From the pool area, Rosie scrambles from one of the chairs, pale and wide-eyed. “No! Don’t close the—”

The door slides shut behind me.

“—door…” she finishes glumly.

Why would she not want me to…oh. My stomach drops into my toes as I spin around and try the door. But it’s locked. I can’t believe this. How stupid can I be? I sigh and turn back to her. “I assume it was you I heard coming in?” I say.

“Probably,” she replies, nervously twisting the class ring on her finger.

“And you haven’t seen Elias either, have you.”

She shakes her head. So that means he hasn’t broken the news to her yet, either. Great. I curse under my breath and give one last tug. Still nothing. The glass in the door rattles with the force.

We are officially locked outside.

“Maybe the front door is unlocked by some glorious twist of fate,” I mutter, realizing that I don’t even have shoes on, and start for the side of the house.

“I’ve already tried it. Can we talk?”

I ignore her.

“Vance.”

When she says my name, I can’t help but to stop. I glance over my shoulder at her. The clouds above us rumble again. “What could we possibly have to talk about?”

“You—you wish you’d never found out it was me, don’t you,” she forces out, and fists her hands. She raises her eyes to me defiantly. “Because I’m not who you imagined, am I?”

I roll my eyes. “Right, that’s it—”

“I’m being serious!”

“And I’m—”

She grabs my arm roughly and jerks me around to face her, and squares her shoulders so she looks a little taller. Imogen was right—I know she was—I should have told this girl the moment I recognized that birthmark on her neck, but I purse my lips and look away. There are few things I enjoy less than confrontation.

“Am I?” she repeats. She steps up to me, and I ease back a little from our closeness. The freckles across her nose look like a constellation, and my eyes follow them down the dip of her nose to her bowlike mouth. She’s strangely intimidating, like a squirrel with a butcher knife.

“N-no, that’s not it,” I find myself replying. “I didn’t tell you because—”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s because—”

“—you’d realize that it was—”

“—you found out that it was—”

“—me,” we finish at the same time.

My eyebrows furrow. Her hazel eyes widen.

A crack of thunder streaks across the purple clouds, followed by a chest-rattling clap of thunder, and a raindrop lands on my cheek.

ANOTHER CRACK OF LIGHTNING streaks across the sky, and I tense up. I don’t think. I grab Vance by the arm and tug him toward the pool house.

There is a brief moment of buzzing—wind rips through the trees. Then a sheet of rain, a gray wall of it, comes rushing across the yard. I throw my hands over my head to try to stop it, but I’m drenched in a matter of seconds. I just got my cowlick tamed, too. Vance is just as soaked, his thin white T-shirt stuck to his body like a second skin.

I shove my shoulder against the pool house door, praying it isn’t locked. The door gives—thank God!—and we stumble inside. It’s a small shed with a few pieces of furniture covered in plastic. The light switch on the left doesn’t work, and the entire place smells like pollen and timber. The rain pounds against the roof like pebbles.

At least it’s dry.

When he clears his throat, I come to my senses and quickly let go of him. Crap, I’m now stuck in a pool house with Vance for God knows how long, and he’s in a very wet shirt that clings to every curve of his broad shoulders and—

Stop it, Rosie, he’s a jerk. You don’t like jerks.

No, but I can still appreciate the view.

“The storm should pass soon, I think,” I say, trying to get my mind off him.

“Mmh,” he replies, and wanders over to one of the plastic-wrapped pieces of furniture and finds a barstool. He pulls the plastic off it, drags it up to the window, and sulkily sits down. Water drips from his shirt onto the cement floor, and a shiver runs through his entire body. He rubs his arms to keep out the chill.

Even though it’s the end of September, climate change hit us with some late storms—probably the outer bands of Hurricane Diana. There are mounds and mounds of boxes behind the plastic-wrapped couch, so I figure there has to be a blanket (or at least an old towel) in one of them—and hopefully no snakes. Or spiders. God, I hate spiders.

I glance over his way as he sifts through the junk. Do you actually mean it? I want to ask. That I wasn’t the reason you didn’t tell me who you were?

But I don’t know how to begin, so I busy myself looking through the boxes, opening one after the other, finding Christmas ornaments and Valentine decorations and Fourth of July banners from years and years past. I take out the head of a Santa Claus—just the head, not the body—before dropping it back into the box and moving on.

Creeeeeepy.

What is more unsettling, however, is the silence between us. Usually we’re bickering—or at least snapping at each other—but this sort of heavy quiet is the worst.

Vance must think so too, because he finally says, “I didn’t mean for you to get the wrong idea. It’s not because of you I didn’t tell you.”

“You don’t have to spare my feelings—”

“I’m not,” he replies, turning to face me. He’s wringing the bottom of his shirt out, like he’s nervous. Him—nervous? Lightning must’ve struck me while I was outside. I must be dead. “I recognized the birthmark on your neck. It looks a little like a rose, so that’s how I remembered it. It’s cute.”

Cute. I touch my birthmark beneath my ear, so glad it’s dark enough for him not to see me blushing like mad. I dig further into the box and find a blanket.

“And I realized that I had already been terrible to you—well, that I’d just been terrible, period—and I didn’t know what else to do. And, I think a part of me was afraid that if you found out it was me, you would go to the tabloids, and I do not need that right now. I’m here because of the tabloids. But…” He takes a deep breath. “I think the real reason was, though, was that I was afraid that if you found out it was me you would be…”

“That I would be…?” I insist, turning to him.

He hesitates and sits down on a pool chair. “…Disappointed.” His voice is so soft, like the whisper of a secret. I drag the blanket out of the box and crouch in front of him. He hesitates a look at me, cornflower blue eyes framed by blond eyelashes.

“That’s funny,” I say with a soft laugh, “because I thought you were disappointed that it was me.”

He shakes his head. “No, never. You’re perf—”

I toss the blanket over his head. It’s an instinctive reaction. Like flinching away from a punch. Or screaming at a spider. But this is different. It’s a compliment I want to hear, but don’t, because while he sounds sincere, I don’t know how much of him I trust.

At least not yet.

“Your man-nips said you were cold,” I say, probably the least romantic thing I can think of, and leave him with the blanket.

He pulls it behind his head. He looks like he wants to say something else, but thank God he drops the romantic act. “Where did you find this?”

“In a box labeled ‘Dead Grandma’—kidding. Over there.”

“It looks dirty.”

“It probably is.”

He frowns, but it’s too cold not to take it. He wraps it around his shoulders even though he clearly doesn’t want to.

I shiver, but there was only one blanket in the box and I gave it up for the cause.

“You’re cold,” he says.

“Nah,” I reply. There’s a refrigerator into the corner, and though it’s not plugged in, it’s stocked, and I take out one of the sodas. A Coke. I don’t know if sodas expire but why not. I drag up a barstool next to him and look out the window at the pouring rain. He eyes the Coke. “Where did you find that?”

“The fridge. Wanna try it?”

“Definitely not.”

I shrug and pop open the tab. There is a little less fizz than usual. I sniff it. It doesn’t smell rotten. I take a tentative sip, and it tastes like absolute ass, but I try to rein in my disgust and offer it to him again.

“C’mon, it’s pretty good.”

“If you poison me…” he warns me, and takes a swig of the Coke. “Bloody hell,” he sputters, and quickly gives the soda back. “That tastes like motor oil!”

“It’s terrible,” I agree. “I’m pretty sure it expired like ten years ago.”

“And you made me try it.”

“You chose to,” I point out.

“I was peer pressured,” he replies indignantly, and we fall quiet.

We sit there in front of the window, watching sheets of rain cascade over the backyard, graying almost everything—the way a really heavy rain tends to do. Sansa is jumping across the yard, trying to eat the rain, as if she’s never seen water fall from the sky before. The thunder doesn’t even faze her.