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  For Macy and Blake

  Never be afraid to follow your dreams.

  Prologue

  March

  “You’re coming, right? You have to come. Why am I even asking this question? You’re totally coming.”

  “You know I can’t,” I said, repeating myself for the third time.

  Ahead, taillights on a double-parked Prius flashed to life. Nikki slowed beside the driver’s side, her brown eyes assessing me behind oversized sunglasses.

  “You could,” she said, ignoring me for the millionth time. “You’re just too scared.”

  My hand wrapped around the blistering passenger-side handle, my feet unmoving. “My parents would have a full-on meltdown,” I said, opening the door. “I can’t. Final answer.”

  I slid into the passenger seat, suffocated by thick Louisiana heat. The minute Nikki turned the key in the ignition, I reached for the temperature knob. The lowest setting blew hot through the vents, shifting colder as she reversed from the spot.

  “Everyone will be there,” she said after a pause, joining a row of cars exiting the mall. “Don’t be the girl who doesn’t go.”

  “I’m still grounded,” I said, scowling. “Today was an exception.”

  She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, her face tilting my way. “Then sneak out.”

  Not on my worst day was sneaking out an option. She would know that, had she paid attention the last three months.

  I shook my head.

  “Why are you trying to ruin my night?” she groaned.

  “Why are you being such an inconsiderate friend?” I shifted toward her, the leather seat burning the back of my legs. “It’s easy for you to sit over there and judge me, but you’ve never experienced this level of grounding. Stop for point-five seconds and put yourself in my shoes.”

  “I’m trying,” she said, turning onto a side road. “But I’m having major friendship withdrawals. Do you realize my only wing-woman is Brooke? She doesn’t even use makeup primer. Beauty sin numero uno.”

  “She isn’t that bad.”

  “She isn’t you,” Nikki said. She turned the air conditioner from low to mid-seventies, frowning, stewing quietly in the driver’s seat. “How much longer do you have, anyway? Is it until the end of the month, or end of the school year?”

  “End of the month,” I said.

  The two-story mall disappeared behind us, our all-day shopping trip my first nonschool outside interaction in weeks. Confined to the Reynolds’s fortress of solitude, my long-term house arrest left me clinging to legitimate social interaction like it was essential to survive. The sooner the grounding ended, the quicker I could go back to my normal life with a less-complainy version of Nikki.

  “That will take forever,” she said after a minute. “I can’t suffer that long.”

  “You aren’t the one suffering. I’m the one getting an endless string of texts from half the junior class. Everyone wants to know where I’m at and why I’m not coming. Like they don’t know,” I said.

  “Then skip your all-night painting sesh and get back into the scene,” Nikki said. “You haven’t been around since Thanksgiving, Alex. I know you’re trying to follow the rules or whatever, but this grounding is going to ruin your rep.”

  “Again, it isn’t my choice,” I said, grabbing a nude lip-gloss from my bag.

  Nikki’s laser focus and unbending willpower may have gotten her what she wanted 90 percent of the time, but no one could match my stubbornness.

  “It could be,” she said.

  “But it’s not.”

  Her lips spread into a thin line as her manicured nails reached for the radio. “Fine. Be a party pooper.”

  “Fine. I will.”

  I swiped the gloss across my lips and tossed it back into the bag, glancing at my phone as it lit up inside.

  Mitch: Where are you?

  “I can’t handle you too,” I groaned.

  Mitch Watson could go to hell in a handbasket. The sooner, the better.

  “Handle who?” Nikki said, swerving far enough to the left to earn a blast of a horn.

  I nudged her, my eyes darting to the road. “Could you stay in your lane for literally five seconds?” I said.

  “Metaphorically or literally?” she said, grinning. She motioned to the phone, shades of mischief crossing her freckled face. “Based on your attitude, it has to be Mitch. Is he still blowing up your phone?”

  “Has been since yesterday,” I said. “You’d think he’d eventually get the point. As far as I’m concerned, he can go back to LSU and leave me alone.”

  “That’s my girl!” Nikki said, nudging me from across the console. “Boy didn’t know what he had. You’re better off without him.”

  “Truth,” I said, more to myself than Nikki. “Any boy who takes more than three months to realize he messed up doesn’t deserve me. It’s time to move on to someone better. Smarter.”

  “Better-looking and preferably the captain of a sports team,” she added.

  My phone lit again; another text from my only ghost of boyfriends past. Mitch was my own personal Jeff Probst, eagerly waiting to snuff out my torch. One inch and he’d kill the light. Not today, Satan. Not today.

  “So, back to the actual topic,” she said. “I’m starting a petition for your freedom. You need your life back and I need you. Your parents can either jump on the fun train or get run over by it.”

  “I wish it was that easy.”

  Nikki continued along the interstate, entering and exiting parishes until Crighton’s massive metal sign welcomed us home. The town, consisting of no more than 2,500 people, died with the loss of steam engines. Its former glory boiled down to one severely dwindled ghost town and one mediocre McDonald’s.

  She pulled off the interstate and onto Crighton’s cobblestoned main street. Cracked brick buildings held 75 percent of the town’s businesses. My mom’s salon sat at end of the street, her Equinox gleaming pewter beneath the sun.

  “What if you told them you were sleeping over at my house?” Nikki said, eyeing the SUV. “We could sneak out after my grandma goes to bed, drive to the party, and no one has to know. As long as we’re in before the sun comes up, it will be like it never happened.”

  “I’m not scamming your grandma,” I said, sighing. “She’s literally the nicest old lady in town. I would feel morally wrong.”

  “It’s not like she would know. She goes to bed at a quarter after six and rarely wakes up before sunrise. We’ll be back before she knows we’re gone.”

  “I’ve messed up more than enough to know no plan is foolproof,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Okay, but at the risk of sounding judgmental, where was that moral guide when Mitch was the one asking you to go have some fun?”

  I paused, my jaw slightly ajar. “That’s not fair,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” Nikki said. “I’m not trying to be harsh. I’m just t
rying to save you from senior year hell. You do remember what it was like to be socially isolated, right? We were miserable. I can’t do that again.”

  I gnawed on my lip, the truth a cruel reminder of what was at stake. Of course I remembered. Being the sheriff’s daughter branded me with a stigma from the start. I was too wholesome. Too dangerous to include. No one wanted to risk getting caught at a party. No one wanted to risk me ratting them out.

  Until Mitch.

  A few minutes later, Nikki stopped at the curb outside my house. The brick-and-limestone exterior contrasted dark wood accents, dark shutters, and espresso-colored porch rails. The manicured lawns, freshly mowed by my dad, left it a picture of perfection. From the outside, my family seemed like a put-together piece of art. In reality, our relationships were as raw as the exposed drywall and paint swatches left from remodeling.

  I unbuckled my seat belt and retrieved my shopping bags. “Can I call you later?” I said, opening the door.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Just make sure you start the call with I’m spending the night at your house.”

  “You really should take up debate,” I said, stepping onto the curb. “You could channel your persuasive powers for good, not evil.”

  “Why would I do that?” she said. “Villains have all the fun.”

  I grinned and closed the door, hauling shopping bags across the concrete path. The wooden porch creaked the minute I stepped onto it; the large front door squealed on its hinges. Inside the foyer, paint fumes hung thick in the air. I held my breath, heading for the stairs.

  My room was first on the right, a collection of everything a “popular kid” should have. A lighted vanity with too much makeup? Check. One massive closet with too many clothes? Check. Mounted TV with speaker system? Check.

  The room was full of things I’d asked for, but none of it made a difference in gaining me credit. One night of rebellion did more for my reputation than anything expensive ever could.

  I dropped the shopping bags inside my door, glancing at an easel near the window. The sunset backdrop I’d worked on for two days was almost complete. Painting was the best distraction from my grounding, but you could only paint the same scene once or twice before it got old.

  I turned, sighing as I pulled my phone from my purse and synced it with a Bluetooth speaker across the room. Texts from Mitch continued to flash across the screen, each apology a new knife to the gut.

  I took a seat on my bed, staring at little white lights scattered in a canopy above me. For all his faults, Mitch loved me when no one else could see me as anything but the sheriff’s daughter. He was my confidant in too many situations. My best friend. And, despite the blow he dealt to my heart, I couldn’t pretend I didn’t care. I always would.

  My heart cinched in my chest. Oxygen burned my lungs, while tears stung my eyes. I hadn’t cried in months. He wasn’t worth crying over anymore.

  “Damn it,” I said, blinking them back.

  I heaved in a long breath and dragged myself off the bed, shaking my head as I crossed the room. In the vanity mirror, a put-together mess watched me cross the room. Her blue eyes, barely blemished porcelain skin, and curled blond hair were an image. They weren’t reality. No one really knew me. Except Nikki.

  I stopped in front of the vanity, placing my palms flush against the wood. Lying to her grandma was wrong on so many levels, but I hadn’t been at a party in months. The longer I stayed out of the scene, the more irrelevant I became. Despite arguing with her, Nikki’s words were fact. Going to this party was more of a had to than anything. I had to go. End of story.

  I headed for my bed, grabbing the phone from the comforter. My mom’s text stream was third on the list. I hit her name with my thumb, typing at rapid speed.

  Me: Will you ask dad if I can spend the night at Nikki’s?

  I hit send, my heart beating out of my chest as three little dots blinked across the screen.

  Mom: You’re still grounded.

  “Mom,” I groaned, typing a response. She was smart not to trust me. Half the time I couldn’t trust myself.

  I sat on the chair at my vanity, forearms resting against my knees.

  Me: And I haven’t asked to stay over at Nikki’s since November.

  Mom: Your dad is the one you need to ask. Not me.

  Me: We both know dad will say no. Please mom.:(

  “This was a stupid idea,” I said, shaking my head. Getting her to agree to a day out with Nikki was a gift. No way she’d agree to this too.

  Mom: I love you, but no.

  And there it was: rejection.

  I sat the phone on the vanity, scowling at my reflection. I had sacrificed too much to get to this point. Letting my popularity slip away would be stupid. With or without permission, I was going to that party.

  * * *

  A quarter past nine, I snuck through my window on the top floor. My shoes slid across roof tiles, the moonless night giving me little light to work with.

  Two blocks away, Nikki’s car sat beneath the glow of a streetlamp. I landed on the grass a few minutes later, clutching a pair of sandals as I sprinted toward her car.

  My hand rapped against the car’s window, loud in the quiet of the night. She immediately hit the unlock button, stowing her phone beneath the radio as I slid inside.

  “Two things,” she said, holding up a pair of fingers. “First, I love your shirt. Second, you’re late.”

  “I know. I know,” I breathed, clicking my seat belt. “But you try sneaking out when your parents check on you every ten minutes. I swear it’s like I’m living in the Big Brother house.”

  “Where’s Julie Chen when you need her?” Nikki said, putting the car in drive.

  “So, how did you manage to get out?” she asked, pulling a Styrofoam cup from the cup holder. “Back door? Window?”

  “I snuck out the window and almost broke myself in the process,” I said, slipping into my sandals. “I swear that rainstorm was sent to kill me.”

  “Well, roofs are wet when it rains,” Nikki said after a minute. “Maybe you should’ve tried the door.”

  “Next time I’ll remember that,” I said.

  I glanced at the thick row of trees outside my neighborhood. The lakeside views were gorgeous, but hidden behind too many cypress trees. At night, mosquitoes swarmed the shorelines. Baker’s Swamp would be worse.

  “Oh! I did remember bug spray,” I said, digging in my purse for the bottle of Off!

  “Bug spray is good, but I have something better,” Nikki said, handing me the cup. “Five sips of that and you won’t even notice the bugs.”

  I took a sip. Vodka burned its way down my throat, making me gag. “Geez, Nikki. Would you like some fruit juice with your vodka?” I said, handing it back.

  “You think I put too much in?” she said, returning the cup to the holder. “I thought it was good! Had two before I left the house, actually. And I’m happy to report that so far there are no serious side effects. Except for a buzz, I’m feeling pretty good over here.”

  I rolled my eyes. Nikki was never one to pass on a drink, but she usually gave me warning before we went somewhere.

  “If I knew you were drinking, I would’ve kicked you out of the driver’s seat,” I said, shifting toward her. “I’m totally fine being the designated driver.”

  “I’m fine to drive!” she said, waving me off. “You know I can down at least four vodka sours before I start feeling them. Hashtag, tolerance.”

  “Hashtag, irresponsible,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Besides, it isn’t that strong,” she said. “It’s vodka fruit punch or something. The juice waters it down. No worries.”

  “Famous last words,” I muttered, staring out the window again.

  Trees outside grew thicker with each passing mile. When Nikki turned down a country road ten miles later, I pulled a tube of lip-gloss from my bag. She pulled off the road shortly after, the flicker of firelight amplifying as we drove through a line of trees.

/>   Baker’s Swamp was bursting with cars and occupied by what seemed to be 90 percent of Crighton High’s student body. With a town as slow as ours, it wasn’t surprising to see this many people at the party. Still, my nerves stood on end. Anxiety and anticipation mixed with excitement.

  Nikki wedged her Prius behind a Mustang, leaving barely three inches between my door and an all-too-familiar Chevy. I eyed the truck as I slid through the opening, my pulse quickening at the LSU parking tag in the window—Mitch.

  “Come on, slowpoke,” Nikki said, slipping through vehicles ahead of me. “We got places to go. People to see.”

  “Friends to keep upright,” I said, hurrying after her.

  Her walk wasn’t as straight as normal, the sway in her saunter too obvious to go unnoticed. She had no reason to be behind the wheel of a car. She had even less reason to wander this party without someone watching her back.

  We passed through clusters of people, humidity clinging to my bare arms and legs. A vintage Beatles tank top and blue jean cutoffs were trendy enough to fit in, but cool enough to spare me from the heat of the swamp. I absently rubbed my arms, eyeing people as the smell of burning pines carried on the breeze.

  Ahead, a bonfire raged. Most of Crighton’s junior and senior class stood gathered around the fire, red Solo cups in their hands.

  “Want a drink?” Nikki said, glancing at me over her shoulder.

  “How about a beer?” someone said from my right.

  I glanced that way, eyeing Smith Saddler as he crossed a thick patch of brush with two beers in his hands. With jade-green eyes, perfectly styled brown hair, one heck of a saunter, and dark blue jeans, he was Crighton’s closest thing to an athletic hipster. He carried the look well, and he knew it.

  “Thanks!” Nikki said, taking a bottle from him. She put her lips to the rim, winking at me as she turned and headed the other way.

  “She’s drunk,” I said, crossing my arms.

  “Then I probably should’ve kept that beer,” he said, grinning.

  Smith’s charm and overpowering stature were a recipe for trouble. He could talk his way out of a paper bag, then talk someone else into it.