That only made me more curious.

I nudged him with my elbow, my gaze flicking between him and the still-flustered Jamal. “Come on, you can’t just leave me hanging like that. Tell me.”

He shook his head, all innocent amusement. “Nope.”

“But—”

Blake cut me off with a look—one that was both teasing and completely unreadable. “Trust me,” he murmured. “Some things are better left untranslated.”

15

BLAKE, 1998

17 years old

Saturday mornings were supposed to be sacred. They were for sleeping in, avoiding all responsibilities, and staying buried under my blankets until I could no longer justify it.

But Beverly didn’t care about any of that.

The covers were ripped away from me with absolutely zero remorse, yanking me from the edge of a good dream. I groaned, curling in on myself as if that could somehow protect me from the impending doom. My hands flailed blindly in an attempt to reclaim the warmth that had been so cruelly stolen.

“Up,” Beverly ordered, sounding far too awake.

“Down,” I countered, my voice muffled in my pillow.

“Blake,” she warned.

I cracked one eye open to find her standing over me, hands on her hips, looking way too put together for this ungodly hour.

She was already dressed—Tommy Hilfiger jeans, a white tank top, and an oversized flannel that I was pretty sure was mine. Her hair was up, wisps falling loose around her face, and there was that look in her eyes—the I won’t stop until I get my way look.

“No,” I mumbled, tugging at the blanket she’d stolen from me, hoping against hope that she’d take the hint and let me drift back to sleep.

“Come on, Blake.” She hopped onto the bed, landing right beside me with an enthusiastic bounce that shook the mattress.

I grunted as I was jostled, shoving my face back into my pillow, wishing it would swallow me whole. “Why can’t you just let me sleep?”

“Because,” she declared, “I need moral support.”

“For what?” I grumbled, still half-asleep.

She leaned in, lowering her voice like it was some big secret. “I’m getting my belly button pierced.”

That woke me up.

I rolled onto my back and squinted at her. “Since when?”

“Since right now.” She was practically bouncing, biting her lip to keep from smiling too hard. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” she whispered, nudging me. “We’ll make a day of it.”

Jesus Christ, she was excited about this

“A day of you getting stabbed with a needle?” I deadpanned.

“Yes.” She grinned. “And shopping.”

I pointed at my flannel. “That’s mine, by the way.”

She glanced down at it, then back at me. “Yeah. And?”

“Give it back.”

“Absolutely not. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

I blinked at her. “That’s not how clothes work.”

“That’s exactly how clothes work.”