“I never said I was going to write the songs. But … I hope you know that you deserve better. I know loads of people will tell you family is everything or whatever. And it is, but that doesn’t mean family has to be the people you’re related to.”

I’d considered that, of course I’d considered that.

For others.

But never really for myself.

“And, hey, you can come over to my house any time you want. On breaks or during the summer or whatever. I’m sure my moms would love to have you.”

I give Wyatt a glance.

What did I ever do to deserve a boy so kind?

“Thank you, Wyatt,” I say. “For everything.”

I want to kiss him.

I want to kiss him until I run out of breath, until our lips are chapped, until our skin is rubbed raw. I want to kiss him like I’m dying, like he’s the only other person I’ll ever kiss again, like it’s the last day on Earth and we’ve got hours to spare. I want to kiss him like I never kissed Josh.

I want to kiss him more than anything I’ve ever wanted.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t want to ruin a good thing.

I finally have someone I feel like I can be open with, someone I can tell things to, someone who understands. Wyatt has learned more about me in the last four days than most of my friends ever have.

The only one who comes close is …

Josh.

And look how that turned out.

He wanted me.

But I couldn’t give myself to him.

Because I was afraid.

Because I was stupid and afraid.

I don’t want to ruin things with Wyatt. I don’t want to lose him as a friend.

I just got him.

So, I don’t kiss Wyatt Fowler.

I don’t kiss him even though I want to more than anything I’ve ever wanted before in my life. Even though I want to kiss him so much that my heart hurts, that my stomach is twisting into tight little knots that just won’t slip loose. Even though I’m desperate to know what he tastes like, what his hair feels like in my fingers, what his body feels like against mine.

I don’t kiss Wyatt Fowler.

Even though I want to.

*  *  *

Wyatt plays a little for me, his voice getting sleepier with each song. Finally he sighs, his wrist going limp over the neck of his guitar, and says, “I think I’m going to bed. I’m beat.”

“Yeah, long day.” Longer tomorrow.

He stands, carefully carrying his guitar back inside. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll be there in a bit,” I tell him. “Good night.”

“Night.” He closes the door to the balcony behind him. I stay outside, smelling the air. I’m trying to get my heart to calm down, to avoid admitting the truth to myself. I don’t want to think about this, to think about how badly I wanted to kiss him tonight, to hold Wyatt’s hand, to go even further with him than I’ve ever gone before. I don’t want that.