...

How can you love someone who might kill herself?

How can I ask that of you?

I haven't told anyone except my therapist.

But I want you to know.

I want you to know and not run away.

I'm always going to be broken.

A knock on my door breaks my concentration.

I snap the notebook shut. "Hey."

"Hey." Emma taps her fingers against the door. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah." I push up from my desk. "I'll come out. Let's watch something."

She pulls the door open. Leans against the frame. "I was going to ask you that."

"That's why we're soul mates," I tease.

"Really?" Her voice brightens. "I've beaten out Katniss?"

"Katniss doesn't make me chocolate chip pancakes."

Emma laughs. She takes my hand and leads me down the stairs.

The room is the same as always. Clean. Quiet. Still.

She motions to the couch. Then to the kitchen. "Or you can help."

"Sure." I follow her into the tiny space and get out all the wet ingredients.

She grabs the dry ones. Measures them into a giant white bowl. "You have a look."

"It's craving for chocolate."

"No. It's something else. Contemplation."

"Is that different than normal?"

Emma laughs as she licks sugar from a spoon. "Good point."

I crack two eggs and start whisking. I am contemplative. I need to talk to someone. And I want to talk to her. She's my best friend. "You think I could tell you anything that would change your opinion of me?"

"Sure." She takes the eggs, pours them into the bowl, stirs. "If you killed someone. Or if you failed a class. Or if you fucked Dean." Her eyes light up as she turns to me. "Did you fuck Dean?"

"No."

"You're blushing."

I am?

"You did something!" The spoon drops with a splat. Her hand goes over her mouth. "Oh my God, Kay, you did!"

I try a coy shrug.

"Bullshit. What did you do with Dean?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

Maybe there is a way to say this without lying. At least technically. "I might have let someone..." I motion to my shorts.

"You let someone finger you?" She nearly shouts it.

"God, Em, you're gross."

She laughs. "You're the one letting Dean finger you."

I can't keep up the stern expression. I'm laughing too. This is normal. Girl talk. Only she doesn't realize it's about her brother.

I fill a measuring cup with chocolate chips then hand them to Emma.

"Was it good?" She plops a chip in her mouth.

I nod.

"Great?"

"Amazing."

"Damn, Dean gives amazing... finger, I guess?"

"I would know?"

"Apparently." She motions to the stove.

I turn it on then grab a pan and the oil.

"Wow. You and Dean. I can't believe it."

"Me either." There. The pan is hot enough. I add the oil and tilt the pan so it coats the surface.

"So are you two going to—" She clicks her tongue twice.

"I think so."

Emma squeals and throws her arms around me. "My little girl's all grown up."

"Stop it, Mom, you're embarrassing me."

She giggles. "Now, listen, honey." She takes on a perfect Mom voice. "I don't care what he tells you about pulling out or how clean he is. Unless you've seen a test result, you make sure he wraps it up. And since he's a manwhore, you make sure he wraps it up either way. No glove, no love."

"God, Mom! You think I'm a kid or something?"

"You know I only remind you because I love you."

"I know."

Emma laughs as she squeezes me again. "I think you did. I'm seeing you in a new light. A Kaylee gets hers light."

"Good?"

"Great. I'm proud. You're blossoming."

"A slut in training?"

"No. A woman who knows what she wants."

My glance shifts upstairs, toward Brendon's room. "True."

"I know I've told you a million times, but don't let anyone tell you what you want is wrong. Not me. Not Mr. Brooding Bad Boy. Not your teachers. And not Dean. If you're into freaky shit—"

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Having your toes sucked. Dressing like a baby. There are tons of fetishes. And it's always the quiet ones. Like Brendon. He's into whips and chains and all that stuff. I've heard the guys talking about it a million times."

"Oh?" God, my cheeks are burning.

"Don't tell me I scared you. I mean, you're getting hand jobs in—" She gasps. "Did this happen at karaoke."

"Maybe."

"Oh my God. This is what I get for touching up my makeup in that shitty bathroom with no light." She shakes her head with regret. "I could have seen the signs."

"Oh. Well. It was fast."

"Yeah? He's that good?"

"Better."

"You know he has that piercing. Did you see it? Tell me you saw it."

"No. It was just him."

"Dean's a gentleman?"

"I guess so."

"Are you into it?"

"Huh?"

"The piercing."

"Oh. Maybe."

She laughs. "Oh my God, Kinky Kaylee! You're into it."

"What? No. I... I mean, sorta."

"So, when are you—" She adopts Dean's I'm fucking with you voice. "Popping that cherry?"

"Tomorrow." He said tomorrow. I'm demanding tomorrow.

Her jaw drops. "Already? We're not prepared. We need makeup. And lingerie. And I need to go over this with you. You're not gonna have some shitty first time. You're going to come, even if you have to explain it to him."

"Is it that serious?"

"Hell yeah." She turns back to the batter and scoops a spoonful onto the pan. "Good thing I have you all night. And after we'll get ice cream and you'll tell me if the rumors are true."

"Huh?"

"About his Prince Albert."

"Oh. Yeah. Sure."

"You promise you won't hold back on details?"

"About the sex? No. I promise. I'll tell you everything."

* * *

I barely manage breakfast or lunch.

I struggle to concentrate on studying for next week's Latin quiz.

My creative writing project remains a blank page.

My Kindle offers no solace. I read the same line twenty times before I give up on concentration and plant in front of the TV.

I can't even think about Grandma. I stare at a dozen ticket options. There are too many airports here and near Grandma's place. LAX or Long Beach or John Wayne. Newark or JFK or La Guardia. Nonstops. One stops. Two stops. Red eyes. Early morning flights. Ones that leave in the afternoon and get in late.

I give up on figuring it out now. Tune to Days of Our Lives. The soap grabs almost none of my attention.

But it's enough to take the edge off the nerves fluttering around my stomach.

Today.

It's happening today.

Soon.

With every commercial break, those nerves smack into each other a little harder.

I nearly jump when the door handle turns.

He steps inside all tall, tattooed, and handsome.

He's in his usual outfit. Black jeans. Black converse. And a v-neck, a powder blue one that matches my glasses.

Wicked I'm going to have my way with you smile on his beautiful face.

He kicks the door closed. Tosses his keys on the table. "Hey."

"Hey." My voice barely eeks out. "How was work?"

"Fucking awful."

"Oh."

"Couldn't stop thinking about you." He leaves his shoes by the door. "It took me forever to do a fucking heart tattoo."

"An anatomical heart?"

He shakes his head. "A tiny black outline." He holds his fingers in the shape of a heart. "You own my thoughts. You know that?"

"You do too."

He closes the distance between us.

I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet.

He presses his palm into my lower back, holding my body against his. "You think about anything besides fucking me today?"

Fuck, the pressure from his palm—

The intensity in his dark eyes—

The demanding edge to his voice—

I only barely manage to respond. "No."

His voice softens. "You're nervous."

"A little."

He slides his hand over my ass and thighs then traces the hem of my dress. "I'll walk you through it."

I just barely nod. It's too much. Too intense. And too many other thoughts are screaming for my attention. I need him erasing them. I need him making me forget.

He leans down to brush his lips against mine. It's soft. Barely a kiss. Barely a taste.

He brings his lips to my ear. "I want you so lost in me you forget yourself." His breath warms my skin. "I want you to follow my commands without thinking. I want that much of your trust."

I slide my hand under his t-shirt and press my palm against his back. He's so hard and strong. He could tear me in half without a second thought.

But he wouldn't.

I already trust him not to hurt me.

Trust him with almost everything.

I want to give my body over to him.

To be his.

To lose track of everything but his words, his touch, his kiss.

He pulls my dress over my thighs. "What do you want, angel?"

The pet name makes me blush. Words rise up in my throat, but they're a tangled mess. I want everything.

"You want your hands around my cock?"

"Yes."

"Your lips?"

"Yes."

"You want to come on my cock?"

"Everything, Brendon. Everything."

"Then go to my room, take off your dress, and wait for me on the bed." His voice drops back to that demanding tone.

His expression changes. More in control.

More everything.

He gives me a long once-over. "Don't make me ask twice."