“No, baby. This man is a walking STD. They taught you what that means in school, right?”
Before he could nod yes or no Mom shooed him down the hall. “Don’t listen to yourtía,mijo. She’s crazy.” She turned back to us, pointing between me and Elliott. “What is going on here?”
“Probably a murder,” my sister called from the couch.
“Mamá, Elliott wants me to work on a new line of dresses for the next thirty days… at his house,” I muttered.
She looked at Elliott, then back at me. It was the longest blink I’d ever seen. “Está loco,” I said, twisting my finger at my temple. “He’s probably going to kill me,mamá. Don’t let him take me.” I turned to him, my eyes widening. “That’s your plan, isn’t it? You’re going to kill me.”
“Yes,” Elliott said without missing a beat. “That’s exactly why I talked to your dad first and now I’m standing next to your mom. I want to make sure everyone knows to trace it back to me. I want all the credit.”
Mom ignored us both. “¿Cuándo te vas?” she asked. She wanted to know when I’d be leaving which meant she was actually considering letting me go with this possible murderer.
“Now,” Elliott said.
She kissed him on both cheeks, ran to the closet, and dragged out the first suitcase she saw. She packed my bag like a woman possessed, like she was shipping me off to boarding school for misbehaving.
“I need to tell my dad,” I groaned.
“Already taken care of. I asked him,” Elliott said.
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Now get dressed.”
“Why? We’re just going to your place, right?”
“No. I have errands, and you have a dress fitting.” His smile turned serpentine.
“God, I hate you so much.”
“So you keep saying. It’s getting old. Hurry up. I let you sleep in, but that’s where my generosity ends.”
“Sleep in? It’s not even nine a.m.” I walked right up to him. In my sweetest whisper, I said, “I can’t wait until you go to bed tonight, so I can smother you with your pillow.”
He smiled as if it were a joke and not a threat. “I’m looking forward to it.”
eleven
VANESSA-FOURTEEN YEARS OLD
It wasthe kind of summer people wrote about, the kind they made movies about. It dripped nostalgia; you could feel it, smell it, and taste it just by looking at an old photo.
Fireworks. Sweat-slicked skin. Sticky popsicle fingers. Swings. Lying on the shore pretending to tan before we even understood what tanning was.
I waited for Morgan in our usual spot. Morgan’s bedroom window opened onto the roof, and that summer, it felt like welived up there. Even after sundown, the shingles still radiated heat, warming our skin.
Most nights she was at dance lessons, and I was alone. I didn’t mind. It was the summer before high school, and everything felt like it was teetering on an edge—terrifying and exhilarating at once. On that roof, staring at the stars, I sorted through it all. Running track gave me that same clarity, but the roof? That was where I made wishes—for love like in the movies, and for a life like Catherine’s.
I didn’t know if she realized I idolized her. Subtlety had never been my strong suit, but she never treated me like a crazy stalker. If anything, she treated me like a daughter.Mamáwould send over casseroles, thanking her for taking me off her hands. I wasn’t a bad kid, just moody and difficult. I picked fights when people were cruel. I didn't click with most people, so when I did, I held on tight.
I heard him before I saw him. I’d have known his gait anywhere.
“Do you ever go home? Or is mom taking in human strays now, too?”
I rolled my eyes, but my smile gave me away. My heart pitter-pattered in my chest, and I was glad for the dark that hid my blush. I probably should’ve mentioned the other reason I loved being here when Morgan wasn’t—her brother. Elliott James.
I didn't even know what I felt, only that it was nothing I’d felt before. It had hit me like lightning the day Morgan gushed about her eighth-grade dance date. Suddenly, I knew all about butterflies, sweaty palms, and flushed cheeks. Girls at school were boy crazy, Morgan was shy. Me? I was clueless, right up until Elliott.
