There was the first night they’d kissed. Cash’s fingers had brushed along the waistband of Mia’s jeans, then hooked into one of the belt loops to pull her closer. Asher had been down at the rocks, too, but neither of them had paid him much attention.

Had they always overlooked Asher? Had he cared at all? She hadn’t thought so. But maybe she just hadn’t thought at all.

She flipped through a few more pictures, past the winter dance that had been held in the gym of the four-room school. Asher had gone stag, but that hadn’t meant much at the time, what with five guys and four girls total in their age range.

There was a picture of the two of them dancing—her and Asher. It must have been a slow song, because her arms were looped around his shoulders, his hands were pressed into her hips.

They weren’t smiling. Mia’s eyes caught on her own face, and she wondered at the expression there. It wouldn’t have been odd for her to dance with him, but she would have thought they would both make it silly, a joke almost, or a warm hug that they swayed through in time to the music.

An odd sense of unease clawed at her belly. This picture wasn’t silly.

But. They hadn’t been like her and Cash. They’d never been like that.

She turned the page.

Monroe made her first appearance in the albums three pages later.

Mia paused, her hand frozen midair. There was something absolutely captivating about the girl, a quality Mia hadn’t remembered, which radiated off her even through faded film and yellowed corners.

Mia let the plastic sleeve fall so that she could see the picture in full.

It was a snap of Monroe sitting on the rocks down by the beach. Her head was tipped back toward the sun, her throat exposed, silky black hair brushing over her hand where it rested against smooth black stone. Cutoff jean shorts barely hid her long legs, and her white crop top exposed a sliver of stomach. The light caught against the jewel that was nestled in her belly button.

The girl had been beautiful beyond her dark hair and pale skin. Mia saw Lacey in her features, but there was something about Monroe that eclipsed her sister’s nervous prettiness. Maybe it was the hint of lushness at her lips and hips, a promise that had never been realized. Youth interrupted, caught in time, perpetually on the cusp of being spoiled forever by age and cynicism and a deep world-weariness.

But dying young was glamorous only in rock songs and movies.

Mia flipped the page.