“You look different,” I quietly confess. And she does, as if her time in Europe has painted her with a series of colors I’ve never seen before. Still Alex but in a different palette.
She peers at me skeptically. “What do you mean? We video chat all the time. We saw each other, like, three hours ago.”
“Yeah, in a cap and gown for two point seven seconds. Plus, video chatting isn’t the same. Half the time, you’re fuzzy or half-asleep.”
“Fair.” Her attention goes back to her motorcycle just as Mitchell Donnally tries to sit on it. “Hey, Donnally, get off my bike!” He startles at the callout and practically falls off before his butt can even find the seat. She continues to stare, just to make sure no one else tries to get handsy with her new toy before turning back. “Good different or bad different?”
“Good different,” I’m quick to tell her.
With a relieved sigh, she says, “You look good different, too.”
For some reason, her soft smile and even softer compliment makes my cheeks feel warm. I press my hands to my face to try to cool them just as Chloe appears with a basketful of tacos. “What are we going to do first?”
“Well, we could eat or”—I motion behind me at the entrance to the sports complex—“I heard there’s going to be karaoke.”
Alex’s entire face lights up. “Seriously?”
Chloe groans. “I swear to God, if you two sing ‘The Neverending Story’ again, I will surgically remove my ears.”
Alex looks at me with a devious grin. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Starship,” we say at the same time.
“I get to sing the boy’s part,” Alex calls out and sprints inside, leaving Chloe and I behind.
Chloe closes her eyes and tilts her head back as if she’s in for the longest night of her life. My heart feels the lightest it’s felt all year.
Chapter Two
Alex
The sound of a woodpecker chipping away at the tree near my window is annoying enough to wake me up. I still feel groggy, like my body is underwater. Peeling open one eye, I glance at the clock on my nightstand. Three fifty-seven. I groan and roll over on my back, tossing my arm over my eyes. My room is still dark but not pitch black, the curtains only blocking out so much of the sun this late in the afternoon, and I wonder if it’s a good idea to try to catch another hour of sleep or if I should just get up now.
The woodpecker starts up again, and I rub at my forehead, the pain behind my eyes suddenly unbearable. The splitting headache makes the decision for me: meds over sleep.
I feel hungover but not because I was out drinking. Instead, it’s a combination of intense jet lag and the metal strip that covers my bottom teeth like some kind of medieval torture device. Losing my retainer somewhere between France and the States was so, so stupid. For whatever reason, my spare feels too tight, like it wasn’t fitted properly. I pull it out and toss it on my nightstand. Even having it out of my mouth does nothing to dull the pain. I massage my forehead while I try to muster some energy to roll out of bed and find some Tylenol.
When I finally make it to the bathroom and check my reflection, I wince. Unfortunately, I look as crappy as I feel. There are dark circles under my eyes, and my hair is in complete disarray. I’ll figure that out later. Right now, I’ve got to take care of this headache.
“Do you have any pain meds?” I ask my brother, who I hope is in his bedroom. “My spare retainer makes my face hurt.”
“Try getting your chest sliced open,” Mason fires back.
Leaning back from the vanity from the bathroom that connects our rooms, I glare at his back. “Seriously?” He shrugs like it’s just a random fact and not a huge, life-changing deal, and continues to play on his computer.
“Check my stash,” he finally says.
Mason’s been taking a cocktail of meds almost his whole life. When we were kids, he had alarms to remind him when to take his medicine, and it was my job to make sure he heard them go off. Not that we could miss them; he had one of those watches that beeped and an old-school bell alarm that would ring and even a digital clock that would turn on the local oldies station. He doesn’t need all the reminders anymore, but Mom still makes him wear the watch.
I inspect the large collection of pill bottles on his side of the counter and frown. They’re precisely labeled and organized, but there are just so many of them. Immunosuppressants, antibiotics, antiviral meds, and finally, pain management. Were there always this many bottles?
Grabbing the Tylenol, I pop two in my mouth and push away from the counter, hoping his new set of meds is a precaution and not something to worry about. I brush my teeth, noting that a shower is definitely in order, but I have some time before Jules and I hang out, so I wander into Mase’s room and dramatically fling myself on top of his perfectly made bed.
“It’s four o’clock, how can you still be tired?”
“You try getting in at one in the morning and rushing to graduation on, like, four hours of sleep, then staying up all night.” Even without seeing him, I know he has some sort of smart-ass response ready to go, so I hold up my hand to stop him. “Don’t. Just shh.” I roll to my back and stare at his ceiling, working my jaw to try to get rid of some of this pain. “I hate this. I’m supposed to watch a movie with Jules later. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to eat any popcorn.”
He glances over his shoulder, then goes right back to working on whatever nerdy thing he’s doing. “Stop losing your retainers, then.” His shoulders are hunched, and his tone is so deadpan, like he doesn’t care at all about my pain.
