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“You okay?” Kenzie asks, tilting her head.

“Shoulder still aches a little,” I lie.

“Oh,” she frowns, using it as an excuse to touch my arm.

“I’ll be okay,” I tell her. I rush to open the passenger side door of the truck. I hope a little chivalry scores me enough points that she’ll forget about how weird I acted when she opened the door. Chelsea

indoor sport

As Gabe checks us into the Carlyle, the man at the counter eyes us with the most suspicious look I’ve ever seen in my life. Gabe stares that check-in guy down like he’s just daring him to say something. But I don’t really have time to care
what
the guy thinks, not with all my seesawing …

Me and Clint steaming up the windows of his truck. Gabe giving me a star in my own name.

Me and Clint at the bowling alley.

Gabe and the nearly two years we’ve spent holding hands. Clint and the roaring excitement I got just
touching
his hand. Gabe and the sticky goo he could reduce my heart to with any one of his romantic gifts.

Sweet, sweet Gabe,
I think, just as every single moment of our history together starts to float through my mind: long talks on our cells at night, kisses on my doorstep, late nights at dances, shared lunches in the Fair Grove High cafeteria. Most of all, I think about my hospital 236/262

bed, about his face being the first I saw when I opened my groggy, postsurgery eyes. I think about our plan to stay devoted to each other when we go to college.

Okay. So I’ve taken a slight detour from the plan. But it was only a detour. So I had a summer fling. Big deal. Everyone has summer flings.
Everybody
.

What am I doing, standing here trying to sort things out? Isn’t it all perfectly clear? Why would I ever throw someone as wonderful as Gabe Ross out the window over some guy I had a three-week fling with?

Gabe has been mine throughout the toughest year of my life. He loved me even as my whole world broke apart. And I loved him, too—
love.
I
love
him, too. Sure, it was different with Clint. But different isn’t necessarily better, is it?

Gabe is the future, I tell myself. Clint’s some blip in the past. Clint is over. Gabe is right now—and he’s waiting for me.

“Room 403,” Gabe says, as he slips my overnight bag from my hand.

Clint

between plays

Therestaurantissouptightandstuffy,Icanbarelybreathe.Yeah,it’s nice and all—linen napkins and a guy whose only job, apparently, is to attack crumbs on the tablecloth. But the walls are closing in. And as the silence at my table beats in my ears, I start to wish one of those rescue buttons was close by, the ones on elevator walls—red
in-case-of-
emergency
buttons. I wish I could press it, so that somebody could save me from the too-small dining room with no air at all. Not just
someone.
My mind keeps drifting back to Chelsea.

“Dessert?” one of the stuffy waiters asks.

“No,” Kenzie answers. “Just the check.” And when he disappears, she says, “Not your style, Morgan. I thought it was weird that you wanted to take me here in the first place.”

“Trying a little too hard to impress, I guess,” I agree.

“It’s okay,” she says, running a finger over the top of her water glass. “I like that you’re trying to impress me.” The skin around her eyes crinkles as she smiles at me.

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But this feels tight, too, this conversation. Uncomfortable as hell.

“Guess—guess I’m more like a beer and a burger at the edge of the lake,” I mutter.

“To the lake, then,” Kenzie tells me, leaning over the top of the table, angling so that my eyes hit the drooping-open top of her dress. Chelsea

fake out

Gabe,”IbreatheasIstepinside.“Youmust’vespenteverylastdime you’ve made on our room.”

“Not every dime. Close, though,” he teases as he puts down our overnight bags.

“This is like a suite that some movie-star couple would rent for their honeymoon,” I say, staring at the enormous crystal chandelier, the luxurious draperies, the lush coverings on the king-sized bed.

“Why don’t you freshen up?” Gabe says, nodding toward the bathroom. “I’ll order dinner.”

I nod. “Freshen up” means getting out of the dark-washed jeans and plain T-shirt I’d worn to make it look like I really was going to a game in Springfield. I drag my bag into the bathroom, where I slip into my gauzy blue dress with spaghetti straps, racy thong, and a pair of strappy sandals. I try to work magic with my makeup brushes, hoping that an extra layer of concealer is all I need to hide every second thought that keeps bubbling to the surface.

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When I finally emerge from the bathroom, Gabe jumps to his feet from the edge of the bed. “Perfect timing,” he says, smiling at me nervously. “Dinner just arrived.”

He points toward a small table draped with Irish linen and dotted with covered sterling dishes. A bottle of bubbly on ice serves as the centerpiece. I realize that in the time I’ve been gone, Gabe’s changed into a suit coat and tie and has turned down the bed, exposing ivorycolored satin sheets. He’s also taken it upon himself to spread rose petals all over those sheets, to light candles, and to place a nosegay of red roses beside my dinner plate.

“You look beautiful, Chelsea,” he says softly. He fidgets like he isn’t sure what to do next. I have to admit, the pressure of it all is hitting me, too—sure, I’ve done this before, but not in such a structured way. Which is exactly the way it feels. Not romantic.
Structured
. Back at White Sugar, on grad night, when Gabe had talked about sex at prom being a cliché, I’d felt lucky that he wanted to take the time to do things on our own terms. Now, it seems like we’ve spent way too much time
waiting
for the right moment to happen instead of just making it happen, the way I had with Clint. Injury aside, what does it say about us, that we’ve never made the moment happen in almost two solid years of dating? What does it mean that sex has never been a have-to thing with us? Being at the Carlyle with Gabe, now, makes me feel like we’ve missed our opportunity and we’re here to compensate—like taking a makeup exam or something.
Stop thinking so much,
I scold myself. I throw my arms around Gabe’s neck and kiss him. I kick off the strappy heels I’ve just put on and grab his tie.

From the look in his eyes—a mix of thrill and wonder and, yes, maybe even a little fear—
fear
?—I can tell he thinks we’re skipping dinner entirely. Or, at least, that I’m skipping the appetizer and heading straight for the main course.

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“Wait. First,” he says, pulling our bubbly from the ice, uncorking it, and pouring two full glasses. “To tonight,” he says, holding his glass as he proposes a toast.

And that’s all it takes to bring Clint into the room. Gabe’s toast brings me back to that last night—I hear, again, Clint saying,
To never
living timidly
. Suddenly Clint’s everywhere, showing me everything that’s wrong with this night. Everything that’s missing. I blink back the tears that well up in my eyes, hoping Gabe hasn’t noticed. Gabe clinks his glass against mine and we both tilt our heads back.

“Sparkling cider,” I say.

“Stupid, I know, but I couldn’t order champagne—no ID.”

“It’s wonderful,” I say, because even though it’s kind of a silly imitation, it really does soften the dry, nervous burn in the back of my throat.

I wrap my arms around Gabe’s waist and kiss him, powerfully. I can feel the beating of his heart against my own. His kisses wander to my neck as we edge our way toward the bed. Together, we tumble onto the slick sheets and rose petals.

It’s the first time we’ve kissed this way since I’ve been back.
Really
kissed, our tongues tangling, hands running up and down each other’s bodies.

But tonight, as Gabe kisses me, I can hear the sound of rushing water. Can feel drops of mist falling across my skin. Clint

bodies in motion

Ipark the truck at the edge of the water that sparkles black beneath the moon. I don’t even have the engine turned off yet when I feel her hand on my wrist. She swallows the distance between us in a single gulp—her hip against mine, her breast pressing against my biceps. Her mouth an arrow aiming for my own.

She’s pulling my shirt from my slacks, tugging me forward. Without thinking, I’m suddenly pressing myself against her, stretching myself out flat—pushing her back against the seat of my truck. Pressing my hips against hers. Her touch is soft, her fingers warm on my skin. Her lips? They’re strong and wet and full of want. But no
want
in me bubbles up out of my chest to answer hers. I open my eyes to find her staring up at me.

Chelsea

forfeit

Gabeworkshismouthdownmychest,kissingmealongtheneckline of my dress. He tugs at my spaghetti straps and continues to kiss me, making his way toward my breasts. But all I can think of is Clint and how his body had felt against my own. How desperately I wanted him. And I know, as Gabe’s mouth travels my chest, that I don’t want him. Not the way I wanted Clint.

I can hear the promise Clint and I made to each other:
Never live
timidly.
And I know going through with this night is the coward’s way out. The tears I’ve been holding back burst forth, running down both cheeks.

Clint

dirty player

She wrenches away from me, pushes against my chest. She keeps pushing until we’re both sitting up again. Bats me away angrily when I try to take her hand.

“This isn’t your style, either,” she says, pushing her hair from her face. “Lying like this.”

“Lying?”

“Pretending’s as good as lying.”

“I want to be here, Kenzie,” I insist.

When she finally does look at me, her dark brown eyes are glistening. “I’m such an
idiot
,” she says. She raises her hands and lets them fall into her lap. “Just take me home.”

“Kenz—let’s not end the night like this—”

“I’m not mad, Clint, okay? I’m embarrassed, though. So don’t make it any worse than it is—”

“I wasn’t lying,” I insist. “I really do want to be here.”

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“I know you do,” she squeaks. “Just with somebody else.” She rubs her face, shakes her head. “I’ve known you a long time, and you’re a good guy, and you deserve to be happy, and in a way, I’m getting what I wanted.”

“What’re you talking about?” I ask. This night is completely wearing me out.

“I hoped you’d fall in love again,” she admits. “And you did. Just not with me.”

Chelsea

man-to-man defense

Gabe lifts his head, staring down at me with a puzzled expression.

“Are you all right?”

I shake my head, wiping at my tears.

“Where are you tonight, Chelsea?” he asks. “Because you’re definitely not with me.”

I put a hand to my forehead. “Gabe—I’m just—”

“It’s not nerves,” Gabe says as he rolls away. “It’s something else.”

“You went to so much trouble, and I’m messing everything up.”

“It wasn’t
trouble—
it was what I wanted. I thought it was what you wanted, too.”

“It was.”

“Was, not is?”

I can’t answer that—the words stick in my throat like splintered chicken bones.

“What’s going
on,
Chelse?”

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I sigh and sit up next to him; I pull my spaghetti straps onto my shoulders. I can tell, from the tightness in his lips, that anger is really bubbling up inside him.

“The night before you go on vacation, we spend hours making out under the stars,” he says shortly. “Now, two days after you get back, you don’t want to be here with me. The thought of making love to me makes you
cry
?”

“Gabe,” I moan. “That’s not it.”

“Then
what
? Something’s happened. Something’s different. You can’t deny that. I’ve felt it ever since you got back. God—even when we were walking into the hotel, I wasn’t even sure this night was actually going to happen.”

My tears roll one after another, each forging their own shiny path through my powdery makeup.

“Can I ask you something that might piss you off?”

I shrug and nod.

“Was there somebody else while we were apart?”

I turn my head away, and my shoulders heave with sobs.

“I knew it,” Gabe mumbles. “I
knew
it,” he repeats, louder this time.

“Gabe, please,” I manage. I reach for his hand but he jerks away.

“It was the guy in the pictures, wasn’t it? Your trainer?
Wasn’t
it?”

he yells, his voice racked with the kind of rage I’ve never seen in him before. “Was he even
really
your trainer, or was that a lie, too?”

“No—Gabe—he really was. Gabe—I’m—I’m just so sorry.”

“Sorry about what? Me figuring it out?
Huh
?”

“No—about—this. All of this. Me hurting you.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he growls. “I’m sure you were real sorry when you were out with—whatever his name was.”

“Don’t be like that. I feel bad enough.”

“No, Chelsea,” Gabe barks, jumping off the bed. “I don’t think you do. There’s no
way
you feel as bad as I do. I’ll tell you how you feel. You 248/262

feel caught. But me? I feel like the whole
world’s
changed. Don’t you think I deserve more than this?” He starts pacing and running his hands through his hair so fiercely he looks like he’s tearing his curls out. “Almost two solid
years
together, and you don’t respect me enough to tell me to my face that you want to see other people? You just let me go on believing you want to be with me, and you run around on me behind my back? After everything I’ve done for you—after being there for you when everything else fell apart … I’ll tell you something. You thought far more of your stupid fling this summer than you thought of me. And that’s
not
okay.”

Defensively, I lift my face, my eyes narrowed into slits. All I can think about, suddenly, is the fact that up until a few moments ago, I was ready to go through with this night to keep from hurting him. That I was about to have sex with him even though my heart wasn’t in it. Wasn’t
that
thinking of him? Wasn’t that putting
him
first? Didn’t he see how much I’d just been willing to give him?