“You’ll be okay,” I whisper. “Caleb will take care of you. He’s good at that. Taking care of things.”
Taking care of me.
Sox headbutts my chin, still purring.
I set her down gently and, one last time, pour the cupful of food into her bowl. I can’t look at her. Can’t watch her watch me leave.
“Be good,” I tell her, even though she never listens.
Then I grab my garbage sack and walk away before I can change my mind.
Behind me, Sox meows. Once. Twice. Three times.
I don’t look back.
By the time I come back through the joint bathroom, Caleb’s already dressed, just tying his shoes.
The first rays of dawn are pouring in through the window, painting him in warm morning light. He’s so handsome I could die. My chest physicallyacheswith it, and my thighs clench, remembering all the things we did last night. The way he touched me. The way he looked at me like I was something precious.
I wish we could stay in bed all day playing and exploring each other’s bodies.
Why did I wait so long to give in to him? Why did I waste so much time fighting this?
I want strings, Harper.
I suck in a quick breath, then release it just as quickly.
Yes, Z is family. Z has always been family. But what if Caleb was always meant to be someone equally important to me? What if he was meant to bemore?
Maybe life is too busy happening in the meantime towait around for our plans to work out. Maybe what I feel even when I’m justhanging outwith Caleb—this easy, terrifying, overwhelmingrightness—is something I should stop running from.
“Ready,” Caleb says, finishing his shoes and popping to his feet. He grabs his phone and wallet, then nods toward his door with his finger to his lips.
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
The only thing more awkward than sneaking out at dawn would be getting caught by our parentswhilewe’re sneaking out at dawn.
Caleb opens his bedroom door with careful slowness, both of us flinching at a loud squeak before he pulls it open the rest of the way. Then we walk in the exaggerated heel-to-toe way they always do in the movies, and by the time we get to the stairs, I’m ready just torun. But Caleb’s so goddamned disciplined he keeps the slow, careful pace until we’re all the way out the door and to the Mustang.
“Go, go, go,” I whisper, getting in and tossing my garbage sack in the back seat. My entire life. One bag.
I don’t look at it.
Caleb takes one long look back up at the still-darkened house. At the home his mom made for him. At the life he’s about to lie his way out of for me.
Then he turns the key on the noisy engine, and we peel out of the driveway.
The rumble of the Mustang fills the silence between us as Westfield disappears in the rearview mirror. I keep my eyes forward, watching the road ahead instead of everything I’m leaving behind.
This is what I do. I leave. It’s what I’m good at.
So why does it feel like I’m making the biggest mistake of my life?
Why does my hand keep reaching for Caleb’s on the gearshift, like touching him will somehow make this okay?
Why can’t I shake the feeling that I’m not runningtowardZ—I’m runningawayfrom the one person who ever made me want to stay?
TWENTY-THREE