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‘What are you writing?’ I ask.

He doesn’t look up. ‘Stuff.’

‘That’s not an answer.’

He finally lifts his head, eyes bright. ‘Ideas. Sketches. Stories.’ ‘Can I see them?’

‘No.’

‘Rude,’ I mutter, turning a page.

He grins and goes back to his journal, moving the pencil quickly and confidently. I love watching him like this: focused and quiet. He doesn’t find much of this kind of peacefulness at home. It makes me happy he can with me.

‘You’ll see it when it’s ready, but it’s just a mess right now.’

Every now and then he flips the page, and I catch a glimpse of drawings tangled between long paragraphs of scribbled notes. The sun filters through the branches above us, dappling his dark hair with spots of light. I shift onto my side, my book forgotten.

‘You’re going to be famous one day,’ I tell him.

He scoffs. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘I’m serious,’ I say. ‘You’re always creating something. You should do something with all of it.’

‘Who would read what I have to say?’

‘Me,’ I say. ‘But only if you put me in it.’

He looks at me. ‘You’re already in everything.’

My stomach feels funny, in that strange, fluttery way it does when he says things like that. I roll onto my back again, staring up at the sky, pretending it doesn’t mean as much as it does.

‘I’m in love with you, Bryn,’ he murmurs. ‘You know that, right?’

Heat spears down my neck. ‘I love you, too, Ash.’

He closes his journal and rolls toward me, trailing his finger up my arm. ‘Nothing will tear us apart.’

‘Nothing,’ I promise, burying my head into his chest.

26

ASH

Now

I can’t stop staring. She’s sitting beside me at the bar, her shoulder brushing mine every time she moves, and I can’t stop cataloguing every detail, as if it’s something I might lose again if I blink. The light catches in her strawberry-blonde hair, which is longer than it used to be, but just as gorgeous. I study the familiar curve of her mouth when she smiles into her drink.

She is undeniably the most beautiful girl in the room.

I drag my eyes away before she catches me. Being this close to her again feels dangerous and exhilarating. My obsession with her has not faded over time. I want her now more than I ever have before.

‘You’re being quiet,’ she says, glancing my way.

‘Just thinking.’

‘Uh-oh,’ she teases. ‘That’s never good.’

‘Just thinking about how good you look in that outfit,’ I say.