Chapters (39)
- Cover
- Dedication
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
As soon as I think it, I feel suddenly free, like a heavy weight has been lifted off my shoulders and I might just float away. I always thought Dean was out of my league, that I had to pretend to be a better version of myself to impress him. But the realization that comes to me suddenly makes me laugh with relief: Dean isn’t too good for me. I’m too good for Dean. I don’t want a guy I can’t be myself with; who made me so insecure I felt like I had to tell a lie.
And I can still be the adventurous Keely—the one who breaks the rules, who drinks whiskey and rides on the backs of motorcycles—without him. I just have to let go, to learn to take a risk, to tell Andrew how I feel before it’s too late.
It’s not a race, Andrew said, and he’s right.
Except right now, as I careen out of the elevator and run through the lobby to find him, it kind of is.
THIRTY-THREE
I DIAL ANDREW’S number, but he doesn’t answer. Either he’s still in the ballroom and the music is too loud, or he’s with Danielle and he’s ignoring me. When I run through the double oak doors, past the fallen cardboard waves and the broken bubble machine, I realize the ballroom is mostly empty. I might be too late.
There are a few teachers standing over by the DJ booth, helping put everything away, some couples sitting down at the tables, their shoes in their hands. Abby Feliciano is on the side of the stage, crying about something. Jarrod Price is at the buffet table, picking at a tray of chicken. But that’s it. I don’t see any of my friends.
I check my phone. It’s 11:30. It makes sense that most people would have left.
I turn around and head back to the lobby, calling Andrew once more for good measure as I approach the front desk. Again, he doesn’t answer.
“I need some information about one of the guests here,” I say to the concierge.
He’s a middle-aged guy, purple bags under his eyes, and he looks at me with a blank, uninterested expression. “We don’t give out any information about guests.”
“I just need the room number,” I explain. “My friends are staying in one of the rooms and I can’t find them.”
“Are you a relative?”
“No, but—” I say, and he stops me.
“Then I can’t give you anything.”
“I’m basically a relative,” I say, knowing he won’t understand, that he doesn’t know the intricacies of the Reed and Collins families: our history. “It’s an emergency,” I say again. “Please.”
“A prom emergency?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and looking me up and down.