T

he rooster crowing woke Kylee in the morning. She stretched her arms out, wondering why the bed felt so hard beneath her shoulder blades. And she had a horrible crick in her neck. She rolled over and opened her eyes.

This wasn’t her room.

Kylee bolted upright before her memory came crashing back. She spotted the open window, the screen propped up under it. Her eyes scanned along the pastel-blue wall and reached the desk with a fancy computer monitor next to a set of speakers. A stack of games in plastic cases leaned against the side of the desk. She had no idea what that desk was made of, but she knew it was something more solid than the plywood construction she had in her room. Swiveling in her blankets, Kylee turned to see the twin bed next to her, the sheet-covered lump in the middle that rose and fell with each heavy breath.

She pulled her own blankets up around her chin. She’d slept in Price’s house last night. The thought was so illegal and illicit that she giggled. She could imagine what Jessica would say. If they were still friends.

What should she do now? Go home? Kylee stood up, letting the blanket fall as she walked to the window. It was Saturday, the beginning of another weekend in hell. Bill would be watching the clock to make sure she didn’t shower for too long.

“Are you leaving?”

Kylee turned to see Price watching her. He lay sideways on the bed, eyes open and on her.

“I never want to go back,” Kylee whispered.

He pushed up on one elbow. “I thought maybe I was dreaming last night. I half expected you not to be here.”

Heat crept up her cheeks. “No. I really came. Like some idiot.”

“Why?”

Such a simple question. Yet it expected so much. She shrugged. “I didn’t want to be there anymore.”

“Bad memories?”

“I guess.” Bad memories, and a bad life. But she couldn’t say that. The last thing she wanted Price to think was she needed a pity party. She wanted to be normal. A flirty, sexy, girl-next-door type of normal.

Price’s voice softened. “This isn’t your home, though. You might not be able to stay.”

“Yeah. I’m not really an idiot.” Annoyed, Kylee looked back out the window. What did he think, that she planned on moving in? That would go over well with everyone. Still, a part of her wished he’d offered. They had to have a spare bedroom somewhere in this giant house.

“Je n'ai jamais dit que tu etais une idiote.”

“What?” He was speaking another language again.

“Nothing. Of course you’re not an idiot. So . . . can you wear a swimsuit?” His eyebrows lifting in a curious expression.

Kylee was still trying to work out what he meant by speaking a language she didn't understand. This new question caught her off-guard. “A swimsuit?” Was he being suggestive?

“The beach, right? It doesn't have to be a swimsuit,” he amended. “You're fine in what you're wearing. Or are you not coming with me?”

The beach! She’d forgotten about the invite, the one that started last night’s argument. She opened her mouth to say she couldn’t go, and then shut it. What was Bill going to do? Likely he’d never notice she was gone. He’d think she stayed in her room all day. She smiled, pleased with herself and her little plan. “I’m good the way I am.”

“Are you sure? I have clothes if you want to borrow them. Some shorts, a t-shirt.”

She looked down at her sweatshirt and jeans. “What, this isn't sexy enough for you?” Oh lordy. She couldn’t believe she’d said that out loud. She cleared her throat, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt. “I'll take your clothes. Where can I change?”

“Uh.” Price avoided her eyes and scratched his eyebrow. “The bathroom. Follow me.”

He led her down the hall. The right side was open, revealing a landing that looked out over a living area. Kylee kept glancing around, taking in the decor of the natural wood finish, the darkened knots in the flooring. It resembled a rustic log cabin. The ceiling had been removed to reveal the criss-crossing wood of the attic. Rifles decorated the upper wall, and huge antlers hung over the fireplace. A wide television screen at least four times the size of her own was set up in one corner, a variety of leather couches and chairs assembled in front of it.

“Is your dad a hunter?” Kylee asked.

Price pressed a finger to his lips and gestured to the bathroom. Kylee nodded. It wouldn’t do for his dad to know she’d spent the night. Price deposited his change of clothes on the counter.

She stepped inside, and he closed the door behind her. The floral scent almost knocked her over. Kylee poked her head around the shower curtain and examined the pristine tile walls, the shampoo and razors stacked on the shelf. She turned back to the white marbled countertop and the bronze vase sitting on top. A wicker basket of potpourri revealed the source of the scent. She bent over the petals and sniffed, shutting her eyes so she could focus every sense on the smell. Exhaling, she opened her eyes and came face to face with her reflection in the mirror.

She took a step back, startled by the wide blue eyes over pink cheeks and freckles staring back at her. The mirror at home was yellowed and covered with black spots. Could she really be the same girl? She undid her ponytail and ran her fingers through the unruly blond hair. How did Price like girls’ hair? Up or down? Down just looked like a hot mess. She swept it over to the side and pulled it into a bun at the nape of her neck. Pieces still escaped. She tried again, but it refused to be neat and ruly. She gave up with a huff, letting it fall around her shoulders.

She pictured him as he’d looked when he woke up, like a sleepy little boy with bed head. A smile tickled her lips, and she resisted the urge to hum.

Kylee pulled off the sweatshirt and hesitated at the sight of the torn shirt wrapped around her forearms. She’d have to take the strips of cloth off, or Price would notice. But which would be worse, asking about the bandages, or asking about the wounds beneath?

Best to see how bad they were. Kylee held her breath and undid the wrappings. They slid right off, not sticking to her skin with crunchy, dried blood the way she expected.

The wound didn’t look that bad at all. Kylee ran her fingers along the hot pink line in the crease of her elbow down to the middle of her arm. This one looked more like a healing wound than a fresh cut. In fact, she couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like this was the same jagged scar she’d had before last night.

She turned her head to examine the other arm and let out a startled gasp. There was no mark. She pressed her fingers against the undamaged skin, save for white scars from previous cuts she'd made. She tried to remember her cuttings from the night before. They’d looked so much worse in the forest, with blood seeping everywhere.

The light-headedness, the trees swimming around her, the blood pooling on her chest. She couldn’t have imagined it. Had she? What if none of it had been real?

She picked up the torn rags that had wrapped her arms. Her heart skipped a beat.

“No blood,” she whispered. Her hands shook, and the strips of cloth slipped from her fingers. Her mind replayed the scene from the night in the forest again. She had cut herself. It hurt. She bled.

But now it looked like it had never happened.