“I thought so,” I say, standing up to move to my doorway, checking to see if my mom is still downstairs or up. “But apparently it’s not my piano.”

When I turn back to Owen, his eyebrows are pulled in, one eye closed. “Last I checked, it’s not the piano that makes that kick-ass music. It’s you,” Owen says.

“Exactly, so there’s no reason I can’t sell it,” I say quickly, regretting my words just as fast.

Owen’s standing now, his body moving behind me. I turn into him, reaching my arms out to hug him, embrace him, move away from talking—but he greets my hands with his, holding his arms out stiffly, keeping me at a small distance so he can watch my face. “Why would you sell it?” he asks.

He knows.

I shrug, nodding ambivalently, as if I haven’t thought this through.

“Kens,” he says, his eyes looking over my shoulder, out my door, then back to me. “You’re not selling your piano.”

I let go of his fingers and lean back against my wall, my arms folded—pouting. Pouting and pissed. Why is everyone insistent that I can’t do what I want with my piano?

“Kens,” he chuckles, moving closer to me, pulling on my arms, which I’m holding together tightly against my body. My stubbornness makes him laugh harder, until he pulls his hat from his head, tosses it on my bed and rubs his eyes. He sits down next to it and calls me over to him. I scoot my feet closer reluctantly, and when I get to him, he loops his fingers into the pocket of my jeans and drags me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around me tightly, his lips at my ear.

“It is so sweet that you want to help my family. But that would pay for what? Another couple months of my Grandpa’s expenses? I can’t let you do that. The cost is too high,” he says. “But I love that you’re willing to do something like that for me.”

“I don’t want the piano anymore. And it would help,” I say, my eyes growing heavy with tears.

“Yes you do. You don’t think you want it…but you do,” he says, swaying me side to side in his lap, his cheek against mine. I let my head fall on his arm, running my hands along his, holding his caged arms around me tightly.

I don’t want the piano. All I want…is Owen.

Six in the morning arrives way too quickly. Owen stayed late, my mom never coming up to my room and telling him he needed to go home. I left my door open, knowing she would feel more comfortable with him here if I did, and I heard her move to her bedroom hours after our fight downstairs.

I feel worse about it today. She’s still asleep when I sneak downstairs to brew a cup of coffee and grab a packet of Pop Tarts from the pantry. Willow texted me when she was leaving her house, which gave me precisely seven minutes to shower and get dressed. I lock our front door behind me and pull my coat around my body, shielding the hot coffee mug from the freezing air.

I’m bundled from head to toe, the only things exposed are my lips and nose and the tips of my fingers through my gloves. Jess leaps from the front seat and holds the door open for me, then moves to the back.

“Thanks for letting me ride shotgun,” I say, unwrapping my neck from my scarf, letting the heat from Willow’s car penetrate my body.

“Thanks for giving me a sip of your coffee,” Jess says, reaching through the center to the cup holder where my mug is steaming.

“Go ahead,” I roll my eyes.

“You’re too nice. I would have spilled it on him,” Willow says, backing out of the driveway with enough speed to make the bump jerk Jess’s hand a little, splattering coffee on his chin and cheeks.

“Your such a bitch in the morning,” he says, slurping the coffee once more before putting my mug back.

“See, now when he says bitch it sounds authentic,” Willow says to me.

“That’s cuz you are one!” Jess says from the back seat. Willow raises her middle finger and smiles at him in the rearview mirror.

“Are you two going to fight all the way to Champagne? I’m just saying, that’s like…three hours of bickering. So if I have a chance to bail out now and drive myself, I’d like to take it,” I say, looking to Willow. She smirks at me.

“No, we’re just going to bicker for the first ten minutes,” Jess says from behind me. “The rest of the time we’ll be all shmoopy, making kissy faces at each other, and I’ll keep feeling her up from the back seat.”

“Uh, that’s not happening,” Willow says, pointing at him in the mirror.

“Worth a shot,” Jess says, settling back in his seat, pulling his coat up over his lap.