Chapter ? You’re lying. Just tell me.
Emma's one of those people who fills silence with endless chatter. Usually, people like that drive me nuts, but Emma's different. Yeah, she talks a lot, but her voice is soft, melodic even. Easy on my ears.
After our quick dinner at Sonic, I dropped her off at home and headed back to mine. Now, here I am facing my dad’s wrath for showing up after dinner.
“I had homework, Dad,” I say. “Library’s the only decent place to get info.”
My father, the mighty Thomas Walker, paces by the fireplace in his office.
The house is old, drafty, built of stone and pride, and his office feels like the heart of it—dark wood paneling, Persian rugs worn thin under his shoes, and shelves crowded with leather-bound tomes and odd relics from his travels.
A pair of hunting rifles hang above the mantel, polished to a gleam, while a bronze bust of some forgotten general keeps watch from the corner.
Shadows crawl across the walls, making the oil portraits of ancestors look like they’re sneering down at me as he stalks the carpet like a restless lion.
“I don’t care, Luca,” he snaps. “If you can’t finish your work on time, that’s your problem. Your mother expects you at dinner by six. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, eyes fixed on the flames licking at the grate.
Breaking rules isn't my thing—at least not when my parents are around, which isn't often since they're usually off traveling—but tonight was worth it. Time with Emma was amazing, refreshing even. Honestly, I didn't want to leave her. I wanted to talk to her for hours.
When I step out of Dad’s office, Silas is standing in the hall, arms crossed, clearly eavesdropping.
He falls into step beside me as I head to my room. “Where were you?” he demands.
“At school," I say, avoiding his eyes.
“You’re lying. Just tell me.”
I pause at my bedroom door and finally meet his gaze, eyes identical to mine. “I was with Emma Green.”
Silas freezes, clearly shocked. “Doing what?” he blurts out.
I sigh. “Eating, Silas, just dinner.” I start turning the knob.
“Wait!” He grabs my arm. “Was Lauren there?”
“No,” I reply, watching his reaction carefully. “According to Emma, Lauren was home crying.” I slip inside my room, shutting the door in his face.
Having Emma around has made school a lot less boring. Sometimes, I see her walking through the halls with her sister, she always smiles and winks. Of course, I never smile back, but damn if I don't want to.
I find her painting in the art room sometimes, totally absorbed in her work. She lights up when she's creating—focused, quieter, observing her art from all sorts of angles. From far away. Up close. From the side. Walking away and then spinning around suddenly.
One day, I finally step inside. When she sees me, I realize that something is not right.
“What’s going on?” I ask, leaning against the door.
“Luca, I’m freaking out,” she says, tears pooling in her eyes.
I immediately move toward her. “Tell me.”
“I’ve got artist’s block!” She waves her arms dramatically.
Seriously? That’s it? For a second there, I thought it was serious.
My heart was practically in my throat. I glance at her painting.
The canvas is splashed with bold streaks of teal and crimson, shapes caught between abstract and unfinished—like she was halfway to something brilliant before she slammed on the brakes.
It’s not her best, sure, but calling it terrible is a stretch.
“Why?” I ask, staring at the canvas.
“I don’t know! I have two weeks to finish this for my art school scholarship, and look at this mess!” She gestures wildly.
I laugh. First, because it’s definitely not a mess; second, because she’s hilariously dramatic when frustrated.
“Don’t laugh!”
“Sorry,” I chuckle, stepping closer. “Maybe something's distracting you.”
She looks at me carefully, her eyes searching my face. “Maybe,” she admits quietly, biting her lower lip.
Why does she do that? Now it's all I can focus on. “So, what's distracting you?” I push.
“I met someone this week,” she blurts out. My stomach knots instantly. “Maybe he's distracting me.”
I step back, feeling like I got punched in the face. Why am I suddenly so furious? “Well, stop seeing him immediately,” I say firmly. The possessive side of me wants to demand exclusivity, but that’s stupid, so I shove the thought away.
“I can't.”
“Why not?” I need his name. Right now.
“Because he's a student here!”
“You could still avoid him.” I cross my arms.
“You've got an opinion about everything, don't you?” she snaps back.
Yeah, that's true. “Fine,” I say, harsher than intended. “Then kiss that scholarship goodbye.” Why am I attacking her? It's not her fault I'm feeling this way.
Emma rolls her eyes, clearly fed up, and storms out of the art room.
“Emma, wait!” I call after her, quickly following. “Need a ride home?” Every moment counts.
“No, Luca,” she tosses back over her shoulder. “I'm walking away from you, can't you see?”
“Why?”
“I’m taking your advice."
Oh shit.
As expected, my parents bailed out of town. They never really ban us from throwing parties—they just make it clear we are only in trouble if they find out. So far, they haven’t.
So, the house is packed with people: friends of my brothers, some of mine, and a few familiar faces from school.
The one face missing? Emma’s. But that doesn’t surprise me.
She never comes to these parties, and I didn’t invite her either.
I refuse to be the guy chasing after her when there’s clearly someone else on her mind. Someone who’s not me.
Not happening.
I weave through the kitchen, dodging girls perched on the marble island my mom claims she cooks on. We all know she just orders takeout and reheats it in the oven.
“Hey, Luca!” a girl calls—Jennifer, I think. “Come hang with us!”
With a sharp tone, I reply, “Nah, I still value my brain cells, Jennifer.” And keep walking.
“Oh, come on! We can keep up with you!” She's sitting on the counter, her dress barely covering her ass and tits. She’s trying too hard.
“That’s not the issue. The issue is your Lois Griffin voice.”
Her friends laugh. She glares. This is why I hate these parties—everyone thinks I’m going to be charming and social. Wrong.
I open the fridge for a beer and close the door—then nearly drop the bottle.
Emma’s standing there. Her hair looks lighter tonight, pulled back in a crown braid with loose strands framing her face. She’s in a giant white t-shirt and worn-out, ripped jeans.
“Emma…” I say, eyes scanning her like I’m trying to memorize every detail. She could wear a circus tent and still be the most beautiful girl in the room.
“Hey.” She grins.
“W-what are you doing here?”
The music fades. The noise vanishes. All I see is her.
“Oh, my sister came with her friend, and they dragged me along,” she says nonchalantly, arms folded, leaning against the wall like she owns it. She’s so casually magnetic, it drives me insane.
“You… are you having a good time?” I blurt, my brows lifting as soon as the words tumble out. Seriously, dude?
Her lips twitch, like she’s trying to decide whether to smirk or roll her eyes. “Do you want my honesty?”
“Always.” My shoulders square, though my voice comes out lighter than I intend.
“I expected more.” She tilts her head, one brow arched, her gaze sweeping over the crowded room before landing back on me. “Your parties are kind of famous.”
I exhale through my nose, a crooked grin tugging at my mouth as I lean a little closer. “Then I’d better fix that. What do you want to drink?”
Emma snatches the beer from my hand and takes a sip. I swallow hard.
I’m going to die.
Three beers later, we’re still in the same spot, laughing so hard I forget where I am. I don’t want to do anything to break this moment.
“So, what did he say?” I ask between laughs.
“That I should stick to copying art instead of making it,” she bursts out.
We lose it again. Then the music cranks up, too loud. Emma winces.
“I can't hear you!” I shout near her ear. “Wanna go somewhere else?”
She nods, eyes gleaming. “Lead the way!”
I take off toward the stairs, checking behind me every few steps. She’s following, looking around like she’s never seen anything like this place.
I open my door and let her in.
The room’s big—too big for a teenager—but it’s mine.
A massive window looks out over the manicured lawn, blinds half-open to the night.
Posters of fighters and classic cars cover one wall, clashing with the expensive abstract art my mom insisted on hanging before I claimed the space.
The bed is king-sized, perfectly made by the housekeeper every morning, though a pile of hoodies and sneakers in the corner keeps it from looking like a hotel.
Do not stare, Luca. Don’t act like a total psycho. Don’t make her regret stepping into your world.
“Your house feels cold,” she says, hands stuffed in her pockets, eyes scanning the decor.
“What do you mean?”
“The vibe. It’s kind of stiff, very… aristocratic.”
“Yeah, that’s my mom’s doing,” I mutter, setting my beer down—on a coaster, obviously.
Emma wanders to my bookshelf. “Leaders of Tomorrow?” she asks, pointing at the book my dad forced on me.
“Yeah, my dad thinks those are enlightening,” I say, a little embarrassed.
I’m so lame.
I mentally scan every shelf—there are four full ones—hoping she doesn’t find the wrong book. Her finger drifts across the spines.
“Aha!” she exclaims, pulling one out. “I knew it.”
I cover my face.
“The missing Dalí book from the library,” she says, flipping through it. “Tell me something, Luca Walker. Do you always steal from Willow High?”
I walk over to my bed and sit on the edge. “I just wanted to see what you liked about it,” I admit, not meeting her eyes.
She sits next to me, book open to a specific page. “I’m not even sure why,” she murmurs, tracing the painting with her finger. “But this one makes me feel… peaceful.”
She is talking about the paint ‘Young Woman at a Window’.
Emma starts laughing.
“What?” I grin.
“I tried to recreate this once. It was awful. Everything was warped, and Lauren told me I should’ve called it ‘Young Woman at a Window While High on Narcotics.’”
We both break into uncontrollable laughter. Maybe it’s the beer. Or maybe it’s her. Either way, it feels damn good.
“Lauren…” she wheezes. “She meant it seriously, like it was helpful feedback.”
She flops back on my bed, still laughing. I follow, shoulder to shoulder, still breathless from it all. Tears roll down her cheeks. I wipe them gently with my thumbs.
Her smile fades, softens.
“Sorry,” I mutter, pulling back.
She catches my hands, presses them to her cheeks. “Don’t be. Leave them there,” she whispers. Her eyes are glassy, lips parted.
My grin disappears too. Before I can stop myself, before I can get scared and mess this up—
I kiss her.