She squeezed my hand, her fingers threading through mine like a promise. “Okay,” she whispered. Her arm curled around me, stronger this time. “Okay,” she whispered again. “I’ll get Jamal. We’ll go home.”

38

BLAKE, 1999

18 years old

It had been eight days.

Eight days since Mexico. Eight days since I broke apart in Beverly’s arms. Eight days since she told me we were going home and made good on that promise without hesitation. Jamal didn’t even ask questions when she woke him up at 3 AM, just grumbled “you two are exhausting,” and told us to pack.

And now, here I was, back in California, standing in the middle of Sydney’s birthday party, pretending to have fun.

She had wanted this. A big celebration. And I had told myself I could do it. I could show up, stay by her side, and play the role.

I told myself that three times before I got in the car and twice more before I walked through the door of Sydney’s house.

But the second I stepped inside, the air closed in around me. The smell of warm beer and sweat and cheap weed clung to everything. The living room was a mess of half-empty cups, crumpled napkins, and bodies pressed too close together.

Someone was doing body shots off the kitchen counter.

Someone else was jumping into the pool fully clothed.

I wasn’t drunk, but I wished I was.

Jamal had somehow gotten roped into DJing, which at least meant the music was decent. Too Close by Next was playing, and I could already see the way the girls swayed to it.

Sydney’s laugh rang out above the music, and I forced myself to focus. I turned my head just in time to see her toss her hair over her shoulder, grinning at something one of her friends had said. She was glowing. Brown hair curled perfectly, lips glossy, that black dress hugging her frame like it was made for her.

She was the kind of girl other guys would kill to have close, the kind who turned heads just by existing.

Her dark eyes flicked to mine through the crowd every few seconds. She had spent the whole night glued to my side, her hand finding my arm, her fingers tracing the veins on my wrist, her lips brushing my ear whenever she whispered something meant just for me. And I let her. Because it was her birthday. Because she was my friend. Because I liked her. I really did. Sydney was funny, sharp, and confident in a way that kept me on my toes. She never pried too deep and never asked for more than I was willing to give.

She liked me for what I was—whatever the hell that meant. I didn’t deserve someone like her. And yet, she wanted me anyway.

Sydney was also good at pretending.