I know what she says next. The name is already racing through my mind, shattering all my control to bring me crashing to my knees. For some reason, though, I don’t hear her say it because the only sound entering my ears is my erratic breathing and the last thing I said to my sister. “You’ll be fine.”
I was wrong.
Chapter One
Now
Last night, I dreamt of my sister. Lily. It was the second time she’s crept into my dreams since I lost her nearly two years ago.
She looked the same as she did the last time she talked to me, with her straight, golden-brown hair pulled into a taut ponytail at the nape of her neck, her red and white track windbreaker partially unzipped and exposing her plain white t-shirt, and the corners of her chocolate brown eyes crinkled because she was wearing a big, cheesy smile. Lily was always, always smiling. That single expression had been what everyone else loved about her the most, and yet it had frustrated the hell out of me while she was still here.
My sister was an eternal optimist.
I’d been too much of a bitch to appreciate that. Even after I realized just how much I lost the day she was ripped away from me, I was too selfish not to feel sorry for myself.
That was me. Evie. Always, always selfish.
But that messy and screwed-up part of me had never seemed to bother my older sister, and in my dream, she’d flung my tie-dyed bedspreads off of my body and onto the carpet before jumping on the bed next to me.
“Get up, and get it over with, Evie,” she sang, her typically quiet voice booming, strong. Crossing her slim arms over her chest, she stared me down, her ponytail swishing as she twisted her face into a dramatic scowl.
“Look, I don’t care if you’re still mad at me. Get up. You’re gonna thank me when your lazy ass graduates. So, come on before you completely wreck your day.”
Before everything had changed, she said the same thing to me just about every morning—well, minus the part about me being mad at her, which was something that was sprinkled in whenever we had an argument.
So just like I did back then, I got out of bed. The only difference was that for once it wasn’t begrudgingly, and when I opened my eyes, my sister was gone. With reality now facing me, sleep was an option that could go screw itself.
Wiping cold beads of perspiration from my forehead with a towel I found balled up on the floor beside my bed, I slid my feet into a pair of worn flip-flops. I’d crept silently downstairs, taking care not to bump into any of the boxes and suitcases in the dark foyer waiting to be toted off to my new college in the morning—the second school in less than twelve months.
In the kitchen, I downed a glass of OJ, cringing at the citrusy burn in the back of my throat as I slid down on the floor beside the fridge. For the longest time I sat there, the hardware from one of the cabinets digging into my back, and the blinking light on the stove directly across from me causing the edges of my vision to blur. I sat there with my regrets and memories of my sister tumbling through my brain.
“Don’t worry,” I finally promised aloud, the sound of my voice in the empty kitchen slowly piercing my chest. “I won’t screw up this year. I won’t. I will not wreck things this time.”
Now, several hours and a lonely drive from Bristol to Richmond later, that mantra still pings sharply through my mind, a slight distraction to the task at hand—getting to my academic advisor’s office for our four o’clock meeting.
Telling myself that I wouldn’t screw up seemed to help during summer break. I hadn’t purposely gone out of my way to see how far I could push myself away from everyone I knew, everyone who was left. Of course, the fact I had exiled myself to my parents’ house all summer couldn’t exactly be described as progress.
Still ... this year is going to be different.
If I don’t tell myself that every single day, I’m just giving myself permission to mess it all up again, and with my track record, I need all the motivation I can get.
Shuffling across the grass and into the courtyard teeming with students back from summer break, I squint down at the campus map. I’d picked it up this morning during the mandatory student orientation I attended, along with the rest of the residents of Campbell dorm’s seventh floor. Once I attempt to commit the shortcut to the music department to my memory for the third time since leaving my room, I fold the map into an uneven square and shove it into the side pocket of my crossbody purse.
This campus is at least four times bigger than the one I attended last year and, to be honest, this morning was the first time I ever laid eyes on the place. It was also the first time I’ve ever stepped foot into Richmond. I’ll never tell anyone here that.
Especially not my new roommate Corinne, who spent most of the afternoon drilling me with question after question.
I’d applied to the school last minute without visiting, letting the photos on the website and my aunt’s enthusiastic claim that this was the best college in the history of all colleges act as my guide. The fact that I was accepted despite my awful grades from last year—well, that was a definite plus.
The biggest draw, however, is being four hours away from my former college, and nearly five hours away from Bristol, where most everyone I know lives.
Because nobody here knows me.
Smiling to myself and fussing with my hat and hair, I jog up the back steps to cut across the dining hall; only to jerk to a stop a moment later when I ricochet off a tall, incredibly toned, masculine body attempting to leave the building.
I know the collision is my fault. My thoughts and actions have been all over the place since last night, but that doesn’t stop me from hurling out the first thing that comes to mind as I try to regain my footing. “Holy shit, watch where the—”
The Body’s quick apology, murmured in a slight Southern accent, brings my angry words to a jolting halt. “You all right? Sorry ‘bout that.”
Oh.
Oh.
Holy shit is right.
I haven’t seen his face, but there’s one thing for certain about this person who nearly knocked me on my ass: his voice is drop dead sexy—baritone and more than a little intoxicating.
A few years ago, I picked up my mom’s copy of A Literate Passion, her book club’s flavor of the month. I’d flipped through it, pausing briefly on the line about voices reverberating against bodies like a caress. I knew what it meant, but hearing that voice speaking to me now, asking me once again if I’m all right—I understand Anaïs Nin’s words so much more.
That voice is just enough to make me want more of him.
When I whip around to face him, his mouth is the first part of his body my gaze settles on—full lips framed by the faintest shadow of dark stubble along a strong, square jawline—followed by a straight nose, high cheekbones, and the faded remains of a rounded scar right beneath his right eye. The scar automatically yanks my attention to his eyes.
Set in a face that’s still a little tan from summer, those eyes are haunted, beautiful. They’re not quite green or blue but an unsettling place in between the two.
Come to think of it, everything about this boy, this man, is just a touch unsettling and without a doubt beautiful.
And also, oddly familiar.
His eyebrows, the same off-black as his messy, medium-length hair, arching together in genuine concern. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No, I’m fine, I swear.” But I take a few steps back until my shoulder blades bump a wall covered in flyers and brochures. A few drift to the floor, but I don’t break eye contact with the man standing right in front of me. I know I’ve seen this guy before. The question is ... where?