“Drop me off up at that corner, please,” I tell the cab driver, leaning forward to point at the crossing of two residential streets. I tuck my hair behind my ear before it has a chance to fall across my eyes as I settle back into the plush leather seat. I’m flanked on either side by glossy shopping bags in various shades of pink, white, and green, and when the hazy late afternoon sun glares through the tinted windows, I tip my designer shades down over my eyes.

The taxi pulls to a stop and I pay him, giving a hefty tip, as I always do. My mother rolls her eyes at how easily I spend money, particularly when I spend it on other people, but Dad is always sure to remind me that there’s no use in having money if you keep it all to yourself. And what can I say? I’m a daddy’s girl.

I carefully hook my arms through the handles of my shopping bags and climb out of the cab, giving the driver a little wave as he drives off. I had the cabbie let me out at the corner because our driveway and the street in front of our new house are both crammed with construction trucks and piles of building materials. It’s just easier to walk through that obstacle course than have some poor taxi driver try and maneuver through it.

I make my way down the street to the construction site, gingerly stepping over the upturned, muddy bits of lawn and stacks of perfectly-sawed dark lumber. I just know the bottoms of my Manolo Blahniks are going to be caked with reddish mud by the time I make it across the yard to the front door. Luckily, I think to myself with a smile, there’s a brand new pair from this season in one of the bags I’m holding right now anyway.

The only part of the house which is even remotely livable at the moment is the first floor den, which is currently serving as a sort of operations base for the construction job. My father spends most of his free time here, having set up a makeshift office in order to keep tabs on how things are going. He’s a hands-on kind of guy, and I think there’s a part of him that really wishes he was out there helping build the house himself. He’s more of a numbers guy, I think, though. I’ve never been one-hundred-percent certain as to what his work consists of, but I know he makes good money and he goes to a lot of private meetings. He keeps secrets sometimes, and he does everything in his power to keep his work separate from my mom and me.

Occasionally I do worry about him. Despite his attempts to keep it all under lock and key, sometimes I can see the stress of his job bleeding through into his interactions with Mom and me. He tries to be a jokey, good-natured guy and most of the time that’s exactly what he is. But now and then I can see something else going on underneath the surface, like maybe things aren’t quite as rosy as he makes them out to be. Still, I can’t complain. Our life — my life — is amazing. I have never wanted for anything in all my years, and I know at the end of the day my dad can take care of absolutely anything the world throws his way. He’s a strong man, that much I do know.

And besides, this whole construction thing has definitely made him happier. I catch him still awake late at night in his study, poring over blueprints and running numbers on his calculator, a look of feverish joy on his face. I think he must have been an architect in another life or something. It’s always fun to come with him to the new house and watch him boss the construction guys around. He’s never cruel about it, but I can tell he means business. Everyone can tell. He has a booming voice and his checkbook always in his hand, ready to write out another big number and hand it off to whomever he thinks he can trust to get shit done. My mom says he’s too showy with his money, but I think he’s just honest. Why hide it? Everybody knows we’re rich. Everybody knows my dad. I don’t know for sure what his reputation is, but I do know that he has one.

I push open the front door and slip inside, my arms starting to ache with the weight of my shopping bags. I squeeze through the skeletal wooden archway and into the den, where a cheap plastic desk and office chair sit in the center of the room. My dad is sitting on a couch on the other side of the room, his cell phone pressed to his ear. His face lights up at the sight of me and he gives me a wink.

“Hi pumpkin,” he mouths at me. I wave back before carefully setting my shopping bags down on the desk, covering the mish-mash of blueprints and contracts. I grimace at the state of my expensive shoes, debating whether to try and wash them off in the one barely-functioning sink or just wait until I can ask our maid, Janet, how to take care of them.

“Si. Bene. Parliamo più tardi,” my dad says quickly into the receiver, then promptly hangs up and sets the phone down on his lap. His expression turns from vaguely grim to bright and joyous as he grins at me, holding his arms wide open for me to come hug him. I smile and walk over to embrace him, then settle into the couch beside him.

“How is mia principessa?” he asks me warmly. “I see you did a little light shopping,” he adds with good-natured sarcasm.

“Fifth Avenue was full of tourists today,” I lament with a sigh. “I mean, it always is, but today was especially annoying. I think a couple of people even snapped photos of Katie and me while we were walking down the street. I mean, that’s got to be illegal or something, right?”

It happens more often than I would like. Sadly, when you’re an immaculately-manicured, fairly attractive young woman wearing flashy designer clothing walking around with your equally well-dressed and pretty friend, people are bound to stare. It’s not something I would consider a point of pride. It’s just the way it is. There are always photographers out on the street in the city, trying to snap a new, magical iconic photo that might propel their portfolio to stardom. My best friend Katie and I are both exactly the kind of fashion mag street-style editorial muses your everyday Joe Schmoe with a high-definition lens go looking for. And today the lighting is beautiful. It’s June, warm, and just the right amount of clouds in the sky to filter the sunlight. All the girls like me, with money and means, are dressed in our best summer dresses, heels, and sparkly jewelry.

I guess I should have expected the attention I got today. It’s nothing new. And if I’m being totally honest, it doesn’t even really bother me all that much. It’s flattering to think that some people find my look photo-worthy, even if it’s kind of superficial.

“Don’t let some low-life photog rain on your parade,” my father says, giving my shoulders a squeeze. “I hope you had a good afternoon anyway.”

“I did,” I answer truthfully.

“Good. Well, I’m probably going to finish up here in about an hour if you want to just sit tight for a little while, pumpkin. Just got to go talk shop with the crew and set some things straight and then we can go home. Sound okay?” he asks, standing up.

“Mmhm. Sounds fine,” I answer absent-mindedly, already trying to figure out what to do to pass the time until we leave.

“Just make sure you stay out of the guys’ way, alright? Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Good girl. Won’t take long, I promise.”

I like hanging out with my father, and going to visit the construction site is always exciting. I enjoy seeing what changes have progressed since the last time I saw the house. Riverdale is a ritzy neighborhood, full of old money and high-class reputations, and I know rebuilding a house in a place like this is a huge deal for my dad. He’s always looking for that next step up the ladder, clawing his way to fortune. He wants my mom and me to have comfortable lives and give us the very best, and I know this new house means a lot to him.

As soon as my dad disappears, I get up, too antsy to just sit here in silence for the next hour waiting on him to finish up. I know he wants me to stay out of the way, but I’m sure there’s something interesting happening.

Besides, my shoes are already mud-stained. What’s a little more dirt going to do?

I creep out of the den and back out the front door, taking note of my dad standing at the end of the long driveway talking to the foreman sitting in his big white utility truck. I sneak around the corner to the back of the house, where the guys are working on building a luxurious, massive back porch and sunroom. The sun is sinking a little closer to the horizon, making its slow, long descent across the sky. I know the sun won’t actually go down until much later, because it’s summer and the days seem to last forever. But the sun hovers in that orange, lazy space overhead, sinking the world into magical light. The bugs are starting to buzz around a bit more now that the unbearable noon heat has relented. In a couple hours, it’ll be evening, and the residential neighborhoods will start to smell like barbecue smoke and domestic bliss.

I’m sixteen, and the world is full of potential at every turn, like I’m standing in a room with a hundred unlocked doors. Behind every door is another world waiting for me, mine for the taking, if I can only choose which door to open first. It’s almost overwhelming how easy life is, how smoothly everything flows along from one season to the next.

Sometimes, though, I do wonder if it’ll end eventually. Everyone tells me these are the best years of my life, and I’m scared that maybe I’ll waste them by being too good, by staying too on-track. After all, I’ve always made perfect grades and followed the rules to the letter, staying away from drugs and partying and all those dark temptations my parents have warned me about. Katie and some of my other friends go to those crazy rager parties in Brooklyn every other weekend, and even though I’m always invited, I don’t go.

I always tell myself it’s just not the right time, that next time I’ll feel up to it. But deep down I know I’m kidding myself. I’m just not cut out for that kind of thing. I like to shop and hang out with my friends and sometimes I’ll go to parties, but I don’t get wasted and black out like everyone else seems to. I don’t know if I’m just too afraid or if I’m just of really strong moral caliber or whatever. Either way, I’m fully aware that I’m curating a stick-in-the-mud reputation for myself by abstaining from all that crazy stuff. I don’t want to be known as the good girl, but as the same time, I don’t think I have what it takes to be a bad girl, either.

Most of the time when I do go to the party, I end up pretending to laugh at people’s dumb jokes and taking sips of my water while telling everyone who asks that it’s vodka and Sprite. In the back of my mind, I’m always just tallying up how many books I could have devoured instead of awkwardly loitering around the kitchen in some stranger’s loft in Midtown. According to my mom, my curfew is midnight, but my dad says as long as I keep in touch and look after myself I can come home later than that.

I rarely stay out past my mom’s assigned curfew, though. I just get bored and take a cab home before the party even starts to really warm up. There’s nothing like the feeling of coming home, changing out of my form-fitting party dress and into soft pajamas, then eating cereal in bed while reading a book and listening to my dad’s old vinyl collection until I conk out and go to sleep.

But this summer, I’m starting to feel different. I’m starting to get restless. I want something more to do, something new to try out. It’s like I’m outgrowing this version of myself and I’m ready to be somebody else for a change.

I’m so lost in thought that I’m not even paying attention to where I’m going, and as I start idly turning around to walk back to the front of the house I nearly walk smack into a stack of wood coming my way. I jump backward, startled, and realize that there’s a man standing in front of me with a half-amused, half-concerned look on his face.

His extremely handsome face.

“Whoa,” he says, shifting the wood planks on his shoulder and giving me a roguish grin. “Damn near took your head off just then.”

“Sorry, I kind of zoned out for a minute,” I apologize quickly, feeling my face start to flush pink. The guy seems to immediately take notice, but to his credit, he doesn’t say anything. For a moment, time seems to slow to stop all around me as all of my attention zeroes in on the hot guy in front of me. His biceps bulge through the thin fabric of his white t-shirt as he balances the wooden planks on his shoulder effortlessly. His skin is a golden, ruddy tan and he’s clearly no stranger to working hard outdoors. He has dark hair and an intoxicating smile as he towers a head taller than me.

And his eyes. Bright, vibrant green eyes piercing right through me, like he can see into my thoughts, into my heart, see it pumping furiously in my chest as I try to get ahold of myself. It’s not like I’ve never seen a gorgeous guy before. Hell, I live in New York City. There are actors, underwear models, musicians of all flavors walking the streets every day. I’ve been hit on by so many attractive boys at school, and sometimes older men flirt with me when I’m out and about because my makeup and my high heels make me look more mature than I am.

But god, there is just something about this guy that’s throwing me for a loop.

“You alright?” he asks, puncturing my thoughts and bringing me back to the present.

I nod vigorously, letting out a nervous laugh as I tuck my hair back behind my ears. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. It’s—it’s the summer heat, I guess. Making me a little dizzy,” I lie quickly.

“Oh, it’s definitely getting hot out here,” he replies, just a twinge of double meaning in the flash of his smile. “Let me set this down over there and I’ll get you something cool to drink.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to do that,” I interject, but it’s too late. The guy has run across the yard to deliver the gigantic wood planks to the crew, taken a bottle of water out of a red cooler on the ground, and is now jogging back to me, all rippling muscle and boyish charm.

I try to regain my composure, reminding myself who the hell I am. I’m Serena De Laurentis, new money princess who’s moved on up from the Bronx to Manhattan and soon to the affluent neighborhood of Riverdale. I wear this season’s designer clothes and I have friends in high places. My dad is a powerful man and my mom is a notoriously snobby socialite.

I should absolutely be able to keep my cool around this construction guy.

But as soon as he gets back and hands me the bottle of water, I nearly forget my own name. It’s like he’s putting out some kind of dumbing fog which turns me into a speechless, star struck little girl. Be cool, I tell myself firmly.

“Thank you, that’s so sweet,” I comment, taking a sip of the water.

“It’ll cool off a bit when the sun finally goes down,” he replies, standing with his hands on his hips as he looks me over. Now that I’m starting to chill out a little bit, I can detect an accent bleeding through his words, a faint one, like he’s trying his best to suppress it. “So, is this gonna be your house?” he adds.

I nod. “Yea. My father’s talking to the foreman right now. This house is kind of like his passion project or something. His baby.”

“And how do you feel about it?” the guy asks, surprising me. I didn’t expect such a weird question. It’s my future house, but it has nothing to do with me. I just go where I’m told.

“Um, I mean, it seems very nice,” I answer haltingly. Then, when the guy’s green eyes stay locked on me, clearly expecting a longer answer, I go on. “I don’t know. I like our apartment in Manhattan. It’s close to my school and all my friends and stuff. So moving out here is going to be… different, I guess. I’m a little worried that I might get lonely sometimes. But it is what it is.”

I’m shocked at myself for sharing so much with this complete stranger. I’m usually better about keeping my cards close to my chest. I don’t let just anyone in, and I’m always careful not to overshare with anybody, even with my close friends. But there’s something about him that just makes me feel secure, like anything I say is safe with him. Besides, who is he going to tell? He’s not from the same side of the tracks as I am, and I know for a fact he runs in very different circles. Hell, I’ll probably never see him again after today.

Weirdly enough, that thought sends a slight pang of sadness through my heart, which is just ridiculous. I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me. I don’t even know his name.

“I’m Bruno, by the way,” he says, almost like he can read my mind. He holds out his hand for me to shake and I reluctantly take it, feeling his warm, calloused palm against mine. I hope to god my hands aren’t clammy.

“I’m Serena,” I reply, unable to suppress a smile.

“Well, Serena, I’m going to do everything within my power to make sure this house is perfect for you. Hopefully that will make the move a little less painful,” Bruno says, without a single note of sarcasm. He’s earnest, one-hundred-percent.

“Thank you,” I answer quietly, feeling very small and silly all of a sudden. Changing the subject, I ask, “So, what is this back porch monstrosity going to look like when it’s finished?”

Without missing a beat, Bruno launches into an in-depth explanation of the dimensions, materials, and projected design for the back of the house, using terms I can’t even begin to understand as he rapidly paints me a picture I can only half-imagine. Either way, I’m impressed. I expected that he was just kind of a grunt worker following orders since he looks to be about my age and I don’t know any guys my age who could even build a birdhouse, much less a house for a person to live in. But he seems to genuinely understand the process of craftsmanship, and even though I can’t quite follow what he’s saying, I can tell that he feels passionate about what he’s doing. Passion. I don’t know any guys my age who show the least amount of enthusiasm for anything, much less a job.

But everything about him tells me Bruno is different. He’s not the kind of guy I’m used to, the kind of dude who sits next to me in chemistry class and tries to throw tiny paper balls down my cleavage and brags about last weekend’s keg stand like it’s the most impressive feat any human being has ever attempted. Bruno is something else entirely, and I am intrigued.

“Wow, you really know your stuff,” I comment, shaking my head in awe.

Bruno shrugs. “It’s my job to know it. Plus, now that I know this house belongs to a beautiful girl like you, I’m gonna work extra hard at it.”

I open my mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. It’s not even that suave of a pickup line, and yet I’m literally speechless. I look down at the ground, my heart racing.

“Come with me,” Bruno says suddenly, reaching out to take my hand. I glance back up, startled at this intrusion, and meet his vivid green eyes. He’s smiling at me brilliantly and I realize there’s not a cell in my body that can refuse him. It’s stupid, but it’s true. He’s got me hooked, and even though I don’t know a thing about him, I will follow him anywhere.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he pulls me along.

He looks back over his shoulder. “Shh. Just be cool. You finished off that water so fast, I’m just gonna get you something better to drink. It’s a balmy summer evening.”

I have to laugh a little at the ridiculous wording. What a weirdo. He leads me to the back of one of the utility vans, glances around surreptitiously for a moment, and then slides the side door open, gesturing for me to follow him inside.

“You know, I think this definitely feels like the start of some cautionary tale I read as a child. Something about not getting into a van with a stranger,” I remark, lifting an eyebrow.

Bruno chuckles. “Okay, I can see how this might be weird. But I swear, I’m not about to kidnap you or anything. Although judging from the house your dad is building, it looks like I could probably get a pretty sweet ransom for you.”

“Yeah, that definitely makes me more likely to climb into this van with you,” I joke, crossing my arms over my chest stubbornly.

Bruno shrugs, still grinning. “Fine, fine. You can hang out there. I’m just going to mix a couple of drinks. Something to cool off with. Better than water.”

He starts digging around in a couple of coolers, taking out different bottles of what looks to be liquor and mixers, concocting a drink he pours into two red Solo cups, handing one off to me.

“So now I’ve gone from following a stranger back to his van to now accepting a strange drink from the back of the stranger’s van. Great. My mother would lose her shit,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I don’t drink, by the way. Not usually. I’m only sixteen.”

“I’m seventeen,” Bruno says, casually taking a sip of the mystery drink. “But who cares? Nobody has to know but you and me, and I’m sure as hell not going to tell anybody.”

“This better not have anything funky in it,” I warn, sniffing the drink hesitantly. It smells vaguely sweet, but I don’t know enough about alcohol to place any of the scents.

“Funky? Merda, you really don’t trust me, do you?” he responds, sounding ever so slightly offended that I would suspect him at all.

“Well, I don’t exactly know you. For all I know you could be a murderer or something.”

“Yes, I’m a carpenter moonlighting as a murderer,” Bruno laughs. He takes another long sip of his drink. “I don’t have time for a double life, Miss Serena. What you see is what you get.”

Narrowing my eyes at him suspiciously, I finally taste the drink. It’s actually rather delicious, and the liquor sends a warm wave right down through my body. Bruno grins.

“What is this?” I ask.

“I like to call it a bastard Americano,” he answers.

I snort. “A what what? I thought an Americano was a kind of coffee drink.”

“Not this one,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s supposed to have vermouth, but I don’t have that. It’s Campari and soda water. An Americano for the pretty Americana,” he adds, giving me a wink that makes me blush.

“So, if you’ve been drinking this stuff all day, does that mean you’re drunkenly building my house?” I inquire, giving him a critical look. Bruno scoffs.

“No, no. This is all for the end of the day. For me, at least. Some of the guys sip on beers throughout the day, but I like to keep a clear head while I’m handling heavy machinery, myself.”

“Good, because if I fall through the floor because somebody was too drunk to properly assemble my back porch, there’ll be hell to pay,” I declare, trying not to sound too haughty.

“If you fall, I’ll be there to catch you, mia passerotta,” Bruno says, and I catch onto the accent at last. It’s Italian. Of course it is. I feel like an idiot for taking this long to figure it out. My mom’s family has been in America long enough to have lost the accent decades ago, and my dad does his best to keep his accent under control, but most of his friends and colleagues sound a lot like Bruno does. After all, this is New York.

“Passerotta?” I repeat, confused. My parents never spoke Italian with me growing up, so I unfortunately never learned it, even though everybody who hears my name assumes I speak it.

“Sparrow. Little bird,” Bruno defines, waving his hand.

“Never heard that one before.”

“Good, then I’m the first,” Bruno says smoothly, downing the rest of his drink. “Your dad’s not a cop or anything, is he?” he asks, half-jokingly.

I shake my head. “No, definitely not. But he would still be angry if he caught us doing… this. So we should probably get out of here.”

“Get out of here?” Bruno repeats, setting down his cup and climbing out of the van to stand in front of me. He’s standing close. So close. I can feel the heat radiating off of his body, smell his masculine scent. He looks down at me with those green eyes and I almost feel my knees buckling.

“Where would you want to go with a guy like me?” he asks softly. A shiver of something new, something dangerous, tingles down my spine.

“Serena! Time to go, pumpkin!” I heard my dad’s voice carry from across the property and I freeze instantly. The last thing I need is for him to come around back and discover me standing here with one of the construction guys, drinking alcohol from a van.

I swallow hard and look up into Bruno’s face. He doesn’t waver in the slightest, completely unafraid and unabashed. “Tomorrow night. S-six o’clock. The park around the corner from here,” I tell him quietly. “I’ll see you there. Okay?”

Bruno smiles and lifts a hand to take the cup from me. He nods. “See you then, Serena.”

I back away slowly, not wanting to leave. Then I force myself to turn and hurry back around to the front of the house to grab my stuff and head home with my dad. On the way home I dutifully answer my dad’s inane questions about my day, listen to him talk excitedly about plans for the house, and complain about extended deadlines the foreman keeps missing.

And all I can think about is Bruno. Those green eyes.

I’m going to see him tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow…

* * *

The alarm goes off and I sit up violently in bed, my heart racing as I search blindly in the dark to turn off the sound. It’s time to get up and go to work. It’s time to shake off my dreams, shake off those years of waiting, and get back to my life.

Without Bruno.

My chest aches as I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I wish I could climb back into bed and resume my dream where it left off, go back in time to relive those first early days, when Bruno first appeared in my life like a mirage. We were just kids then, and so stupid. We had no idea that there was a big, scary world waiting to close its jaws around us. We thought the only thing that mattered was setting the next date, waiting for the day when we could sneak out to be together again. God, I wish I could go back in time and live those days over and over again. Things were so simple. Or at least we weren’t yet aware of how complicated they could get.

It’s been two years since they took my Bruno away from me again, threw him behind metal bars, locking away my heart and soul. He’s in prison, and even though I’m free to walk around outside and go about my life, I’m imprisoned, too. Because none of my freedom means anything without being able to share it with the man I love.

Everybody and everything conspires to keep us apart, and I don’t know how to break through the chains and get to him. Every second we’re apart, that bridge between us crumbles just a little bit more. I have his pictures everywhere and I stare at them every day. I refuse to forget a single detail of his face, even though I’m sure his time behind bars has changed his face, has changed his heart.

I can only hope that one thing won’t change: his love for me.