Chapter 9
Anna
My brain is malfunctioning.
Like, actual system failure. Like, blue screen of death. Like, Anna’s not here anymore,
Why? Because she’s dead.
I stand frozen in my bedroom, heart racing, chest tight, every nerve ending on high alert. My body is stuck in DEFCON-1 Mode for no good reason.
No. That’s a lie. I know exactly why.
Because for one stupid second—one fleeting moment of insanity—Joel touched me. And he meant to do it.
And worse?
I noticed.
Okay, another lie. I not only noticed—I became hyper-aware.
Like some psychotic live broadcast where all I could focus on was the heat of his fingers barely grazing mine. And then I became aware that I was aware. And then I was aware that I was aware that I was aware. God, how is that even a thing? So stupid.
And then I ran—because what the hell else was I supposed to do?
Now, I’m here. Still spiraling. Still grossly aware of my own pulse, beating a little too fast, a little too erratic, like my body is rebelling against me.
I press my hands to my face, groaning into my palms.
“Get a grip, Anna,” I mutter, voice muffled. “It was barely a touch. A millisecond of contact. Less than a tap on a damn keyboard.”
But it doesn’t matter.
Because Joel doesn’t get to take up space in my head. He doesn’t get to sit there, all smug and unreadable, and worm his way under my skin like he belongs there.
I rip off my sweatshirt and fling it across the room, where it lands in a heap on my floor. It’s childish, but I don’t care. My skin feels too hot, too constricted, like his presence is still lingering, clinging to me, and I need it off.
Next, I yank out my hair tie, shaking my head like that’ll somehow dislodge him from my thoughts. A few strands get caught in the elastic, yanking at my scalp as I pull it free.
Great. Now I’m losing hair over Joel Price.
I glare at my reflection in the mirror above my dresser, my face still flushed, my expression tight.
You’re losing it, Anna. I mutter the words under my breath, pressing my palms against the cool wood surface, willing myself to calm the hell down.
Routine. That’s what I need. Something mindless. Something to pull me out of my own damn head.
I drop onto the small stool at my desk—the one my grandma gave me when I moved out, the same one my mom wouldn’t let me say no to. It’s an antique, or at least that’s what she told me when she forced it into my new apartment.
“A lady should have a proper vanity, Anna.”
Like I was suddenly going to start sitting here in silk robes, brushing my hair a hundred times like some 1950s housewife.
But tonight, I’m grateful for it. The routine. The ritual. The mirror is small, slightly warped from age, but it reflects the tired mess of my face just fine.
I grab my makeup wipes and scrub at my skin, a little harder than necessary, like I can physically erase the memory of his voice, his stupid smirk, the way his fingers barely grazed mine but still managed to set my nerve endings on fire.
I work my way through my skincare—cleanser, toner, moisturizer—focusing on the motions, forcing my brain into autopilot.
By the time I smooth the last bit of lotion over my skin, I feel marginally better. Not great. But like maybe, maybe, I’ll be able to shut my brain off long enough to sleep.
But first—a shower.
The thought hits me, and I hesitate, glancing toward my door. I should go now, while I have the chance. The last thing I need is to risk running into him again in the hallway.
I exhale sharply, pressing my fingers to my temples. This is ridiculous. I live here. I shouldn’t have to feel like I’m sneaking around my own damn house.
Decision made, I push off the stool, reaching for my pajamas so I can head to the bathroom—
Then I hear it.
The telltale creak of the hallway floor. Slow. Unhurried.
The bathroom door clicking shut.
And then—
The unmistakable hiss of the shower turning on.
Oh. Oh.
My brain short-circuits so hard I physically sit back down.
Because Joel Price is in my house.
In my bathroom.
About to be completely, 100% naked… if he isn’t already.
The thought hits differently as I hear the shower curtain being pulled back. The water running, the faint reverberation of the pipes—it’s all undeniable proof that there is a wet, very bare Joel standing approximately fifteen feet away.
I feel my soul leave my body.
How have I not thought about this before? I’m the logical one. My contingency plans have contingency plans.
And why, why, is it the only thing I can think about now?
About him.
In there.
Water running down his broad, stupidly defined shoulders. Steam curling around his too-tall, too-annoying frame. Soap trailing down—
NOPE. NO. STOP IT.
ABORT.
I shoot up like I’ve been electrocuted, then sit right back down because my legs are no longer trustworthy.
No. No, no, no.
This is not happening.
I refuse to let this happen.
I grab my face towel and scrub at my cheeks, like I can physically exorcise the thought from my brain. It doesn’t work.
I lunge for my headphones, pure survival instinct, scrolling through my phone with hands that are shaking slightly.
I land on Lily’s playlist for me. She made it last year and I could use it now.
I slam my thumb against play on “Zen as Fuck.”
Soft piano drifts into my ears, followed by some deep, meditative voice telling me to inhale peace and exhale stress.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Don’t think about Joel Price being naked in your house.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Don’t think about his arms. His back. His hands—
I yank the blanket over my head and crank up the volume.
This. This is my life now.
* * *
I don’t remember falling asleep. One second, I’m buried under my blankets, trying to drown out the fact that Joel is naked somewhere in my house, and the next, I’m fourteen again—sitting cross-legged on the floor of my childhood bedroom, my notebook balanced on my knee.
Joel is next to me, his seventeen-year-old self sprawled out lazily with my old acoustic guitar, plucking out chords like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
It always was, for him.
“Okay, what if we tried this?” He strums a few notes, then hums under his breath, testing out different melodies. His brows furrow in concentration, lips pressing together like he’s actually taking this seriously.
Which, honestly, is shocking.
Because when I showed him my lyrics—when I nervously, stupidly, let him peek into my world—I half expected him to laugh. To make some dumb joke.
Instead, he’d read them. Really read them.
And then, he wanted to help.
Even now, my stomach tightens at the memory of him staring at my notebook, scanning every word, and asking, So, who’s it about?
And me?
I panicked. Obviously.
Because how the hell was I supposed to tell him the truth?
That every single line was about him?
That my stupid, ridiculous, massive crush on my brother’s best friend had bled onto the page?
So I lied.
“Just a guy in my class,” I’d mumbled, shrugging way too hard. “No one special.”
I’d felt the lie burning the whole way out.
But he’d bought it. Maybe because he didn’t care to dig too deep. That suited me fine.
And now, here we were, working on the melody together—co-creating a song about him that he didn’t even know was about him.
I watch as he plays through the first verse again, nodding slightly as the melody takes shape.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. “I think this works. It’s got that…” He gestures vaguely with his hand. “You know, that feeling.”
I do know.
Because it’s my feeling.
Because this song is the closest I’ll ever come to telling him.
I bite my lip, forcing my voice to stay steady. “You think it’s good?”
He grins at me, so effortlessly Joel, like he doesn’t even realize what that smile does to me. “Yeah, Ace. It’s good.”
Oh my god, that stupid nickname. It didn’t bother me so much back then.
I tuck my chin, trying to fight back the warmth in my chest.
For a second—just one stupid second—I let myself believe that maybe this moment matters.
That maybe this song means something to him, too.
And then—
It all shatters.
The dream shifts. Warps.
Suddenly, I’m not in my bedroom anymore.
I’m standing in the school auditorium.
The lights are low, the air buzzing with anticipation.
And he’s onstage.
Joel Price, seventeen and stupidly charming, sitting on a stool with my guitar in his lap.
He shifts on the stool, his fingers moving over the strings like he was born with a guitar in his hands. The soft glow of the stage lights casts him in warm gold, turning the world around us dim, unimportant.
And then—he looks at me.
Straight at me.
Like I’m the only person in the room.
The first chord hums through the auditorium, soft and familiar, wrapping around my ribs like a memory I never wanted to share. I know this song. I wrote this song.
My breath catches as his voice drifts through the speakers.
Do you see me, even when I’m quiet?
Do you hear me, when I don’t know what to say?
I don’t have the words, I don’t have the courage—
But maybe I don’t have to, if you feel the same way.
The lyrics slam into me, knocking the breath from my lungs.
Because they’re mine. My heart laid bare, my secret stitched into every word, every aching note.
Because they carry every silent wish, every stolen glance, every impossible hope—that maybe, just maybe, he’d see me.
And now…
Now he’s singing it.
To me.
His gaze doesn’t waver, his voice steady, like this moment—this song—means something.
And suddenly, I believe it.
My heart pounds so hard I think it might crack my ribs. This is it. This is the moment.
He’s finally seeing me. Finally.
A lump forms in my throat, emotions crashing over me all at once. I barely notice the other students murmuring around me, their whispers blending into the background. My whole body feels electric, like the universe is rewriting itself in real time.
This is happening.
He feels it, too.
I swallow hard, barely breathing as the last chord rings out.