CHAPTER TWO
Kaia
I’d been staring at the same page in my math textbook for at least half an hour.
Things were supposed to click by now, but they didn’t.
After scoring embarrassingly low on the PSATs last year and enduring an hour-long lecture from Dad, I’d tried to study more.
Maybe it was time to accept some brains were wired differently. Mine adored words but loathed numbers.
I tossed my pen onto the desk with a heavy sigh. “I quit.”
Mandy rubbed her palms together. “Cool. I was already getting depressed just watching you study instead of partying on your eighteenth birthday.”
I closed my notebook, bitterness rising in my throat. “Not by choice, Mandy.”
Of course I wanted a party. I’d rather go to the movies or dance than sit at home surrounded by textbooks and notes I didn’t understand. But I was grounded—punishment for my latest streak of bad grades.
Mandy hopped off my bed and padded to my closet. “Nah. You just need to be smarter.” She twirled in front of the mirrored door, admiring her reflection.
My stomach knotted. “Yeah, I know I’m not smart enough,” I said. “That’s why I’m spending my birthday studying.”
She giggled. “Not that kind of smart, silly. You’re the best in Spanish. That counts too.”
I snorted. To Dad, it didn’t.
“I just mean,” Mandy went on, “it wouldn’t kill you to pretend a little. Be fake-nice to Sharon and your father until you get what you want. Maybe your dad’s strict because he knows you hate his girlfriend.”
“Being fake would be exhausting. And I don’t hate her.”
Mandy narrowed her eyes like she thought I was lying, but I wasn’t.
I didn’t hate Sharon. I hated that Dad never spent time with me anymore.
I hated that my worth was reduced to grades.
I hated that he yelled whenever he was stressed—which was all the time.
Most of all, I hated that Mom would be sad if she saw how cold we were with each other.
Sharon made Dad happy. She drove me to school, work, and hip-hop. I didn’t hate her. I just hated that five years ago, Mom’s place had been left vacant for Sharon to take.
Mandy slid the closet door open. “Gosh, Demeri, do you own anything that isn’t gray or black?”
I picked up a pink highlighter and waved it in the air.
“You’re weird,” Mandy muttered, shaking her head. “I want to help you pick an outfit for tomorrow’s party, but everything looks like funeral wear.”
“Whose party?”
Mandy giggled. “Dean’s.”
My gut churned. With her wavy chocolate hair and hazel eyes, Mandy was pretty. Lots of boys at school would date her—if she weren’t hung up on the worst guy possible.
Dean was a good-looking senior, but he made my skin crawl. The way he tossed girls aside like used condom wrappers didn’t help.
“I can’t go tomorrow,” I said, closing the textbook. “I’m grounded. And I work, remember?”
Friday’s dinner rush meant better tips—and a small step closer to my dream of buying my own car. Grill&Go was a popular diner in Stetbourg, and even though my supervisor Cynthia was a pain, I liked the job.
Mandy shrugged. “Call in sick. It’s one day. I’m sure you can find a way to get your dad to let you go. He left you without a birthday party—just say you’ll be at my place.”
“He won’t let me.” I stacked my textbooks and notebooks in a neat pile on the desk. “And I really need the money.”
Scoffing, Mandy rifled through my closet. “Boring, boring, boring … You don’t need the money, Demeri. Your father owns a freaking racing team.” She slid a short black dress off the hanger and held it against her chest. “You could wear this.”
She wasn’t listening—or, as usual, didn’t want to. Same difference.
“I need a car,” I said. Without one, I was stuck relying on Sharon. She never said she hated driving me, but her huffs and long sighs were enough.
Mandy hung the dress on a spare hanger and shoved it between two gray hoodies, wrecking the color order Mom once taught me.
“What you need,” she said in her listen-to-me tone, “is to just ask your father. You think pretending to be independent is cool, but honestly, it’s stupid when all you need to do is open your mouth and—”
“Mandy.” I cut her off, the knot in my stomach pulling tighter. “He won’t buy me one, and I can’t keep depending on his girlfriend. I’m sorry about the party. Really. But it’s not a priority.”
“No.” Mandy let out a sharp laugh. “I’m not a priority. Our friendship isn’t a priority. You know I need to be there if I want Dean to finally notice me.”
I slid my gel pens into a pink holder. “He sees you every day at school, Mandy. I’m sure he’s noticed you.” Along with a dozen other girls he’d shoved his tongue at. She deserved better, but saying it would only piss her off more.
She pursed her lips. “So, you won’t go? That’s your final decision?”
“I’m sorry.” I stood. “I can’t pass up a hundred bucks in tips. I promise I’ll go to the next party with you, just not this one.”
“Whatever.” Mandy grabbed her purse and jacket, rolling her eyes.
“You just turned eighteen, but act like you’re thirty with a mortgage and kids.
Job, money,” she mocked as she headed for the door.
“I’ll tag you in stories so you see what you’re missing.
Happy birthday, I guess—if you can actually be happy. ”
I tried to be. Maybe I couldn’t. My eyes burned. I blinked hard, then walked her out and leaned against the front door.
I’d always imagined best friends as two halves of a heart—fitting seamlessly, beating in unison. For a while, that was us. But over the last couple of years, our priorities kept drifting apart. A crack split the heart, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fill it.
Dragging my feet back to my room, I tidied up and grabbed my diary.
November was almost here, too cold to sit outside, but I pulled on a hoodie and headed for the bench by the backyard fountain.
Writing eased me more than the sessions with Dr. White ever did.
I trusted my pink notebook more than the therapist Dad chose without asking if I even liked him.
I opened to a fresh page and wrote about Mandy and our almost-argument, about my frustration with math. . . and about Asher. He was coming tomorrow, now that he’d signed with the team Dad bought.
Nerves gripped my chest. Asher wasn’t fifteen anymore. He was twenty—a pro athlete.
Sharon never liked talking about her son with me. Everything I knew came from sports news. That’s why I knew all about his career, but nothing about the man he’d become.
With the pink book in my lap, I leaned against the bench. The fountain’s gurgle soothed me enough to close my eyes. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over. I still had to sit through birthday dinner with Dad and Sharon once they got back from the mall. Maybe if I faked being sick—
“Hola.”
I jolted. The diary slipped off my lap and landed in the grass. My breath caught as I lifted my gaze, and my heart flipped.
Asher stood inches away, black leather jacket over a white shirt, black jeans, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack. His shadow stretched across the bench. Holy shit. When had he gotten so tall? Was his skin really that golden, or was it the late sun?
My throat tightened with a hard swallow. Fool. Of course he was taller, stronger. We’d been kids the last time I saw him. Even then…say something, Kaia.
“Welcome,” I blurted.
Oh God. Welcome? Heat flamed my cheeks. I never blushed. Last week I told my therapist I’d caught Dad and Sharon naked, and I hadn’t blinked once.
Asher crouched, a smirk curving his mouth as he picked up my diary. “Here, take it.”
He handed me the notebook. “Thanks.” I pressed it to my chest. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
Better. Almost normal, despite my racing heart.
Asher straightened. His dark eyes skimmed over me, sending heat up my neck—but that couldn’t mean he found me attractive. “That’s the point,” he said. “I didn’t want my mother making a fuss. Is she home?”
“Out with my father.”
“I see. So, what were you doing here—besides the obvious?”
He nodded at the diary. For some reason, it didn’t feel invasive.
“Just passing the time,” I said.
“Don’t you have a party to be at or something?”
“Unfortunately not.”
Asher frowned. He dropped his backpack on the grass and sat beside me. “That’s a shame, peque. By the way, I brought you something.”
Peque. The little one. I bit back a smile, memory flashing: the first time I’d seen him in my garden, fresh from Spain with his mom. He’d looked angry, but then he asked about The Little Prince and called me peque. Beneath the attitude, there’d been softness. Not anger, I realized later—hurt.
I blinked the memory away. As Asher unzipped his bag, the fresh, spicy scent of his cologne drifted over me. Tingles spread across my skin. No guy I knew smelled like that.
He pulled out a rectangular package and set it in my lap. I laid the diary aside and unwrapped it.
“I hope you still like it,” he said. “Happy birthday.”
My heart swelled. A hardback of The Little Prince. We hadn’t even kept in touch, but he’d remembered—and cared enough to bring me a Spanish edition. “Thank you,” I whispered, tracing the golden letters of El Principito. “I can’t wait to read it.”
“They teach you Spanish at your fancy school? Wow. They suck less than I thought, peque.”
In rare bravery, I nudged his thigh with my fist. “I’m not little anymore.”
He chuckled. “Sorry. You’re eighteen—and a few hours. When are our parents getting back? I’m jet-lagged as fuck.”
“Soon, I think. Are you going to live with us?” I asked, curiosity slipping out. Sharon hadn’t mentioned anything. She probably didn’t know he was coming today.
Asher snorted. “No. I’ll stay with Ale.”
“Who’s Ale?”
He raked both hands through his messy brown hair, pushing it back. “My agent. So don’t worry. I won’t invade your privacy.”