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uk First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2013 Copyright Rachel K. Burke Cover images Shutterstock.com Rachel K. Burke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition December 2013 ISBN:9780007556724 Version 2013-11-25 Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Chapter One
Going from Catholic school to public school is like living in a fishbowl your whole life, and then being dumped into the Mississippi River. The classrooms are bigger, the hallways are wider, and everywhere you look, there are cliques upon cliques of students of all different genres. It was September of 1997 when I began my freshman year at Rockland High. I can still remember staring at the mass of strange faces preppy cheerleaders who followed the jocks, stoners in leather who smelled like cigarettes, art kids in an assortment of colors and wondering where I, Renee Evans, would fit into the equation. But as soon as I walked into my fifth period English class, I didnt have to wonder for long. I spotted her in the back corner, scribbling something on her notebook. She was wearing black combat boots and a yellow T-shirt that said, Save a Tree. Eat a Beaver. I was wearing a Nirvana T-shirt and the purple Converse sneakers Id owned since junior high. I took a seat next to her and we both discreetly eyeballed each other until she broke the ice. I like your necklace, shed whispered to me. I was wearing a black choker that resembled a dog collar with silver studs. A token of one of my unfortunate, short-lived goth phases. Thanks, Id whispered back. I pointed to her notebook, where shed written the words J.B. 1966 1997 with a heart around it. 1

Youre a Buckley fan, huh? Her jaw dropped in disbelief. You like Jeff Buckley? She looked me up and down, then narrowed her blue eyes suspiciously. Whats your favorite song? That was an easy one. The day I discovered Lover You Shouldve Come Over, music took on a whole new meaning. It was like Jeff Buckley had beamed down from rock and roll heaven to educate society on what music was meant to be. To turn music into more than just a dancy track that saturates the airwaves into a life-altering event. Into something that makes you view the world differently. I relayed this information to her, at which point a glorious grin broke out across her face. Im Justine, she said. Renee. Her eyes circled the room, then she leaned forward in her seat and lowered her voice to a whisper. Do you want to meet me for a smoke at the Groves after school? Sure, I agreed. Id never smoked a cigarette in my life, but it seemed ideal for an otherwise uneventful Monday afternoon. The Groves were located in the back of the Rockland High football field, a giant spread of woods where kids would meet at the end of the day to smoke cigarettes, get high or arrange fist fights with their opposing enemy of the week. Justine led me down to a secluded spot, then took a seat on the ground and handed me a Marlboro red. When I took my first drag and started coughing like an amateur, she broke into a fit of laughter. Never smoked before, huh? she asked. I shook my head. I just spent the last eight years in a Catholic school. The most rebellious thing that kids ever did there was sniff White Out. That made her laugh harder. Laugh is an inappropriate word actually, because Justine didnt laugh, she giggled. And it was contagious. No matter what kind of mood I was in, all it took was Justines infectious, childlike giggle to snap me out of it. I cant pinpoint it exactly, but there was something about Justine 2

that I was instantly drawn to. Maybe it was her constant paradox of innocence and mischief, or the way she loved music the same way I did. All I knew was that, up until that point, Id always felt like an outsider, but when I was around Justine, it was different. Id found someone who was just like me. We spent the rest of the afternoon lying face-up on the grass, Justine twirling her long brown locks with her left hand and chain-smoking with her right. We exchanged grunge fashion favorites and sexual experiences. We quizzed each other on alternative one-hit wonders and complied a list of CDs to trade. We took Polaroids of ourselves upside down in the grass and howled over the results. When it started getting dark, Justine walked me to the top of my street. Before crossing to head home, she removed a Polaroid of us from her purse and pressed it into my hand. Keep it, she said, smiling. Then she turned and walked away. *** After our high school graduation, Justine and I wasted no time plotting our escape out of the hells of Rockland. The small-town scene wasnt for us, and we craved a destination full of skanky rock clubs, sweaty musicians, and lots of nightlife. So, six months after receiving our acceptance letters to UCLA, we made the forty-two hour drive west to the city of Lost Angels. So many things I never would have imagined. Living in L.A. was like one long vacation. We ooed and ahed over all the things we didnt have back home, the little things that homegrown Los Angelites undoubtedly took for granted: In-N-Out Burger, twentyfour hour diners, the ninety-nine cent supermarket. We spent our days on Venice Beach and our nights on the Sunset Strip, enamored with the seedy sinkholes that lined the majority of West Hollywood. Occasionally wed throw aside the rock gear, layer ourselves in scarves and high heels and pretend we fit in with the high-class L.A. sector, treating ourselves to fruity champagne 3

drinks at the Ivy, Santa Monica shopping, rooftop pool parties at the Standard. California, aside from the overpopulation and traffic, was heaven on earth. During my senior year, I landed an internship as a music columnist for Pace, a local magazine that specialized in all aspects of the ber-hip L.A. scene from fashion to nightlife. It was there that I met my boyfriend, Paces sports editor, David Whitman, a broad-shouldered, macho-masculine jock whom I had virtually nothing in common with. However, his charm and matching dimples were a socially and ethically acceptable diversion from this roadblock. Originally, I had assumed that once our four-year UCLA stint was complete, Justine and I would move back east to be with our families. But now the thought of giving up the daily dose of L.A. excitement in exchange for bleak Boston winters and smalltown gossip didnt seem the least bit appealing. So, after several heart-to-heart discussions over martinis, Justine and I made the unanimous decision that we were here to stay. The plan was set. Wed renew our lease and drivers licenses. Wed land real jobs, ones that paid us in wages instead of school credits. Wed let our families know wed be home to visit every summer and every Christmas, and make a list of all the things we loved about L.A. in case we ever got homesick. Then one day, something happened that ruined our plan completely. It was the day that I walked in on Justine and my boyfriend in bed together.

Chapter Two
I was in desperate need of an apartment, although apartment hunting scored a pretty low ranking on the list of my favorite activities. Whatever qualities one apartment had, the other usually lacked, and vice versa. There were the expensive places in a great location, the reasonably priced places in a not-so-great location, and the dumps. And when you have a slowly dwindling postcollege fund and no roommate to share rent expenses, you usually aim for something between the middle and the latter of those three options. I had entertained the idea of a roommate for one brief, fleeting moment, but every classified ad I came across only reminded me of the outcome of my last roommate. I ended up settling for a small one-bedroom on the second floor of a complex about three blocks away from Central Square in downtown Boston. The hallways smelled like a nursing home and were lined with painted bricks, like a high school bathroom, but it was one of the only places in town that included free parking, a high selling point for someone who loathes the public transportation system. I also wasnt too keen on living in a complex since I feared the combination of thin walls and loud neighbors, but luckily it was a small complex with about twenty apartments, not the kind with fifty floors and elevators up the wazoo. 5

I had barely moved one box into my new place before my cell phone rang again. When you move across the country and land a new job and a new boyfriend, your life becomes interesting at best. When you walk in on your best friend and boyfriend in bed together, your life becomes tabloid fodder. Hi, Mom, I greeted, holding the phone with one hand and attempting to unpack with the other. Hi honey. I could hear the pity already. It practically seeped through the phone. Hows the moving coming along? About the same since the last time you asked. Sorry, she said, unapologetically. You sure you dont need any help? No, Im almost done, I said, which was a lie. Id spent about ninety-five percent of my day thus far on my cell phone, and the other five percent moving, which meant Id brought exactly one box of clothing and a lamp up to my place. Okay, well I want to you know that Ive been praying for you, she said. Everything will work out for the best, Renee. Youll see. Sadly, I had shared this same belief at one time. Now, it just sounded like my mothers usual Jesus jarble. So She paused, and I knew what was coming next. Have you heard from Justine at all since youve been home? No. I think she finally got the hint after I ignored the eightyfive sobbing voicemails she left me. Another pause. Honey, I know this is hard for you. But dont you at least want to talk to her about it? No, Mom, I dont, I said flatly. And frankly, if I never talk to her again, that would be fine with me. *** The walls to my new apartment were painted lime green. Apparently the gay couple who lived there before me had taken a liking to bright colors. Theyd also lost their security deposit, 6

according to my landlord, but when he offered to paint over it, I insisted he didnt have to. If there was ever a time in my life when I needed to brighten up my surroundings, it was now. I lugged the rest of the boxes up to my new pad, then plopped down on the sofa and stared at them for a good twenty minutes, wishing they would unpack themselves. I had agreed to meet my friend Beth later that night at Noir, The Charles Hotel bar in Harvard Square, and I knew that once I started unpacking it would be midnight before I knew it. I was an all-or-nothing organizer; once I got wrapped up in something I lost all concept of time and refused to quit until everything was completely finished. My parents had been extremely generous and donated some of their furniture to me, which I knew was just because they felt sorry for me. But even though all the furniture had already been delivered, I had been staying at my parents house until everything was completely in. This is what I told everyone, anyway, because it was much easier to procrastinate and lie than to admit the truth. I was petrified to be alone. My friends and relatives had kept me occupied since Id returned, and theyd actually done a pretty good job keeping my mind off David and Justine. But I knew that the minute I arrived permanently in my new home and shut the door, Id be alone with nothing but my thoughts. My thoughts and I, alone at last, all shoved into one tiny, quiet room. The thought of that was beyond frightening. I grabbed a black halter top and a pair of jeans from a box of clothes in my bedroom, threw them on, and then turned around to study my reflection in the mirror. I looked like hell. It would be blatantly obvious to anyone within five feet of me that Id barely slept in weeks. My green eyes had giant bags underneath them, my skin belonged on an albino and my hair had definitely seen better days. I quickly applied a layer of foundation under my eyes and threw the blonde disheveled mess on my head into a half-assed ponytail before heading out the door. 7

It was a warm June day, the kind where the smell of the air made you want to fall in love, if love was even a valid concept anymore. Part of me wondered if it was even an actual, real existence, or just something that people had to believe in, so they had a reason to get out of bed in the morning. The sun was just starting to set, and I found myself staring at it, wishing I could teleport myself back to what my life used to be, back to a place where everything felt safe. . Everyone kept telling me to give it time, feeding me handfuls of bullshit lines to make me feel better. And although I knew it was the truth, I couldnt stop seeing David and Justine together every time I closed my eyes. The image was forever embedded in my mind, like those 3D books you toyed with as a kid, the ones you stared at for so long that the images seem to rise above the page and become a part of you. I could feel the blood pulsating through my skull as I thought about all the buoyant clichs I had once believed in, only to have them mock me years later. Give it time, Renee. Everything happens for a reason. Right, I mumbled, looking up at the sky as I shifted my car in reverse. Well then Id love to know what possible reason could exist for this. And when the impact of the crash jolted me back to reality, I was too stunned to realize that Id already received my answer.

Chapter Three
The summer before I entered my freshman year of high school, I had convinced my seventeen-year-old next-door neighbor, Pete Maloney, to let me take his car for a spin. It was a classic 1979 Cadillac Eldorado, his prized possession, no doubt. But given the fact that I had hair the color of sunlight and a newly sprouted chest, he agreed to my proposition, as long as I promised not to leave the neighborhood. Everybody in Wymans Field knew that the Queenans had the nicest house on the block. Their lilac windowsills meshed perfectly with the indigo trim of their house and the display of hydrangeas that lined their front yard. Their entire garden looked like something out of a Thomas Kincaid portrait. So, naturally, when I drove by and noticed the Queenan brothers outside playing basketball in the driveway, I beeped and waved furiously at them, feeling like the coolest kid in the world to be behind the wheel at age fourteen. I then proceeded to drive the car up over the sidewalk and onto the lawn, leaving behind a giant row of tire marks in Mr. and Mrs. Queenans impeccable bed of flowers. If you can imagine the embarrassment I experienced during that ordeal, that pretty much sums up the way I felt when I realized Id just backed into my new neighbors car. 9

I was so busy cursing my own fate that I hadnt even noticed the giant van that had pulled up behind me, waiting to slide into my parking space once I pulled out. The guy in the van behind me was throwing his hands up in the air and mumbling to himself. I wanted to crawl underneath my seat and hide there until he was gone. I climbed out of my car, my cheeks burning, and waited for the other driver to follow. My first impression was that he was semigood looking, in an unconventional, tortured artist sort of way. His T-shirt hung loosely on his lean frame, and a mass of dark hair wilted around his face and curled right below his ears. The cliff of his cheekbones was lined with a dark five oclock shadow that ran down his entire jaw line. He looked like someone who would act the part of Jesus in a play. I chuckled to myself, thinking of how much my mother would love him. As he got closer, there was a certain intensity about him that almost scared me, like he was withholding some kind of dark secret. His piercing blue eyes found mine and remained there, unwavering. Did you not see me behind you? He crouched down and ran his hand over the dent in his front bumper. Obviously not. He tilted his head upwards, his face a pale sheet of white. His eyes were like ice, a cold blue-gray mass of bitter illumination. Well, next time maybe you should look behind you before backing up. He spoke softly and evenly, but I could sense an underlying tone of patronization in his voice. Without a word, I turned and ducked inside my car to find my registration. I couldnt believe the nerve of this guy. I had just moved across the country and lost my best friend and boyfriend in one swoop, and this dope was crying over a dent in his bumper. I fished my registration out of the glove compartment and gave it to him. He handed me his information in return, which I jotted down on the back of a receipt, the only piece of paper I 10

could find in my mess of a car. Dylan Cavallari 10 Park Place Apt. 18 Boston, MA 02111 I stopped writing and tried to figure out if his apartment was on my floor or the floor above me. I wanted to be sure to avoid him at all costs to save myself any future humiliation. California, huh? Dylan asked, glancing at my license plate. Whats the matter, they dont teach you how to drive in Beverly Hills? Funny, I said. Actually, I just graduated from UCLA, but Im originally from here. After handing me back my registration, I heard him mumble something about women drivers under his breath as he marched back to his van. I studied his hell on wheels contraption a frightening navy blue monster with tinted windows and dark rain guards that lined the edges and wondered why he was so upset about it in the first place. Nice child molester van you got there, I said, attempting a joke. His eyes wandered to the van, gave it a silent appraisal, then found their way back to me. Thanks for the input, he said, unsmiling. His quiet confidence was both intimidating and irking at the same time. For the record, a buddy of mine gave it to me. Its not something I wouldve necessarily picked out for myself. He toyed with the silver ring on his right index finger, his gaze now back on the van. Not that its really any of your business. The flames in my cheeks had expanded, and I could feel the heat spreading to my ears, my neck, my chest. After everything Id been through, the last thing I needed was some pompous ass giving me a hard time, especially when I hadnt even done anything wrong. Not on purpose anyway. Dylan was just about to open his door when he suddenly turned back around to face me, looking intrigued. So, whyd you move back here, anyway? Cali wasnt all its cracked up to be? 11

No, I said, my blank expression mirroring his. For the record, I moved back after I caught my best friend in bed with my boyfriend. I started to head back to my car, then stopped and glanced back at him over my shoulder. Not thats its any of your business. *** I called Beth on the way to Noir to tell her I was running a little behind schedule, thanks to my impeccable driving skills. I ended up stuck on the phone with her for the entire drive because once Beths mouth gets going, it stops for no one. Beth and I had known each other since grade school, and she was a great person to confide in when you were in the midst of a crisis because she never told you what you wanted to hear. She was gut-wrenchingly, whole heartedly, one-hundred percent honest. Always. I hated her candidness when we were younger because my hormonal, sensitive teenage self didnt exactly take well to constructive criticism, but now that I was older I really appreciated her honesty. Sure, there were times when little white lies were necessary, because no one wants to hear Yes, you really do look fat in that dress or Youre right, your forehead does look like youve sprouted a third eye. But there were also times when you didnt want someone to sugar coat anything; you wanted them to give you their Gods honest opinion. This was definitely one of those times. So you walked in on them? she asked, wide-eyed, leaning forward in her seat. Yeah, I What did you do? Did you cause a scene? I just ran. You left? Why? I shrugged. I was in shock. I didnt even know what to say. I just wanted to get the hell out of there and try to process what 12

just happened. So what did Justine say? Have you talked to her? She mustve called you, right? Beth was very analytical. Conveying a story to her was like being on trial; she would constantly interrupt with one hundred questions and you had to offer up every single detail so she could analyze each aspect of the story and weigh her opinion carefully. Beth and I met the summer before we both entered the sixth grade. She lived a street over from me and was the only girl in my neighborhood who didnt think I was some sort of foreign reptile because I went to Catholic school. Our afterschool rituals consisted of riding our bicycles around the neighborhood and swapping stories about our daily adventures. I was always envious of her public school lifestyle, mainly because nothing exciting ever happened at Holy Family. No one ever got caught fooling around in the locker room or smoking pot in the bathroom. Her stories were like listening to the narrative of a soap opera, which, in my eyes, made her the epitome of cool. I couldnt believe she actually wanted to be friends with someone who wore knee socks and saddle shoes on a daily basis. Shes called, but I cant talk to her, I said, answering her question. Maybe someday Ill be able to, but right now, I just cant. Do you think theyre, like, dating? Or do you think it was just a one-time thing? I dont know, and honestly, I dont want to know. God, I really cant believe Justine would do that to you, she said, covering her eyes with her hands. I really cant. You guys have been friends for so long. I bit my thumbnail nervously, and then asked the question I had been dying to ask all along. Beth, why do you think she did it? Beth sighed. Well, I think it could be one of two reasons. The first reason could be that shes jealous of you. I shook my head. There was no way. The only time jealousy occurred was when someone felt they were being denied something 13

they could have, something that belonged to someone else. Justine couldve had any guy on the planet. It didnt add up. No way, I said. I think Id pick up on it if she was. I mean, come on, the girl was my best friend. Beth gave me that look that implied she knew what she was talking about. Dont be so sure. Sometimes people hide things well. Maybe shes always secretly compared herself to you and you never realized it. I shrugged. Maybe. So whats the second reason? Well, the second reason is that maybe shes in love with him. And I dont mean some sort of sexual infatuation, I mean serious love, as in marriage. If she doesnt have jealousy issues with you, then thats the only thing that would make sense. I cant picture her ruining a friendship, especially a friendship like the one you guys had, unless she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this guy. That was the more logical explanation, the one I had been leaning towards all along. But the thing that bothered me even more than the thought of Justine and David getting married was the fact that Beth used the word had when referring to my friendship with Justine. The friendship you guys had. And even when I returned home later that evening, I still couldnt get those words out of my head.

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