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Present day, age 21
LAVENDER STALKS UPthe stairs to the front porch, jabs in the code, and disappears inside the house. The door slams behind her.
She leaves a bloody smear on the doorknob.
I glance down at the back of my hand, also streaked with her blood. It takes me back to when we were kids and makes my stomach turn.
Instead of acting like a normal human being, I humiliated her. Again.
Publicly this time.
And she took it out on herself.
Nothing ever changes with Lavender. Except that’s not entirely true. She’s definitely not a gawky, gangly teenager anymore. That much is obvious.
I scrub my face and debate my options, which are limited. I knew this was coming. Just before high school, my family moved across the country. Since then, I’ve spent more than half a decade avoiding every possible situation in which I might inadvertently run into Lavender. It was easier when we weren’t living on the same street, going to the same school. And I was managing fine, until the holidays two years ago when she showed up drunk, dressed like goddamn Wonder Woman.
At the time, I’d stupidly thought I could handle seeing her after years of nothing. I’d obviously been wrong. The last time I’d seen her—prior to the Wonder Woman fiasco—she’d been a middle schooler, and I’d been on the verge of starting high school. A lot changes between the ages of twelve and seventeen, and that was extra true for Lavender.
It was my only huge slipup in all those years. But I never fully recovered from it—obviously still haven’t, considering I just drove her home and made her feel like shit because I can’t control my mouth.
For years, I managed to have something important to do during get-togethers with the Waters. I’d cry anxiety, skip the dinner/family/social garbage, and tell my mom I had to study, or a paper was due. I found ways to spend time with Maverick without subjecting myself to Lavender. It was better that way—for both of us, but mostly for her.
My mom knew there was something else going on. She always knows. And because everyone believes Lavender is fragile like glass, she let me get away with it. Until two years ago. The aftermath from that was a downward spiral that took months to come out of. Thankfully, I was in college already, away from home, so I could mostly wallow in my own self-loathing without parental observation.
There’s no avoiding Lavender anymore, though. Not with her living in the same house as my best friend, away from her parents.
I’d grown complacent with time, secure in my self-control. But today is a reminder of exactly what I’m facing again, and it pisses me off. I don’t need this bullshit—her weakness, her dependency on everyone around her.
She’s going to be there every time I turn around, with those blue eyes and those pouty lips. A constant reminder of all the ways I’ve fucked up. It’s a nightmare.
I’m betting River is the reason she’s here. I know twins have a thing, but the way he is with her is borderline psychotic—more so than the way things used to be with her and me. And that was pretty messed up.
I don’t have the energy to deal with more of Lavender, so I grab my hockey equipment from the trunk of her car and slip the keys in the mail slot. Then I walk to the house three doors down, where I live with Quinn Romero, one of my fellow hockey teammates, and BJ Ballistic. Our fathers have been friends our entire lives, and it made sense for them to pool resources and buy a house for us to live in while we’re here.
They all played on the same NHL team for a while, and when they retired, they decided to start a foundation—a hockey training program that subsidizes the costs for kids who otherwise wouldn’t be able to play competitively. Hockey is expensive and time-consuming.
When I enter, Liam, one of the Butterson twins and Maverick’s older cousin, is chilling in a gaming chair, one earbud dangling loose, messing around with a set of metal rings—I think it’s some kind of brainteaser, or a sex toy, who knows? He lives a few blocks over with his twin brother, Lane, but he spends a lot of time with Quinn, which explains why he’s here. BJ, otherwise known as Randy Ballistic Jr., is passed out in the lounger, one hand cupping his junk.
Quinn is sitting on the couch, playing a video game, with some blonde girl I’ve never seen before all up in his space. He’s on the rebound and taking the breakup particularly hard, from what I’ve witnessed. The girl’s wearing a pair of tiny shorts and a crop top. Based on the way her nipples are saluting everyone, she’s not wearing a bra. A broken necklace of purple hickies decorates her throat. She glances up from her phone, and her mouth drops open. “Oh em gee! Kody Bowman! You are so flipping hot.”
Quinn pauses the game and gives her a look that would bury most people. “Could you be less chill?”
“Geez. It’s just an observation.” She makes this face like she can’t believe he’d get upset about the comment.
“You were all over me less than half an hour ago. Give it a few hours before you go after my roommate.” It half sounds like he’s joking, half not.
Liam makes a noise, as if he’s waiting for shit to go down.
“So, you guys do share, then?” The blonde twists the end of her ponytail around her finger. When we all just stare at her, she tacks on, “And you’re hot too, Quinn, just . . . different hot.”
Quinn rolls his eyes and tosses aside the controller. “I gotta roll out. Enjoy my friends.” He stalks across the room, brushes by me, grumbling about bad choices, and slams his way outside.
I can already predict where he’s headed: the garage. There’s a gym out there with a punching bag, which we’ve had to replace more than once because Quinn uses it a lot. He’s a good guy with a big temper, which he tries to control with nonharmful outlets.
The blonde sits there, eyes wide, and repeats, “It wasn’t an insult.”
“It kinda was, though,” Liam says.
