Chapter 3
Afew days later, I pull out of the LHU Rec Center parking lot, blasting Sleep Token from my car speakers.
My face is flushed, sweat dripping down my neck, my messy hair in tangled strands.
The gym shorts and sports bra I’ve got on cling to me, drenched from the brutal workout I just finished.
I probably look like I’ve just crawled out of a sewer drain, but I don’t care. I feel invincible.
Boxing gives me life.
I get a thrill from every punch, every dodge. Blood pounding in my ears as I spar. Imagining my sister’s face on every opponent.
I suppose today’s instructor didn’t hurt either—a seriously cute LHU junior with abs of steel and exceptional taste in music. He blasted old bangers like The Darkness and Motley Crüe while I fantasized about landing a right hook straight at Amber’s perfect little button nose.
Total win-win.
A happy sigh escapes me as I roll down the windows and crank the AC, letting the cool air wash over my skin. If only dealing with my sister in real life were that easy.
I’ve been dodging Amber all week.
Of course, she’s been spinning her side of the story to anyone with ears—Mom, Hayes, the neighbors, probably even the mailman. Just the other night, my mother cornered me in my bedroom after dinner to try and explain how “devastated” Amber was that I didn’t make the cast.
Mom hates when we fight. She’s been begging me to make up with Amber and move on—like that’s ever worked.
According to my mom, Amber had tried her best. She’d really pulled for me, but the director just didn’t think I had “what it takes” for a lead role in the play.
Perhaps most offensive of all, Amber claimed that she was the one hurting and felt betrayed because I didn’t tell her about my applying to NYU in the first place.
It was all bullshit, but my mother has always been a sucker for Amber’s lies. She lets Amber get away with murder just because she’s the baby.
Honestly, I’d probably respect my sister more if she’d just own up to her lying, conniving ways instead of pretending to be such a goody-goody, always trying to make me look like the bad guy.
I’ve learned the hard way: when Amber’s in damage-control mode, full-scale avoidance is the only way to keep my sanity.
That’s why, instead of heading home after my workout, I steer the car straight toward Hayes’s house.
Unfortunately, Hayes was right about my mom and the dog.
She flat-out refused to let me keep him. Just one more splash of salt in the wound, I guess. As if it wasn’t already depressing enough being stuck at home my freshman year because we couldn’t afford campus housing—now I didn’t even get the dog.
Hayes was a good sport about it. He offered to keep the dog at his place, handed me the key to his new apartment, and reminded me of the code to his parents’ house—not that I needed it. I’ve had that memorized since junior high. He said I could come by whenever I wanted.
Not exactly the setup I’d hoped for, but I guess part-time dog custody is better than nothing.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror as I turn into Hayes’s driveway. My face is flushed, dark baby hairs clinging to sweaty cheeks. I’m in desperate need of a shower. If I were like Amber, I’d never show up to his house without a full face of makeup and perfect hair.
But I’m not, thank God.
And I’m way too excited to see my new dog to waste time with things like blotting powder or mascara touch-ups. Or a fresh blowout.
I slip into the house through the garage doors, punching the code into the keypad. As I head inside, I can’t help but notice that Hayes’s father’s brand-new Lamborghini Aventador—the one that costs more than some people’s houses—is missing from its car bay. Guess that means Hayes is already out.
Alpha Delta Omega is throwing their big “Welcome Back” party tonight. Hayes is pledging the frat and invited me to go with him, but I said no. I just wasn’t up for it. Not after the week I’ve had. I’d rather stay in with the dog, a book, maybe a scary movie. Something chill.
Now, I can’t help but wonder if I made the right call.
Did Hayes bring someone else tonight? Someone prettier. Cooler. Someone not weighed down by everything like I am.
I bite my lip, eyeing the empty garage spot again. Hayes has his own fancy Mercedes G-Wagon, so why take his father’s new sports car and risk the man’s wrath unless he’s trying to impress someone?
Did he take my sister?
The idea makes my stomach curl. I know I’m not supposed to care who Hayes dates, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t help it sometimes.
Hayes and I have been best friends ever since we were little, back when his family moved from Greece to our beachside neighborhood in elementary school.
Those days, he was small and awkward and strange.
He had ghost-white skin like he’d never been outdoors and a thick Greek accent that made everything sound funny.
He didn’t fit in, but neither did I. So we found each other.
We bonded over gory slasher flicks and traded dog-eared horror comics like Tales from the Crypt and The Walking Dead. Our friendship was easy. Safe. Everything was perfect.
But then the summer before high school, everything changed.
Hayes filled out, got a tan, and somehow turned into a real-life Adonis.
He tried out for football and basketball and made both varsity teams freshman year.
Hayes leveled up overnight: taller, stronger, and with this insane, supernatural confidence that made everyone completely forget the weird little kid he used to be.
Now he’s the starting quarterback at LHU and pledging the best frat on campus.
It’s only a matter of time before the gap between us becomes too wide to ignore.
Eventually, he’s going to wake up and realize he doesn’t need some moody, emotionally twisted misfit from his past life.
He’ll outgrow me the way children outgrow beat-up old toys—kept for a while out of nostalgia, then tossed in a box and forgotten.
It hasn’t happened yet, but I know it will someday.
And when that day comes, I don’t know what I’ll do without him.
I’m still chewing on my depressing thoughts and my inevitable lonely future as I open the door to a shrill beep from the alarm, a flash of fur—and boom.
The dog slams into me like a wrecking ball of joy and muscle and drool, looking up at me like I’m his whole world.
The sudden impact of one-hundred-plus pounds crashing into me distracts me from going down another negative thought spiral.
Honestly, thinking back to Hayes’s freakout over me taking the dog home feels almost laughable now. It’s been nearly a week, and I’m already hopelessly, disgustingly in love with him. The dog—not Hayes.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
I laugh and kiss the dog’s warm wet nose before grabbing his leash off the coat hanger in the mudroom. It matches his new studded collar, both courtesy of Hayes’s limitless American Express, which we used with wild abandonment at the pet store yesterday.
Gourmet dog food. All kinds of toys. Treats.
Even an adorable black bandana with skulls and crossbones I picked out.
It all went on Hayes’s credit card without him ever batting an eye.
He may be a privileged brat who gets whatever he wants, but it’s hard to hold it against him when he’s always spoiling me.
“Ready for a walk, Dog?” I ask, clipping the leash to his collar as he barks eagerly at me.
Hayes and I still haven’t settled on a proper name for him, so for now he’s just Dog. I’ve been too scared to name him, worried someone might come crawling out of the woodwork and claim him.
We hung signs, checked online listings, posted on Facebook, even drove around looking for flyers, but so far no one’s come forward. At this point, I’m really starting to hope he might be ours.
As I lead the dog out through the garage, a sharp breeze makes me shiver.
It’s unusually cool for early September.
Luckily, I keep a faded Pink Floyd sweatshirt in the trunk of my car for emergencies.
I grab it as we pass the car and zip it all the way up, pulling the hood over my head.
People always think Southern California is hot and sunny year-round, but it can get seriously chilly, especially this close to the ocean.
Or maybe it’s just me.
My mother always says my blood wasn’t made for cold climates.
I’m constantly begging to turn up the heater or layering sweaters, even in summer.
She claims I’ll never survive a Northeast winter, that I’ll hate New York.
Then again, she’ll say just about anything to keep me here.
The woman has serious abandonment issues thanks to my deadbeat father.
I pause to stretch my hamstrings, bracing a hand on the car hood as the lingering pull from my earlier workout burns down my legs. Then I give the dog’s leash a gentle tug and lead him down the long driveway and out the front gate.
He trots eagerly at my side as we head toward the pedestrian sidewalk that lines the streets of Hayes’s prestigious private community.
These hills are home to some of Laguna Hills’s wealthiest residents—tech titans, real estate moguls, even a few Hollywood stars—and it shows.
Towering heritage oak trees rise on both sides of the road, immaculately pruned and decades old.
The pavement is flawless. Not a single pothole or piece of trash in sight.
There are some great hiking trails here, too. Quiet. Shaded. Just secluded enough to feel like your own secret world.