“Why are you leaving?” I blurted out, not sure why. I wanted her to leave.

“I have a Princeton application I’m supposed to have filled out. I need to work on it,” she said, nibbling on her bottom lip, like the thought of doing it made her anxious.

I nodded, but it was automatic, just going through the motions, because when she’d said Princeton, I saw how vastly different we were besides the age thing. She had a big future ahead of her at some ivy league school while I’d never finished because I’d been busy turning a run-down gym into a profitable money-maker to support me and Sebastian.

“Have you come up with an idea for your tattoo yet?” I asked her, setting my guitar down.

She looked a little confused at my sudden attention, and I knew I was acting erratic. In fact, I felt a bit crazed. Psycho even.

“No,” she said as I slipped my shirt on, her eyes moving over the contours of my chest and resting on my dragon tat. I twitched with the urge to tug her tight against me, like we’d been in the water, and beg her to let me take her upstairs to my bed, to fuck her and forget everything else. It’s what she wanted, right?

But, then, any guy would do.

“I think you should get wings,” I said, moving over to stand behind her. “Right here, like angel wings.” I ran my fingers across her bare shoulder blades, then down her spine, stopping with both hands on the curve of her waist. I forced myself to stop there. “You already have the piercing,” I heard myself say stupidly. Shit. Why did I have to bring that up?

“I’m no angel,” she said as she stared at me over her shoulder.

I tried to find the right words. “It isn’t just angels who have wings. All kinds of beautiful creatures have them. And someday you’re going to fly away from here and leave all this shit behind. You need your own wings,” I said, reluctantly letting go of her waist.

She blushed at my compliment, and I freaked at the tender emotion that coursed through me. I jerked away and took off for the door at a brisk pace, ready to get her out of here. Yes, I was behaving strangely, but I didn’t care. Something bizarre was happening between us, and I didn’t like it. I wanted to stomp on it. Destroy it.

She eventually followed, grabbing her dress up and saying bye to the others still in the pool.

I unlocked and opened the double doors, my mind already thinking of calling Tiffany. What I felt for her was predictable and straight forward. No wacked out emotions there.

Before Nora walked out the door, she turned to me and said, “So, did you decide if you like me or not?”

“Bad decisions can make some damn good memories.”

–Nora Blakely

EVEN A FEW days after the pool, I still couldn’t get Leo out of my head. I found myself glancing out the window several times a day for a glimpse of him. I kept remembering him whispering his happy stories to me as we lay together, about him choosing Teddy for his band because he liked imperfect people.

At the swim party, he’d been aloof and avoided being near me. At least he’d decided to let me help Teddy, which I was looking forward to.

Staying with Aunt Portia while Mother worked in the city seemed to perk me up as the days passed. During the day, I hung out at the shop and helped her bake and wait on customers. During the slow hours, I studied the paperwork for Princeton and shopped for school clothes with Mila. At night while Aunt Portia slept, I drank myself to sleep, chasing oblivion.

On Monday, I received a text from Lina, my mother’s personal assistant, reminding me of my monthly lunch date with Mother. So the next day, I drove to Ricardo’s, a fancy Italian restaurant only a short walk from Mother’s downtown Dallas office. I’d been meeting her there for the past two years on the last Tuesday of every month. If it was summer and school was out, we met for lunch. If it was during the school year and I didn’t have too much homework, we met for dinner. On rare occasions Dad would come, but it was hard since his office was on the other side of town.

I pulled up to valet parking and quickly checked myself in the mirror. Lipstick not too bright . . . check. Blonde hair in a French twist . . . check. Elegant dress . . . check.

One of the parking attendants opened my door and greeted me with a broad smile. “Miss Blakely, looking lovely today,” he said in rolling Italian lilt, offering me his hand. “Your mother is inside waiting.”

I took his hand and climbed out. “Geno, good to see you. How’s your little girl? Sophia, right?” I asked. “Didn’t you tell me she was crawling last time I was here?”

He chuckled, escorting me to the double glass doors. “Ah, the little bambina is fine, very good. Goes everywhere,” he said, waving his arms around. He dug in the front pocket of his maroon uniform and pulled out a small picture. “See, she is getting big.”

“Oh, she’s such a cutie!” I said, gazing down at the smiling little baby that had tons of glossy black curls. She had a mischievous smile, and I could even see a little tooth poking through on the bottom of her gums. I looked back at Geno’s proud face inquisitively, my eyes searching for what happy looked like, felt like. I gave the photo back, and he smiled shyly and bowed, leaving me at the hostess stand.

“Miss Blakely, please follow me,” said the young girl at the podium.

I followed her into the black-and-silver themed dining area. Yeah, this place was swanky, but I loved it, mostly because it wasn’t a quiet place like most ritzy restaurants. No, at Ricardo’s not only could you hear the pots and pans clanging in the back and the loud Italian’s yelling at each other, but it smelled divine, like warm bread and garlic butter. Sure, I’d much rather be kicking it at Aunt Portia’s, helping her ice some cupcakes, but eating at Ricardo’s was a heavenly experience if Mother was in a good mood. Which I doubted she would be.

She was sitting at a round table by the window, gazing down at the menu, and with the combination of the sun warming her light brown hair and her cream suit, she looked almost angelic. She glanced up as we approached, and I automatically focused on holding my shoulders up and back, gliding over to my seat, despising myself for trying to please her.

The white-gloved waiter pulled out my chair for me, and I sat as fluidly as I could, thinking of myself as a flowing waterfall. If there’d been any posture judges in the place, I would have gotten a ten out of ten.

She’d already ordered me the usual glass of ice water and lime. I took a sip and waited.