I put a cigarette to my lips, shaking way too much to light it. My eyes burn, and I check over my shoulder once. Nathan is glaring at me, as though to say, if you want to be my friend again, you’re going to have a lot of making up to do. He shakes his head, puts the mask over his face, and turns around, heading down the street with the rest of my friends.

I want to scream.

At myself. At them. At this stupid goddamn place.

But all I do is go inside, grab my backpack, and walk in the opposite direction of them, rounding the street corner to Cider Creek Pass.

12 BACK THEN – September

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

WILLOW MOORE

Age 17

“For fuck’s sake,” Ryke swears after laying on the horn. I’m clutching my backpack strap and double-checking my seatbelt, secured in the backseat.

Loren glances at me from the passenger seat for the twentieth time, and I nod at him like I’m okay.

I’ve been in the car with them while paparazzi cars and vans tail us, but never this badly. Cameramen caught an “unnamed girl” climbing into the backseat of Ryke’s silver Infinity, and the internet has been going crazy with shadowy pictures of me.

I have Tumblr, Twitter, and Celebrity Crush’s feed popped up on my cellphone, and it’s all everyone’s talking about.

The number one speculation: Ryke Meadows is cheating on Daisy Calloway.

I’ve seen them together. In person. (I still can’t believe it.) I helped Daisy make enchiladas for the house, and Ryke entered the kitchen to help too. I caught him stealing glimpses of his girlfriend, as though just wanting one more mental image of her—and his lips would always begin to rise in a smile.

Sure, I’ve always been a Raisy shipper, even if I can’t relate much to their adventurous spirits, but these small, hidden moments solidify what I’ve always thought to be true.

Ryke Meadows loves Daisy Calloway.

So no, he’d never cheat on her. I don’t believe it for a second, and I can only hope the world does too. I don’t want to interrupt or ruin their lives by moving to Philly.

At a red light, Ryke angrily rolls down the driver’s window and sticks his head out. “Don’t cut me off!” he shouts at the nearest SUV, a camera pointing straight at him.

“What kind of precious cargo is in the backseat, Ryke?” the cameraman asks.

“I’m fucking serious. Don’t pull out in front of me again like we’re playing bumper fucking cars.”

Loren cocks his head to Ryke. “Want me to drive?”

Ryke says nothing as he rolls the window back up.

“At least I don’t have road rage.”

“I’m a better driver than you—and don’t fucking say it.”

“You wrecked my car,” Loren teases with a half-smile. “I’ve never been in an accident, so I’m a goddamn great driver.”

Ryke rolls his eyes but stays quiet and taps the steering wheel, impatient for the light to change.