Owen—he didn’t fit any of those boxes. But I’d force him in one if I had to. I’ve already lost my practice room, my sanctuary. He wouldn’t take away my quiet moments alone with my piano too.

I match the dare in his eyes, take one step back, and drop the ball down to my foot. My kick is swift and purposeful, and despite my lack of any athletic ability at all, the ball flies down the street, into the darkness, the only proof of its existence the sound of its bounce growing fainter with every few feet.

“You’re in my driveway. Get your own hoop,” I say, folding my arms up in an act of defiance. Only then do I realize how hard my heart is pounding. I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline still working its way through my arms and chest, or if I’m scared.

Owen’s gaze is still over my shoulder, out into the street where I sent his ball. He’s slow and resolute with every movement, and the longer it takes him to speak the more aware I am of what I’ve done.

I woke the tiger.

His soft chuckle isn’t friendly at all. Neither is his movement—the way he leans forward and spits on the ground, like a man does just after he’s thrown a punch. But Owen doesn’t make a move toward me, and he doesn’t say a word. He only backs away slowly, raising his hand as he nears his front steps, small puffs of fog coming from his mouth and nose—his breath like a dragon’s.

I should walk away. I know I should walk away. If I walk away now, he has no power over me. But I. Can’t. Move.

With every step up his porch, his arm raises higher, until finally, at his door, he’s pointing at me. He’s pointing, and he’s smirking. And then he pulls the trigger before winking and blowing the imaginary smoke from his finger.

With the slam of his door closed behind him, I fall to the ground.

Chapter 4

Sleep isn’t coming. I have been in my bed all night with the lights off, but my curtains open. I sent messages to Morgan and Gaby earlier in the evening, thanking them for the pictures they sent from the first few days at Bryce. I felt so connected to them still, and it broke my heart to see everyone in those images smiling, living—without me.

I did my best to fill them in on my mystery neighbor. Morgan summed him up quickly, texting that he was a “loser,” but Gaby seemed to think there was something else to him. She always understands me, and I knew she’d have a different take on things. Of course, she asked if he was hot; she always asks if the guy is hot. But she also asked if he looked sad, or just angry, trying to get at what it was I found so threatening—and appealing. I didn’t have to tell her I was attracted to him, which meant I didn’t have to admit it to myself. I didn’t have to tell her because she already knew. She always knows.

When my phone buzzes, vibrating my pillow, I smile, and my mood lifts for the first time in days. It’s late—almost two in the morning. Gaby’s been working on her winter ensemble performance, and it’s been keeping her at the school studio all night for weeks. She got permission to use the practice rooms and the recording equipment over the summer, when she began writing the arrangements. I admired her balls for even asking the dean, but of course he said yes. Everyone says yes to her. They say yes because she has a fierce determination that comes through in everything she does, and people can’t help but want to nurture it, to love it.

Despite how exhausted I knew she must be, she still called.

“Hey,” I answer, fighting through my own yawn.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” she asks. “We texted an hour ago, so I thought you might still be awake.” She’s fighting through her own yawn now, too.

“I’m up. It’s not a sleeping kind of night,” I admit.

“I had a feeling,” she says. She could always sense when something was wrong. It was her gift, her duty as my best friend. And hearing her voice now makes me cry, but I keep my tears silent, because I like hearing Gaby happy.

“This isn’t about the mystery neighbor, is it?” she asks, her question a formality. Gaby knows why I’m really sad. I’m homesick—desperate for anything familiar. And she’s my one thing—like a dash of medicine—that can make my new life survivable.

“No, it isn’t,” I say, breathing a heavy sigh and flipping through the pictures I have on my phone, on my Facebook page, and in the box I pulled out from under my bed. These pictures are both blessings and curses. I cherish them because they remind me that my life before was real. But they also remind me it’s gone.

“Does it help that I miss you just as much as you miss me?” she asks.