Chapter Two

Morning comes too fast.

I grimace at my reflection. I’ve never held myself in high esteem when it comes to my looks. I’m not model-thin. I’m not effortless like Freyja and her friends. I’ve been told I have curves in all the right places, but I’ve also spent years wishing I could trade them in for sharp angles and a waist you could balance a book on.

So yes. I’m a mess. It’s fine.

I take a scalding shower and stand under the water long enough for the heat to loosen the knots left behind from a sleepless night. Tart cherry shampoo foams through my raven-black hair, which falls past the middle of my back. Conditioner next. While it soaks, I wash my body, then scrub my face with cleanser and my microdermabrasion wash.

When I step out onto the fluffy rug outside the stand-in shower, I feel almost human.

Almost.

My phone dings just as I walk into my room.

Niklaus.

My guy best friend. My almost-brother. The human version of loyalty with legs. We have more in common than I’d care to count. He confessed his love for me sophomore year, and I let him down as gently as I could because I couldn’t pretend to feel something I didn’t. It hurt anyway. For both of us.

Happy Birthday, Gorgeous!

Let me know when you get to school. I have a huge surprise for you!

A smile sneaks onto my face before I can stop it.

Just getting ready. I had a rough night last night, I text back.

I toss my phone onto my four-poster cherry oak king-size bed and start getting dressed.

Lotion. Underwear. Then my hip-hugger jeans, which require a small interpretive dance to get over my thick thighs and curvy butt. I pair them with a black tank top that reads:

Oh, I pissed you off? Suck it up, buttercup, I’m a Bitch! It’s what I do.

Combat boots. Leather jacket.

Not exactly pajama-day friendly, but I’m not a school-spirit kind of girl.

I grab my messenger bag and head toward the kitchen.

“Hey, Birthday Girl!” Freyja beams the second I walk in. “You ready for this weekend?”

I blink at her. She’s still in sleepwear. White pajama pants, pink hearts, matching tank.

“Uh, Frey. Why are you still in your pajamas?” I ask. “And what’s this weekend?”

I skip the thank-you because I’m still thinking about Nik’s “huge surprise.”

She stares at me like I just sprouted extra limbs.

“Today is pajama day,” she says slowly. “Spirit week. In honor of prom.”

I groan as my happy high deflates.

Right. Senior year insanity. Wacky clothes all week, big emotional send-off, yada yada nostalgia.

I glance down at my outfit and decide I’m not changing.

“I forgot,” I admit. “And I don’t really participate in school-sanctioned functions anyway.”

“Seriously?” She gasps. “How could you forget prom is this Saturday? There are flyers literally everywhere.”

Class President. Head Cheerleader. Prom committee queen. If anyone would take this personally, it’s Freyja.

“I don’t pay attention to everything that goes on at school,” I say, snagging a banana from the fruit dish. “And I wasn’t really planning on going.”

That earns me an even bigger gasp.

“It’s our last year of high school,” she says, the speech already loading. “You should be making the most of it.”

I sigh and hop up to sit on the counter, bracing for impact.

“You’re always studying or working,” she continues.

I mouth the words along with her, which gets me a glare sharp enough to draw blood.

“You should at least try to find a date if you’re worried about going stag,” she adds, softening. Then she gives me the innocent voice. “I mean, I’m sure Nik would love to take you.”

There it is.

“I don’t want a prom date,” I say. “I don’t want a boyfriend. You know this.”

A knock interrupts us.

Freyja heads for the living room. I open the fridge and find the milk empty.

“Frey, I thought you were grabbing milk last night after work?”

“Damn,” she says. “I knew I was forgetting something.”

She returns with Cherie right behind her.

Cherie is Freyja’s best friend and one of the few people who can talk for five minutes straight without sounding like a dying kazoo.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “We’ll grab milk and groceries after school.”

“Don’t you have a counseling appointment today?” Freyja asks as she pulls on her Suicide Awareness hoodie.

I groan. “Damn it. I forgot.”

Cherie looks me up and down as we head out. “Why aren’t you in pajamas?”

“I forgot spirit week,” I say. “And I didn’t feel like parading around in my sleepwear.”

She shrugs and turns back to Freyja. “Are we going to any after-prom parties?”

We take the six flights of stairs to the parking garage where Freyja’s ’04 silver Jeep Grand Cherokee waits. The spring morning is cool, and I’m quietly glad I’m not wearing heart-print pajamas.

When we reach the car, I catch Freyja and Cherie’s makeup in the sunlight. Natural and clean, with matching pink shimmer and smoky cat-eye liner.

At least they’re cute criminals.

“Go ahead and get the milk while I’m at my stupid appointment,” I tell Freyja.

“You wouldn’t go if I didn’t remind you,” she says.

I stick my tongue out at her, rainbow tongue ring and all. “Even if that’s true, you don’t have to say it out loud.”

Cherie laughs as we pull out.

“So,” she says, “do you think you’re finally going to let go of your four-year streak of being single and go out with that guy who follows you around like a lost puppy?”

I blink at her. I didn’t think she paid attention to my life.

“What guy?”

She giggles. Sweet, not nasal, which is honestly a rare gift in high school. “Sandy blond hair, gorgeous blue eyes. More loner than athlete. Always wearing the same kind of leather jacket you do.”

I smirk. “You mean Nik?”

She blushes and nods. “He’s totally in love with you. You realize this, right?”

“I do,” I say, rubbing my temples. “And I love him. Just not like that. He’s family.”

We pull into the school parking lot, and the conversation stalls.

Something feels off.

Not the normal Monday drag. Not even the usual senior-year chaos.

This is different. Eerie. Like the air is holding its breath.

I scan the crowds. Everyone moves in their usual packs, voices blending into a familiar roar.

Then I feel it.

Eyes on me.

I turn and spot a guy near the bleachers by the football field. He’s standing still, watching like he has all the time in the world. I squint, trying to make him out.

Tall. Maybe five-eleven. Maybe more.

That’s all I get before I force myself to look away.

I step out of the Jeep and immediately collide with something solid.

I squeak. Mortifyingly.

I turn and find myself face-to-chest with Nik, his six-foot frame dwarfing my five-foot-three self.

“Hey, Birthday Girl,” he says, grinning like he owns the sun.

He holds out a white envelope.

“What’s this?” I ask, reaching for it.