| photo by Daria Gorbach from Unsplash |



The pulsating ellipsis on Samantha's side of the screen has come and gone twice since my last message. I read back over my last paragraph, and I understand my new-slash-old BFF's hesitation. My question—what if Noah hates me—isn't a question she can or should even try to answer. I'm just freaking out because I'm afraid to call him.

My phone vibrates the top of my painted wood desktop—scaring the crap out of me. But then the screen shows me that it's Samantha. Calling me!

I swipe a finger across the screen and say, "You don't have to answer that question."

"No, I want to. I just thought it would be better if we could hear each other's—wait, are you crying?"

"Yes. Sorry. I'm okay. Just a little overwhelmed and...um, what were you going to say about Noah?"

"I don't think it's possible for Dodge to hate you, Ally. But based on his past behavior, I think there's a good chance that if he doesn't already know the unsavory details, then he'll pull away after you tell him. I can't imagine him being able to stay away from you for very long, though. If he feels anything like I do, he's so freaking happy you survived that accident he'll forgive you for anything."

"Okay. But. Can we go back to the unsavory part? I have a question."

"Sure," she says. A little hesitant.

And I feel the same. I don't know how to say what I need to say. "It's about the question you asked Drew."

"I asked a few questions, Ally. Which one are you thinking about?"

"You asked if he and I had um...you know. And Drew made it sound like we'd only ever kissed."

"Okay, got it. What's your question?"

"Did he seem...like...before he answered, did you happen to notice how it seemed like he hesitated? And then, when he actually answered, did you think he was telling the truth?"

Samantha is quiet for a long moment. Then she sighs and says, "Can I be blunt?"

"Yes. Please."

"I get why you think he might be lying, but Ally, I know you pretty well. We've talked about stuff like that in great detail. I don't think you were depressed enough to lose your virginity to a guy like Drew."

"Okay," I say. But I'm not convinced.

"Plus, I don't think Drew is that stupid. He has questionable morals, yes, but the dude's on probation and you're under eighteen. You're a minor and he's not. Drew could go to jail for having sex with you—even if you consented."

He was doing illegal drugs with me while he was on probation, and that can't be smart. So. I'm still not convinced.

"Are you okay, Owl?"

I don't know how I'll ever be okay about this, because I'm never going to know for sure. What if Drew is super smart and he figured out—in a split-second—that he needed to lie to protect himself?

"Hey, do you want me to come over there?" Samantha asks.

"Um, no. Can we just skip to the part where you said if? I'm talking about Noah now. You said 'if he doesn't already know the unsavory details.' Does that mean you think he does?"

"Well, yeah," she says. "I'm pretty sure that's the reason he left Drew's house. That's what Dodge does when he can't deal. Right?"

"Maybe not. He might've left because I asked him to. When we were in the car, I told him it would be easier for me if he wasn't there."

"Oh. Well. Either way, you need to call him. Maybe you should do it now so you can stop worrying about it."

"Right now?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Because if he doesn't text me right back I won't be able to sleep."

"Good point," she says, yawning. "Text him in the morning—before eight o'clock. That's what time school starts."

"Okay. I guess. Would it be okay if—" Something scratches at my door and then the fluffball yowls. "Oh my god," I say. "The evil cat is stalking me. I should probably go. If I ignore her she'll wake everyone in the house."

"Text Dodge," Samantha says, adamant. "I'll check in with you tomorrow—the second the lunch bell rings."

"Okay. Thanks, Samantha."

"Of course, Ally."

I end the call and tiptoe to my closed door. Lindsay keeps telling me I should give Mags another chance. She swears the bite I got on my first day here was a protest of my absence—not of my return. And I have to admit, I'm warming up to the idea of becoming a cat person.

Again, I guess.

There's a white fuzzy paw pushed through the one-inch gap under my bedroom door. I touch it with the eraser end of a pencil. Mags spreads her toes and grabs at it but I keep the pencil moving—because we've played this game before. After a couple of swipes, the paw disappears. I jiggle the pencil and wait.

Two paws shove through the opening—upside down and grasping frantically—as the cat-body thunks against the door. I laugh out loud and head back to my desk to shut down my new laptop. But then I stop, almost involuntarily, in front of the alcove that houses my three-legged stool. It only looks old because Noah sanded paint off in the places where it would have worn away naturally over time. But it matches my newly redecorated room perfectly, because the antique bed and dresser from the old house are mine now.

According to Mom, I didn't like Noah's amazing gift when he brought it here more than two years ago. "You loved the idea that he made it," she said. "But the stool itself..." She shook her head, kind of grimacing, but her eyes were bright with curiosity. We've been having a lot of these kinds of conversations—and I have a brand new journal dedicated to comparing my pre-accident likes and dislikes to my preferences now.

And my entire family has been comparing memories of the time we lived in North Carolina. Mom swears she wasn't trying to plug me back into a life that never existed. "I remember the girl you described to Dr. Greene," she said. "She was kind and brave and she always looked out for her baby sister. But that girl grew into a young woman—and you started to pay attention to other people's perception of you."

The "other person" Mom was talking about is Kara. Obviously. I started looking at myself, and Lindsay, through the eyes of a bully. And yeah, maybe I didn't understand that then—I didn't know I needed help—but I knew it the moment I read that scary text conversation on my phone. I concentrated all my energy on fixing Lindsay so I wouldn't have to confront my fears. And now here I am, scared as crap again because I can't move forward. I can't go to Summerfield High with my fingers crossed, hoping I won't run into Noah. I have to deal with this.

I grab my phone and take a picture of the three-legged stool and send it to him in a text message.

Then I sit in front of my laptop and open the IM thread to check the dot beside Samantha's buck-toothed panda bear avatar. It's yellow, but I start typing anyway.

Allyson: Aaaaahhhhh!!!!! I sent him a text and

My phone pings—with Noah's reply—and I sprout goose bumps.

His text says: Who made that piece of crap?

I huff. At my phone. Then start thumb-typing—furiously: I happen to love

Um. Maybe that's too...

I erase love—even though it's absolutely true—so I can replace it with really like, but Noah sends another text before I'm finished: My dad made an offer on my grandparents' house. He signed the contract yesterday. Want a tour of the inside? I can be over there in fifteen minutes.

Noah and I are going to be neighbors.

I'm dying to see the inside of that house—and to see Noah, obviously. But tonight? I delete my unfinished protest and write: It's VERY late. I'm pretty sure my parents are asleep.

Bring your phone and leave a note in case someone wakes up.

Um. Yeah. I guess I could do that.

My phone buzzes again: Please.

Wow. It's just one tiny word, but my imagination fills in the details: the scratchy softness of his plea, the overwhelming blueness of those eyes—and I definitely feel it, warm on my insides and prickly cold on my skin.

How can I say no?