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CHAPTER ONE

I can look at a picture of myself, even one I don’t remember posing for, and know exactly how I was feeling when it was taken. It’s in the eyes. What is it that people say? They’re the window to the soul? It is one hundred percent a cheesy cliché but also, in my experience, one hundred percent true.

When I look at this picture of me and Ben taken the summer before ninth grade, every thought and emotion I harbored in that moment was captured. Not for the world to see. To anyone else, it’s merely a photo of two kids smiling for the camera. But for me, it’s like a time capsule of the girl I was when Ben Cameron entered my life.

Mom told us to pose for the photo in front of Ben’s large maple tree. My stomach fluttered as if a thousand tiny butterflies were performing a choreographed dance when he placed his arm around me. We’d known each other for almost two months by then. We both had huge crushes but hadn’t admitted them yet. It’s so obvious though. My smile is embarrassingly wide in the picture. And not only because Ben’s fingers were on my bare shoulder. I was on the precipice of something big: high school was a week away and I’d be the new girl. But I wasn’t going in alone. I had Ben, and for the first time in a long time, I was excited about my future.

Despite the bright smile and butterflies, my eyes do a poor job of hiding the grief. I hadn’t learned to live with it yet. I still (foolishly) held out hope Dad would come back for us. That was three years ago, and I haven’t seen my father since.

“Jamie, Ben’s here to see you,” Mom calls from downstairs. She has her sweet-but-fake voice on. The one that matches her non-intimidating stature, but I know better. I tuck the photo back in my memory box and shove it under my bed before glancing at my phone. Four thirty. Great. I lost two hours browsing through old photos and mementos when I was supposed to be looking for my left Converse. My time management skills need work. So do my organizational skills.

“Looking for this?” Amo Eli stands in the doorframe of my room holding up my missing shoe, a sourpuss expression on his squishy face. Makes it hard to take him seriously.

“Yas queen,” I say, practically leaping to grab it. He grimaces as I reunite it with my other shoe.

“Don’t ‘yas queen’ me. I tripped on this thing walking up the stairs.” He sighs as he takes in my bedroom. “Why is it every time I come in here it looks like your room has just given birth to fifty more books? The mess I can almost tolerate, and there are worse things to be than a book nerd, but I can’t deal with the rest of my house looking as if a teenaged tornado has swept through. Capiche?”

“Did you know the word ‘capiche’ derives from the Italian word ‘capire,’ which means ‘to understand,’ and from the Latin ‘capere,’ which translates to ‘to grasp or to seize’?” I ask my uncle, while holding back a grin.

“Jamie…”

“And,” I continue while slipping on my shoes, “in formal Italian, ‘capiche’ is pronounced ‘cah-PEE-sheh,’ but in Italian slang andEnglish it’s ‘cah-PEESH.’ I bet you thought it started with aKbut, fun fact, there’s noKin the Italian alphabet.”

“What is your point?” He folds his arms while very obviously trying not to look impressed, even though I know he is.

“My point, Amo, is that no one uses the word ‘capiche’ anymore, unless maybe they’re an Italian nonno. Capiche?”

“Jamie!” Mom calls again.

“I’m coming.” I try to exit my room but my uncle is still blocking the door. I have four inches on him, but he has girth. “I’m sorry,” I finally say, giving him my best puppy dog eyes.

“I don’t get how someone who is such a stick-in-the-mud type A could also be such a hot mess.”

“Ask yourself that,” I say, squeezing past him and smacking him on the butt before racing down the steps.

“You’re lucky I love you so much,” he shouts from above.

“Ben.” I can’t fight back my smile as I reach the bottom of the stairs where Mom has Ben captive in the foyer. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull his body to mine for a long overdue hug, but he’s stiff as a board. He’s always trying to be respectful in front of my mom.

“Ben was filling me in on his summer adventures,” Mom says as I release Ben. “Maybe Ishouldhave let you tag along. Sounds like he learned a lot.” Mom elbows Ben’s side and grins at me. She can’t actually be serious. I begged and pleaded with her to join Ben at camp and now she acts as if she made a small mistake by making me stay behind, like buying the salt-reduced bacon. “Ben, let me know if you need me to cut your hair before school starts.”

Ben runs a hand though his dark locks and nods. He’s tanned. Looks a little more muscular. His hair is longer than it’s ever been. But he’s still perfect. I try to make eye contact with him, hopinghe’ll read my mind and say something to appease my mother so she’ll leave, but he’s not meeting my gaze.

“Jamie, did you clean your room?” Mom asks.

“I’ll do it later,” I say, locking my arm through Ben’s. I just want to be alone with my boyfriend. Is that too much to ask?

“Jamie,” my mother says, like it’s the only word in her vocabulary.

“Yes, Mother,” I reply, clenching my jaw and wrapping my fingers around Ben’s wrist.

“Would it hurt you to try to at least exhibit a show of gratitude? This is your uncle’s home. All he asks is that you clean up after yourself.”

“I’m not the one who got hair dye on his Persian rug,” I say, clasping on tighter to Ben. He finally looks at me and his eyes are telling me to let it go, but how can I? This is so embarrassing. She always picks a fight whenever he’s around.

“That was an unfortunate accident, which occurred because I had to race upstairs to answer the door mid-client sincesomeonehad their headphones on. And I paid to have it cleaned. It’s important that we show Eli we respect him and his home.”

“Okay.”