I groaned, tossing the Advil and bottle of water into my dry mouth. I wiped my lips as the plane started sliding forward, gaining speed.

“Do you need help?” she asked, her voice neutral. She meant the drinking. The pot. The general mess that was my life. I was a high-functioning, borderline alcoholic who smoked like being stoned was an Olympic sport. Nobody complained when I sealed those deals and wired that money and fucked like a champion.

“I do, actually. I need you to leave me be until we get to San Diego. Think you can do that?”

Fuck, you’re a dick.

The last thing I remembered before I blanked out was Rosie’s chest rising and falling irregularly to her ragged breaths.

“Whatever,” she whispered. “I’m letting you off easy, because I’ve a feeling you had a shitty week. But if you wanna talk about it, I’m here.”

I wanted to tell her everything.

I didn’t want her to know shit.

She confused me, and right now, she was the very complication I talked about when I told her I always opted for the easy route. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. And when darkness came, so did she.

Nina.

Eleven years ago

What makes you feel alive?

Watching my reflection in the cool, calm water of the pool. Blue-hued, unblinking. Diving into a quieter space without even dipping my toe in the water.

DANGEROUS CHEMISTRY.

That was our main problem.

And that was why I vowed to never be home when Dean came to visit my sister. It wasn’t a difficult task. Millie had always been a creature of habit. Her room was neat, her notebooks tidy with perfect handwriting, granting her straight A’s back to back. Much like everything else, she allotted a perfectly specific time frame in which she hung out with her perfectly polished boyfriend. Tuesdays and Thursdays after school—because Dean had football practice in the mornings on those days—and on the weekends, they made plans outside of the Spencer’s mansion, because Millie couldn’t stand Vicious and vice versa.

It wasn’t like I was lying in my bed, listening to Miranda Lambert man-hating songs, and crying my eyes out. I was the C-minus troublemaker who loved a good thrill. I entertained myself with friends and after-school activities. Got my navel and nose pierced downtown, applied for odd jobs, saved money for a new bike, and skinny-dipped in the ocean near a deserted beach with friends when the weather permitted, which was always, because…well, SoCal.

Indeed, I did a lot of things that fall. Dutifully, none of them were my sister’s hot-as-sin boyfriend.

I can tell you flat out, right here, that being under the same roof with them made me want to skulk deeper into my skin and disappear into myself, vanishing into nothing. They made noises. I hated those noises. They were the worst type of noises.

Heavy breathing, panting, giggling, and loud, messy kisses. The fact that I was able to hear them through the closed door to Millie’s room only made the searing hole in my chest grow wider. Despite my shortcomings, I’d always been a sensible chick. I didn’t need this kind of negativity in my life. So, it was really for the best that I was never there.

If I could pinpoint the moment that brought on that resolution—staying away from Dean Cole even when Millie was in the room with us—I would pick the pool incident.

It was a Thursday, and Millie was late. She had to stop at the gas station on her way home to fill some air in her bicycle tires. I was about to leave the servants’ house where we lived on the Spencer mansion’s lot. Everything about that encounter felt like it was ripped out of a movie scene. I opened the door just as Dean was about to knock on it. Our eyes locked and so did my jaw, because I was fighting a smile I was determined not to let loose, knowing it could very well rip my face in two.

Dean looked like temptation. And I don’t just mean the fact that he was stunning in his regal blue varsity jacket and panty-melting bad boy expression. The way he smelled, of faint laundry detergent and expensive sex, and his commanding height and build made me desperate. I swear, half the time he was around, my desperation for him hung in the air like stench.

“Hey.” My goddamn voice cracked.

“Right back at ya,” he replied. Our eyes were roaming again. Not good, but also not the first time it happened. It always made me feel guilty. If they were hands, his fingers would pull at my waist now, right after flipping my black Dead Kennedys hoodie down so he could see my face better; mine grabbing at his perfect, sun-kissed brown hair, and our bodies glued together like two pages in a brand new book.

“Millie’s not here yet, but you can come in.” I stepped sideways and pushed the door wider. “I’m just heading out. She should be back any minute.”

“Where you heading?” he asked, placing his arm on the doorframe and blocking my way out.

“I’m sorry.” I folded my arms over my chest. “I didn’t get the memo. Is it suddenly any of your business?”

“Maybe the memo got lost in the mail.” He took a step in, forcing me to take a step back, and Jesus, I couldn’t even look him in the eyes I was so flustered. Luckily, my head was level with his pecs. “Because you’re definitely my business, Baby LeBlanc.” My heart jumped to my throat, making it impossible to suck in a breath, before he added, “And I think we both know better than to pretend I don’t keep tabs on you.”

I pulled my hood all the way down to cover my burning face.

Normally, he was the poster child for cocky. The whole cliché of the rowdy badass the HotHoles were feeding All Saints High about themselves. Their subjects and minions ate that shit up and came back for seconds. Perhaps I was at fault for not caring for that type of thing, but I never got the power trip and ‘grownup’ vibe the HotHoles were sporting. Part of the reason I noticed Dean in the first place was because he didn’t take himself too seriously, and wasn’t as brooding and douchebaggy as the rest. Ever since he started to date Millie—which wasn’t that long ago—he always tried to catch a word with me. At first, he assured me that he wasn’t touching her. After I told him that he should touch her, he got really mad. Nowadays, he was going out with her and acting like it—kissing her, God, I heard them just the other day—even though his eyes were on me. Always on me.

“I, ah…” I zoned out, the rusty wheels in my brain reeling, searching for a potential lie. My alibi was sound. I did need to go someplace. But I didn’t share it with people, much less fellow students, and definitely not the dude I had a huge crush on. Dean wasn’t a guy to back down, though. I had to say something—anything—so I opted for the truth. “I have a doctor’s appointment.”

Chancing a look up, I saw recognition and calm washing over his face. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Something wrong?”

Yes. My whole life is wrong.

“No, it’s nothing like that.” I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear under the hoodie. “Sometimes I just need to…” shut the hell up, the voice told me. Feeling small and vulnerable wasn’t my jam.

“To…?” He dipped his chin down, egging me on. And it was a crying shame that chemistry was an unexplainable string that pulled and bound two people together. Because that was how I felt at that moment. Chained. The way he looked at me, like I was the center of the world, bothered me. Flattered me. Possessed me. God, I had to say something fast to make him shut up and leave me alone. No matter how embarrassing the truth may have been.

“To get a chest massage.” I had to get all the mucus out of my airways, but that wasn’t something I was eager to share with him. I quirked a brow and shoved my fists into my pockets. “You know, just keeping it sexy, and stuff.”

My eyes were securely covered by the hoodie, but it still wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough next to him. Even with three layers of clothes, I had always felt naked.

Chest massages were a weekly occurrence. Sometimes I had to go to the clinic. Sometimes a nurse would come to me. And even though Millie didn’t say a thing about my illness to her boyfriend, I knew that if he really stuck around, he’d find out eventually.

Shouldering my way past Dean, I marched to the main entrance of the manor. There was a flagstone walkway leading straight to the gate, but I liked to take the long way, through Vicious’s massive pool and Dean’s-eyes-green-lawn. To walk on its edge. To feel alive.

I heard Dean’s steps jogging after me. Without looking back, I knew that he was sporting that smile that made me angry for some reason.

“Chest massage, huh?” He sounded cunning. “A lot of guys would love to help you with that.”

“Thank you, Dean, for the creepy comment.”

“What’s creepy in pointing out that guys wanna touch your tits?”

“The fact that it’s my sister’s boyfriend who is telling me this. It is also slightly inappropriate. And by slightly, I mean extremely.”

“Never said I wanted to do it myself.” He tsked, adding, “Why the fuck would you need a chest massage, anyway? You get a boob job or something?”

I paused by the deep end of the pool, turned around, and held his gaze in a way that felt too intimate. We were face to face. Body to body. The wind was cold but gracious. I took a step back. From that angle, Vicious could see us from his bedroom window. The last thing I needed was to arm him with more ammo against Millie, so he could tell her he saw me flirting with her boyfriend. I needed to make sure she was protected, no matter what.

“I have an illness,” I said, the words falling out of my mouth before I could stop them. His eyes darkened, leaking suspicion and disbelief to the rest of his face.

“What illness?” he demanded, looking confused, annoyed, and…hurt? Maybe.

“Cystic fibrosis. It’s a lung disease.”

“Curable?” He pressed, his voice hard. His brows dropped like a stone. It was almost like he was accusing me of something.

“Nope.” I felt my cheeks warming up. “Was born with it. Will die with it. Most likely because of it, too. Young, probably. Both my parents carry the gene.”