Not for us. Not for the way things were supposed to be.

This was bad.

The Price family had taken me in, given me a home, a future. Expectations came with that. Trust came with that. And this—whatever this was—was a betrayal of that trust.

I cursed under my breath, still feeling the weight of her against me, still hearing her sleepy breaths.

Lines existed for a reason. Proximity blurred them. Comfort made them easier to ignore.

Jaw clenched, I shoved the memory aside and forced myself out of bed before it could become something harder to dismiss.

I couldn’t let myself dwell on it.

I wouldn’t.

This was nothing.

Just a mistake of circumstance.

And that was all it would ever be.

5

BEVERLY, 1994

12 years old

Weeks. It had been weeks since Blake really talked to me. Sure, he answered when I spoke first—short, clipped responses that made it painfully clear he didn’t want to—but he hadn’t sought me out. He hadn’t talked to me the way he used to. The way I was used to. The way I needed.

I noticed it immediately, of course. How could I not? He was my best friend. And suddenly, I wasn’t his.

At first, I told myself it was nothing. A phase. He was in a mood, and it would pass. But the more time that slipped by, the more I realized it wasn’t just a mood. This was a choice.

He was choosing this. Choosing distance. Choosing silence.

And choosing not to tell me why.

At first, I tried not to push. Maybe he needed space. Maybe something was on his mind, and he just wasn’t ready to talk about it. But every day that passed, every time I caught his eyes flickering past me like I wasn’t even there, it chipped away at me.

I replayed our last real conversation over and over, searching for the moment where it had all gone wrong.

Had I said something? Missed something? Did he realize something about me that he didn’t like anymore? The questions burned in my head, always lingering at the back of my thoughts.

One night, I couldn’t take it anymore.

If he wasn’t going to start the conversation, I would.

I stood in his doorway, arms crossed over my chest, heart pounding way too hard for a stupid conversation.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Blake, sprawled out on his bed, barely spared me a glance from his book. “Nothing.”

“Liar,” I scoffed, stepping further into the room.

He sighed through his nose, turning a page. “Beverly.”

“No. Don’t ‘Beverly’ me. You’ve been acting like I don’t exist for weeks.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being honest,” I shot back. “If I don’t talk to you first, we don’t talk at all.”

He didn’t say anything.