Page 7 of This Changes Everything

I nodded, taking longer than necessary to put my club back in my bag. “You gonna come up and have a hot dog with us later?” I asked nonchalantly, simulating confidence.

“Yeah.” He dug into his tray for another ball. “You gonna come back tomorrow?” He avoided eye contact.

I looked back at my dad, who had grown increasingly quiet. The swell of his smile was unmistakable—he was eavesdropping as he packed up.

I turned back to Rory. “Yeah, I think so.”

Rory took a deep breath, as if he had been holding it. He kept his eyes down and nodded. “Good, you need the practice.” He smacked another perfect shot. I saw Blair and Cameron sneak glances at each other, also eavesdropping. Once Blair saw me notice him, he tucked his head back down and took another swing.

Chapter 3

NEW YORK 20 years old

WE SAT IN A CIRCLE OF CHAIRS, IN A SMALL ROOM, WITH FLOOR-TO-CEILING windows that beautifully showcased the prewar building next door. The walls in the classroom were white, the floors were painted black, the ceilings were high, and I was out of my element. It had seemed so ridiculous that I was accepted into Bronwyn School for the Arts that I’d continued to say “We’ll see” with a shoulder shrug and a head shake whenever someone in Vancouver asked if I was really moving to New York.

Rory had driven me to Seattle for the audition seven months earlier. I cried the whole drive home, believing I’d absolutely tanked my comedic monologue that I had decided to write myself. I was Humpty Dumpty trying to coax all the King’s men into touching me inappropriately while putting me back together again. It was a big swing for a prestigious school.

“What was I thinking?” I scream-cried the whole way home, while Rory suppressed his smile. I could see his face contort, choking down his laughter as I explained how I accidentally made eye contact with the school’s director and flirted with him in character, calling him a “dirty little pervert.”

“What was I thinking?” was also the last thing Rory said to me before I left. I gripped my chest, trying to protect my heart, which I could physically feel breaking every time I thought about him.

I looked around the room of student actors as we all introduced ourselves, sharing our names, ages, hometowns, and one fun fact. There were about twenty of us in our group.

“Hi, I’m Zoë Reyes. Twenty-one. I’m from Connecticut and I hate cheese.” Zoë had emerald eyes and long, dark-brown hair pulled back into a clip. She was gorgeous, with thick curtain bangs and a tight green V-neck shirt that showed her curves with precision. Her voice was raspy. We made eye contact, and she pulled a small, uncertain face, then chuckled at her silent admission of nervousness. Somehow, she oozed sex appeal, and all she had said was “I hate cheese.” I liked Zoë instantly. She was cool, but the likelihood of her connecting with a Canadian who wore a Bionator and headgear until she was ten felt improbable.

“I’m Lucas Martin. Twenty-four. I’m from Paris. I can get anyone underage into a bar, guaranteed.” Lucas’s quick but playful tone, combined with his rolls-off-the-tongue Parisian accent, brought everyone to attention. He wore a soft-blue long-sleeved shirt rolled up, showcasing his strong, tattooed forearms. His dark-brown, almost black hair was styled with a side part but also pushed casually behind his ears. He was leaning forward, arms pressed into his thighs, and his eyes penetrated every person in the circle. He was clean-cut, but you could tell he had to shave every morning and maybe every night to stay that way. I could have sworn I heard Zoë from across the circle exhale a noise through her nose when his stare connected with hers. She then shifted, uncrossing and then recrossing her legs, and I wondered if she had just accidentally come in her seat.

I pulled a face while looking at Zoë, silently communicating, You good, girl?

A surprised expression spread across her face, and she slowly shook her head. Nope.

I snorted, then my eyes shifted to the person sitting next to Zoë. He was looking at me, not Zoë or Lucas, and his eyebrows popped upward when we made eye contact.

Shake it off, Ellie. You’re up.

“Good to know, Lucas, because the drinking age in Vancouver is nineteen, but here, sadly, I’m only twenty. Also, I’m Ellie. McCain. If you see a cougar, it’s probably been stalking you for forty-five minutes . . . I think. So, yup. That’s the thing I’ve chosen to say.” I looked over the room and could see everyone barely listening as they prepared their own answers. All but three: Zoë, Lucas, and . . .

“I’m Ben Winters.” Ben’s voice was deep, but soft. He sounded like he knew what it was like to camp under a tarp. He kept his forest-green eyes on mine. “I’m twenty-three. From Seattle. Think of it as a better Vancouver.”

My face snapped into a frown. The. Gall. Ben held my gaze, refusing to turn away as the next person stepped up to the plate. They could have been speaking another language. I genuinely have no clue who they were or what they said. I was so immediately in my own head. I scrunched my nose and squinted suspiciously at Ben. I popped two fingers toward my eyes, then pointed them at whoever was talking, encouraging Ben to pay attention to that person. Whoever they were.

Beneath his crossed arms, Ben’s chest lifted with a silent chuckle. My eyes shifted back to Zoë, sitting beside him. She was mirroring the exact contorted expression that I had given her when she unintentionally groaned for Lucas. Girl. You good?

I tried to keep my focus on the class but found myself studying Ben from across the circle instead. He had dark-blond, thick, slightly wavy hair. I suspected that it took him forever to perfect his “casual, just-out-of-bed” strategically messy coif. He looked more formal than anyone else in the group, wearing a crisp white button-down shirt that had a couple of buttons open at the top, revealing a hint of his muscular chest. I would have put a thousand dollars down that this Seattleite grew up playing hockey or football—one of the cool kids.

He caught me looking at him, and his lips twitched.

Crap! I wasn’t ogling. I really wasn’t, and he probably thought I was.

He lifted his fingers to meet his eyes and threw them out at the teacher, this time telling me to pay attention. My face burned, but his silent laugh kept me grounded.

At the end of the orientation, our Acting Technique teacher, Jess Munch, a sixty-year-old silver-haired goddess, encouraged us to memorize the face of each person in our group. She said we would be together day and night, leaning on each other, sharing our darkest secrets, trusting each other, using each other, and needing each other for the next two years. She said we’d become more than simply the best of friends. We’d love each other and be bound by this moment because this was the moment we found out who we were.

I didn’t know how to feel. In theory, that all sounded great—if it had been with the people I grew up with, like Kara and Jacob Griffin, or my sister, Hannah . . .

Don’t think about the Campbells, Ellie.

I looked around the room at all the students gathering, talking, and laughing with each other. It felt like such a performance. Everyone was already performing whatever version of themselves they’d decided to be at Bronwyn but hadn’t yet become, including me.