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PROLOGUE
MADDOX
AGE SEVENTEEN
Soft,tight black curls tickle my throat, and the hard wooden planks beneath me have made my ass numb. Slivers from the unsanded, worn-to-shit wood bite into my exposed thighs, but Braxton’s fruity perfume blows in the wind, helping mask the discomfort with somethingsodamn good. Something that has my heart thumping hard inside my chest.
My best friend is curled into my side, sitting beside me against one of the walls of the tree house my dad and uncles built for my siblings and me when we were just kids. We’ve spent the past two hours pretending our curfews don’t exist and praying for the rainstorm predicted on the weather radar to hit Vancouver and trap us in here.
I keep waiting for my mom to come running outside, yelling at me to drive Braxton back home before our parents ream both our asses, but it’s been silent. I’m the only one in our friend group to have my license yet, and I’ve been known to use that to my advantage—conveniently “forgetting” to bring Brax back home on time just to wrangle a few more minutes with her.
Braxton never pushes me to bring her back, so I keep my mouth shut. Happily, at that.
“I can almost hear you thinking,” she says, turning her face into my shoulder and heaving a sigh. I hold back a shiver.
“If you focus, I’m sure you could slip right inside my head.”
She hums. “You would think so, but you’re guarded up tight tonight. What are you thinking about?”
“You.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when she doesn’t seem surprised by my blunt reply. If anything, she seems comforted by it because her body shifts closer to mine. She grips my shirt in her fist, right over my heart.
With a swallow, I adjust my hold and slip my arm around her back, brushing the curve of her hip with my fingertips before resting my hand safely on her bent knee. My hockey jacket is splayed out beneath her, keeping her bare legs protected from the wood. We used to have blankets in here, back when our other best friend, Cooper, would hang out with us up here, but he graduated high school two years before us, and Mom has since cleaned up the tree house, thinking we would have gotten too old to hang out in here.
In a sense, she’s right. We haven’t played in this tree house since we were thirteen, but I’ll continue to take Braxton up here every damn day for the rest of my life if it means we can be like this. It’s easy to forget the rest of the world when we’re within these walls, protected from the outside world.
“What about me are you thinking about?” she asks softly.
I drag my thumb over her knee. Back and forth, back and forth. What I want to say is too much, even if I think she already knows. Everyone does.
“Have you chosen a school yet?”
“No. There are too many.”
“It’s because you’re brilliant. Every school wants you.”
Her lips brush over where my neck and shoulder meet, and I grind my teeth together to keep from groaning. Does she know she’s doing these things? Or is it all subconscious?
“Thank you. I haven’t chosen where I want to go yet.”
“I always pictured you at some prestigious school in Ontario or Quebec, but you hate big cities, and your French sucks.”
She pinches my chest. I laugh. “My French is better than yours.”
“Tais-toi.”
“Funny. How long did you practice that one?”
I shrug. “Long enough to know I wasn’t cut out to speak another language.”
Her fingers release my shirt as she opens her hand and presses it against my sternum. “Je ne veux pas te quitter,” she mutters.
My brows drip. “I don’t know what that means.”
“The draft is coming up. Soon, you’ll be gone regardless of where I choose to go to school.” She changes the subject. My French is crap, but even I know that isn’t what she said.
“So come with me. Find a school close to wherever I end up.”
