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Oh, God…

I’m afraid to open my eyes, so I don’t, just feeling his mouth on my stomach, my breasts, and then my forehead before he wraps me into his body and I fall asleep.

Friends can do this.

I wake up in the dark room, my body curled into his and my head on his shoulder.

I look up at him, the light from the hallway illuminating the room just enough that I make out the sharp ridge of his jaw, the Adam’s apple I licked last night, and his mouth. I reach up, brushing it with my fingers. Does he taste like me? I want to kiss him to find out, but I don’t want to disturb him. I like him like this.

“When I die, I hope it’s with this view,” I mouth, gazing at his face that’s home.

I smile and slowly sit up, careful not to disturb him. I’m being silly. In a few months, we won’t know each other anymore, but whatever view I end up having some day, I hope it’s like him. He’s a good kisser.

I dress in some of Dylan’s leggings, a tank top, and a hoodie, the morning chill seeping through the cement and my socks, and I grab my phone off the charger, heading out of the room to let him sleep in peace.

I tap out a text to Bianca, checking in and letting her know I’ll see her soon, and then I head out to make something to eat, but I stop.

Veering back down the hall, I pass Hawke’s room and enter the gym. Padding over, I jump on the exercise bike, no clue what I’m doing or why, but something surges inside me, like I’m ready to go. About to attack.

It’s a good feeling.

I start up some music on my phone—“Esto No A Terminado”—and pedal, slowly at first and then faster. Five minutes pass, my limbs are warm, and after ten minutes, I’m rising up out of the seat and pedaling as hair comes loose from my French braids and sticks to my forehead.

I slow after thirty minutes, feeling like I could go longer, but my feet hurt on the pedals. I need sneakers.

Hopping off, I throw in a load of laundry, make some breakfast, and tidy up the great room, seeing the dent in the TV. I wince, gently running my hand over the splintered screen.

I hadn’t realized I’d actually hit it. I walk back into the kitchen, dragging my guilt with me.

Somehow it seemed worse, the idea of him touching her than her touching him. If he’d really laid a hand on her, my head would’ve exploded. I don’t care that I told him to do it. He knows me well enough by now to know I’m full of shit.

“Hey, what’s that smell?”

I look up from my seat on the island, my knee bent up as I paint my toes with the black polish that I borrowed from Dylan last night.

“Empanadas.” I let my eyes fall to his stomach that peeks out as he stretches his arms and yawns. “You didn’t have beef, so I made apple.”

I tear my gaze away and continue painting as he drifts into the kitchen, yawning again.

He picks up a pastry, taking a bite. “Shit,” he blurts out, and I hear him chew. “That’s really good.”

Damn right, it is. You’re not going to see those at his cousin’s bakery.

Or is she his aunt? I think I heard that Quinn Caruthers is technically the aunt of the others she’s pretty much the same age as, so...

He takes his laptop that I had open and twists it around, looking at the screen. “GED?”

I glance up, seeing him staring at me. I go back to concentrating on my task. “Just seeing what I’m in for, in case I want to get it.”

And then I shut up, hoping he drops it. I didn’t mean to leave that out for him to see. He’ll think he’s motivating me or some shit. Thank God, he didn’t see me working out this morning. He would’ve beamed with pride.

I quit school about a month into my senior year, so while Hawke and I are the same age, I’m behind. There just wasn’t a point anymore. I couldn’t go to school and give a shit about the French Revolution or Virginia Woolf when Bianca was calling me in tears at my foster home because Mom was too tired to take Matty to preschool and she had a math assignment to get done before her own classes.

Which she hadn’t gotten done the previous night because my stepdad had a party. She couldn’t leave to go somewhere quiet because there was no one to watch Matty. They needed help. I had to work.

“A high school diploma is better,” Hawke says. “Not every college accepts a GED, and you won’t be eligible for some financial aid.”