Chapter 11
eleven
VANESSA-FOURTEEN YEARS OLD
It was the kind of summer people wrote about, the kind they made movies about. It dripped nostalgia; you could feel it, smell it, and taste it just by looking at an old photo.
Fireworks. Sweat-slicked skin. Sticky popsicle fingers. Swings. Lying on the shore pretending to tan before we even understood what tanning was.
I waited for Morgan in our usual spot. Morgan’s bedroom window opened onto the roof, and that summer, it felt like we lived up there. Even after sundown, the shingles still radiated heat, warming our skin.
Most nights she was at dance lessons, and I was alone.
I didn’t mind. It was the summer before high school, and everything felt like it was teetering on an edge—terrifying and exhilarating at once.
On that roof, staring at the stars, I sorted through it all.
Running track gave me that same clarity, but the roof?
That was where I made wishes—for love like in the movies, and for a life like Catherine’s.
I didn’t know if she realized I idolized her.
Subtlety had never been my strong suit, but she never treated me like a crazy stalker.
If anything, she treated me like a daughter.
Mamá would send over casseroles, thanking her for taking me off her hands.
I wasn’t a bad kid, just moody and difficult.
I picked fights when people were cruel. I didn't click with most people, so when I did, I held on tight.
I heard him before I saw him. I’d have known his gait anywhere.
“Do you ever go home? Or is mom taking in human strays now, too?”
I rolled my eyes, but my smile gave me away. My heart pitter-pattered in my chest, and I was glad for the dark that hid my blush. I probably should’ve mentioned the other reason I loved being here when Morgan wasn’t—her brother. Elliott James.
I didn't even know what I felt, only that it was nothing I’d felt before.
It had hit me like lightning the day Morgan gushed about her eighth-grade dance date.
Suddenly, I knew all about butterflies, sweaty palms, and flushed cheeks.
Girls at school were boy crazy, Morgan was shy.
Me? I was clueless, right up until Elliott.
“I’m waiting for Morgan,” I said without looking at him, afraid my face would betray me.
“Yeah, you say that every time. And every time, she’s not here.”
“My house has five people in it right now. Maybe I like the quiet.” I threw him a glance.
“Didn’t they teach you that lying is wrong? Even to yourself?”
Sixteen-year-old Elliott was exactly what you’d expect.
Gorgeous, even in his awkward phase. Perfect teeth.
Perfect smile. Great at every sport. Girls followed him everywhere—or so Morgan said.
And he was arrogant. God, was he arrogant.
I hated it. I envied it. I couldn't imagine having that kind of confidence in anything.
“You’re right,” I said. “I even have a picture of you on my wall.” He smirked until I added, “I use it for darts. Ten points if I hit the pupils.”
He went silent. Elliott was never silent. He was already looking at me when I turned, his beauty almost offensive. Nobody should have been allowed to be that beautiful.
“You’re impossible,” he whispered.
“Elliott Christopher James, speechless? Someone alert the press.” My smile spread.
“You know my middle name? Stalker.”
He had no idea. In my head, I was president and CEO of the I Heart Elliott James Club. Morgan probably knew, but she’d never said a word—that was why she was my best friend. If he ever found out, I’d have died of mortification.
“Know thy enemy,” I said, deadpan. I had no clue where I’d heard the phrase, but I ran with it.
“Well, in that case, what’s your middle name?”
I groaned. “No. Nobody knows my middle name, and I’m keeping it that way.”
Mistake. That was the game we played—digging up secrets, using them as ammunition. We’d been sworn enemies since we we’d met, but now puberty was making everything feel dangerous. It upped the stakes.
Track was the only sport my parents could afford, and it was why puberty had hit me late. But that summer, my body had finally changed. Boys were looking at me differently—or so mamá said. The only boy I cared about was sitting right next to me. I loved it. I hated it.
“You’ll have to tell me something else instead,” he pressed.
I racked my brain. Anything but my middle name. If I didn't give him something, he’d sweet-talk mamá, and she’d probably hand over my birth certificate and my naked baby pictures. I couldn't risk it.
“There might be another poster on my wall,” I blurted. “Next to your dartboard picture.”
I shouldn't have looked at him, but I did. Elliott smiling was better than all the stars in the sky, and in the moonlight, sitting this close, it was unbearable.
“Spill it. Who is it?”
My brain shorted out, cell by cell. “‘Stone Cold Steve Austin.” It came out as one frantic word.
He laughed, a sound that was rich and magnetic. I didn't know what sexy sounds were yet, but his laugh became first on the list.
“Oh, Nessie. How am I going to torture you with this?”
I was staring at his lips, and suddenly, he wasn't laughing anymore. His eyes were serious, heavy. They flicked to my mouth, and then he was closer. His hand cupped my face, his thumb brushing my lip. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears.
“Ness,” he whispered.
I couldn’t move. Couldn't breathe. He smelled like summer—perfect.
“I’m going to kiss you. If you don’t want me to, you’ll have to tell me to stop.”
A squeak escaped me. I wanted to hurl myself off the roof, to bury myself under a rock. But Elliott just smiled that devastating smile, then leaned in and obliterated me for eternity.