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Sailor Marie Otto Maurer. I hear a quiet laugh from the other side of the camera. The girl in the tank top reaches for the phone. Give it here. I need to edit it before I post it. I stand there, staring at the iPad, my heart slowly starting to pound in my chest. The girl behind the camera is named Ryen? There are tons of girls who probably have that name. But I look at the video, and my gaze is drawn to the names at the top of the post. Ryen Trevarrow. I straighten my back, my chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Oh, my God. I instantly look up, unable to stop myself from scanning the crowd, drifting from face to face. Any one of these girls could be her. What the fuck? I look down at the iPad again and hover my finger over her name, hesitating. She could be looking for me right now, knowing what band I belong to and that this is our event. Fuck it. I tap her name and stand frozen as her profile comes up. And then I see her. Her picture appears, my stomach drops, and I stop breathing.

Slender shoulders under long, light brown hair. Heart-shaped face with full pink lips and a daring look in her bright blue eyes. Glowing skin and a beautiful body. From what I can see, anyway.

I let my head fall back and draw in a breath. Fuck you, Ryen Trevarrow. She lied to me. I look back down at her picture, my eyes falling down her back where parts of her skin peeks through the design of her sexy shirt as she looks over her shoulder at the camera.

My Ryen. Her most favorite possession in the world. The heaters warm the frigid air, and I pass more fire pits, smelling the roasted marshmallows. Music blares from the speakers all around, and I flex my jaw, trying to calm my heart. I walk up to the bar and set the iPad down, turning and crossing my arms over my chest. Just stay put. If not, then… What? The fountain girl from the video stands in front of me, a few feet away. Ryen stands quietly at her side, eyes slightly thinned, looking at me hesitantly.

I can see bits of her thighs. I tighten my fists under my arms, my muscles tensing. Does she know who I am? I hear her friend clear her throat, and I blink, dragging my eyes over to her and finally answering. I breathe shallow, so aware of Ryen it hurts. She gestures to her card. I guess that means she wants a kiss from me? She steps forward, but before she gets too close, I take her card out of her hand and skim it. She cocks her head defiantly, staring me full on in the eyes.

Well, well… I hide my smile. She must be Lyla then. She turns back to me. She needs it. A cool sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, and I look at Ryen, both of us locked in an awkward silence. She has to know who I am. Our names and pictures are on our Facebook page and the rack cards by the entrance. Is she fucking around with me? Whatever that means. Seven years, and this is how you want to meet, Angel? How are you doing? Does she really not know who I am? She turns back, her eyes flashing to me, clearly indicating her guard is up now.

Thanks to me. Not like this. Ryen sees the exchange and pinches her eyebrows together, probably wondering what my problem is. He holds up a lemon wedge, and Ryen winces. But she shakes her head.

Her thin fingers that have written me five hundred eighty-two letters. The chin where I know she uses make-up to cover up a small scar she got from a fall during ice-skating when she was eight. And she really has no idea… Dane comes back with a wooden skewer, the tip holding a roasted marshmallow from one of the fire pits. He walks up and shoves it at me. Walking up, she grabs a bar stool and steps up on the prongs to raise herself higher.

Leaning in with her lips parted, she stares into my eyes, and my fucking heart is going wild. It takes everything I have not to unwind my arms and touch her. But she stops. The corner of my mouth lifts in a small smile. And I fold. I hold up the marshmallow and open my mouth, holding her eyes as we both lean in and take a bite, pausing a moment for Dane to take the picture.

Her eyes lock on mine, and I can feel her breath on my lips as her chest rises and falls. My body is on fire, and when she leans in farther to bite off a bit extra, her lip grazes mine, and I groan. I pull away, swallowing the goddamn chunk whole. She chews the bit of marshmallow, licking her lips and stepping down off the stool.

I toss the skewer down on the bar and meet his eyes. Yeah, okay. I liked the marshmallow, Dane. I hit Ignore. She shrugs. Too low, apparently. After that, I got picky. Only one guy who measures up. Does she mean me? My phone vibrates again, and I reach in my pocket, silencing it.

I glance up and see cameras flashing all over and spot people taking a pic in front of the graffiti wall to the right. I step up and take her phone, surprising her.

Walking around behind her, I turn on the camera, changing it to selfie mode, and lean down, capturing our faces on the screen. But I adjust it to also include the guy behind us taking a picture of two girls in front of the graffiti pictures. A smile finally breaks out on her face. Before pulling away and saying goodbye, I inhale her scent, frozen for a moment as I smile to myself. Ryen takes the phone and slowly walks away, looking back over her shoulder at me before disappearing in a throng of people.

And already I want her back. I dig in my pocket and pull out my phone, dialing my sister. How much will she hate me if I ask her to go get her own snacks? Three months later… Dear Misha, What. Yeah, you heard me. I said it. Still Miss Fucking Reliable after three months of no word from you. You have the notes on the lyrics I sent with my previous letters. On the current news front, I got into college. Well, a few, actually.

Do you notice that, too? How all of us just want to get through life as quickly and as easily as possible? So, yeah. Shit always sounds better coming from you. Capping my silver-inked pen, I take the two pieces of black paper and tap them on my lap desk before folding them in half. Stuffing them in the matching black envelope, I pick up the black sealing wax stick and hold it over the candle sitting on my bedside table, lighting the wick.

Three months. I frown. The wax starts to melt, and I hold it over the envelope, letting it drip. After I blow out the flame, I pick up the stamp and press it into the wax, sealing the letter and finding the fancy, black skull of the imprint staring back at me.

A gift from Misha. His sister, Annie, kept making fun of him, screaming that his Hogwarts letter had arrived. Fine, then. When we first began writing each other years ago, it was a complete mistake. Our fifth-grade teachers tried to pair up our classes as pen pals according to sex to make it more comfortable, but his name is Misha and my name is Ryen, so his teacher thought I was a boy, and my teacher thought he was a girl, etc. Both of us have parents who split early on.

Neither of us really remember them. Climbing off my bed, I slap a stamp on the letter and set it on my desk to mail in the morning. I walk back, putting my stationary supplies back in my bedside table.

Straightening, I place my hands on my hips and blow out an uneasy breath. Misha, where the hell are you? Or search him on Facebook or go to his house.

But we promised each other. Or rather I made him promise. Right now, Misha Lare, with all of his imperfections, is perfect in my head. He listens, pumps me up, takes the pressure off, and has no expectations of me. How many people have someone like that? If I search him out, everything will change. My friends will be here in a few minutes.

There are four. Me last fall in cheerleading, surrounded by girls who look exactly like me. Me last summer in my Jeep, with my friends piled in the back.

The leader. Looking happy. Years earlier. Sitting alone on a bench on the playground, forcing a half-smile for my mom who brought me to Movie Night at my school. They always ran off without me and never waited.

Tears spring to my eyes, and I reach out and touch the face in the picture. I remember that feeling like it was yesterday. I sniffle and quickly wipe away a tear as my sister opens my door and waltzes into my room without knocking. I clear my throat, pretending to work on the wall as she peeks around the door. I mean, really?

I can smell her perfume, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that her blonde hair is down. That probably means she has some guy coming over and will be well-distracted when I slip out of the house in a bit. I scowl at the wall as white shavings drift to the floor. She rolls her eyes. But honestly, I have no idea why she puts Carson in charge. Plus, my sister only wants me in bed and out of the way so she can get it on with whatever guy is on his way over here right now.

Like I care. Now can I get my nine hours? Coach is taking us through a circuit in the morning. I look at my wall. I decorated it using black chalkboard paint about a year ago and use it to doodle, draw, and write everywhere. There are pictures and posters and lots of words, everything meaning something special to me. My whole room is like that, and I love it. Especially my friends.

Some things stay hidden. My phone buzzes on my bed, and I head over to pick it up. Outside, the text reads. Tapping my middle finger over the touchscreen, I shoot back, Be out in a minute. I have to get out of here. Tossing the phone down, I peel off my tank top and push my sleep shorts down my legs, letting everything drop to the floor.

I dash to my arm chair and snatch up my jean shorts. Pulling them on, I slip a white T-shirt over my head, followed by a gray hoodie. The phone buzzes again, but I ignore it. Stuffing some cash and my cell phone into my pocket, I grab my flip flops and lift up my window, tossing them out and sending them flying over the roof of the porch, down to the ground.

Scooping up my hair, I fasten it into a ponytail and climb out the window. I carefully push it down again, leaving my bedroom silent and dark as if I were asleep. Taking careful steps over the roof, I make my way over to the ladder on the side of the house, climb down to the ground, and pick up my sandals, dashing across the lawn to the road ahead where my ride waits. I pull open the car door. I glance back, spotting Ten in the backseat and toss him a nod. Slamming the door closed, I bend over and slip into my sandals, shivering.

The Cove? Ten laughs behind me, and I shake my head, not really amused. I was joking with my comment. Lyla and Ten—a. Theodore Edward Neilson—are, for all intents and purposes, my friends. High school is like prison in that way. Ten drops one shoe over the seat and then hands me the other one as soon as he finds it.

The Cove will be filthy and wet. About to graduate like us, Trey has it all. Friends, popularity, the world bowing at his precious feet But unlike me, he loves it. It defines him. Oh, excuse me. I close my eyes for a second and breathe out. I peer at her out of the corner of my eye, feeling my heart start to race. What are you going to do, Lyla? Delight in my loss when he gets tired of waiting and screws someone else? Is he doing someone else right now? Maybe you?

I fold my arms over my chest. Not that I care if Trey comes running or not. Winning a guy makes her feel above us all. They have girlfriends, but they want her. It makes her feel powerful. Me, on the other hand? I just want to get through the day as easily as possible. No matter who I step on to do it. Something I learned not long after that picture of me sitting alone on that bench on Movie Night was taken. He sent them to me in a letter once to see what I thought, and they make a lot of sense.

His voice is filled with discomfort, and I blink, leaving my thoughts. Dark, empty, and silent. I turn my head over my shoulder, speaking to Ten. Taking a right onto Badger Road, Lyla digs in her console and pulls out a tube of lip gloss. I roll down the window, taking in the crisp, cool sea air. The Atlantic Ocean sits just over the hills, but I can already smell the salt in the air.

The wind washes over me, and I can almost feel the sand under my feet. I wish we were still going to the beach. Her headlights fall on a dark blue GMC Denali sitting haphazardly in no designated space. I guess the paint marking where to park wore off long ago. Waist-high weeds sway in the breeze from where they sprout up through the cracks in the pavement, and only the moon casts enough light to reveal what lies beyond the broken-down ticket booths and entrances.

Looming still and dark, towers and buildings sit in the distance, and I spot several massive structures, one in the shape of a circle—most likely a Ferris wheel. As I turn my head in a one-eighty, I see other similar constructions scattered about, taking in the bones of old roller coasters that sit quiet and haunting.

Lyla turns off the engine and grabs her phone and keys as we all exit the car. I try to peer through the gates and around the dilapidated ticket booths to see what lies beyond in the vast amusement park, but all I can make out are dark doorways, dozens of corners, and sidewalks that go on and on. The wind that courses through the broken windows sounds like whispers.

Too many nooks and crannies. Too many hiding places. I pull up the sleeves of my hoodie, all of a sudden not feeling so cold. Why the hell are we here? Looking to my right, I notice a black Ford Raptor sitting under a cover of trees on the edge of the parking lot, and the windows are blacked out. Is someone inside? A shiver runs up my spine, and I rub my arms.

I tear my eyes away from the Raptor, and we all look up in the direction of the noise. I follow him as we head deeper into the park, both of us wandering down the wide lanes that were once packed with crowds of people.

I look left and right, equal parts fascinated and creeped out. Doors hang off hinges, creaking in the breeze, and moonlight glimmers off the glass lying on the ground beneath broken windows. We walk past the carousel, and I see rain puddles sitting on the platform and dirt coating the chipped paint of the horses. I remember riding that when I was little. The yelling and squealing of our friends fade away as we keep walking farther into the park, our pace slowing as I take in how much still remains.

A few short years. I inhale a deep breath, taking in the smell of old wood, moisture, and salt. If he ever makes it big, he owes me royalties. The air wraps around my legs and blows against my sweatshirt, plastering it to my body like a skin as chills start to spread up my neck.

All of a sudden I feel surrounded. I cross my arms over my chest as I hurry up next to Ten. Ten gives up on the yanking and starts inspecting the lock, as if he can just pull it open, when I drop my gaze and notice the grungy and shredded red and white plastic table skirt underneath the shutter on the bottom half of the booth.

He stops, forgetting the shutter, and scowls at the skirt. And he dips down on his hands and knees, mumbling as he crawls through the table skirt. Out of everyone I call a friend at school, Ten is the closest to the real deal. Not as close as Misha, but close.

The only thing that holds me back from getting too attached to him is his friendship with Lyla. If I left the security of my fragile little circle, would he come with me?