“Dean wouldn’t drive such a thing,” I say, my mouth relishing at calling my father by his given name, forgoing any relationship he has with me.

We both step out of her car and move closer to the Volvo, when my mom and Owen step through the back door of the house, my mom holding a set of keys on her index finger.

“Happy birthday, Kensington. I was thinking maybe we put that license of yours to use,” my mom says, and I look to Owen, who’s smiling and shrugging behind her, his hands deep in his pockets, his hat turned backward.

“Shut up, it’s your birthday?” Willow asks, shoving my shoulder once, kind of hard.

“Not until Saturday,” I say, my eyes focused only on Owen’s, on the sweetness of them, the love in them.

“On Halloween? That’s awesome. Oh my god, we should totally have a party. I mean, like…an appropriate party,” Willow says, putting on a fake voice of responsibility for my mom.

“You can all come here. I’m off that day, and I’ll make a big dinner. We can carve pumpkins,” my mom says, stopping right in front of me and pulling my hand up in hers, transferring the keys. “What do you think, Kens? Sound good?”

I smile and nod. “That sounds great,” I say, looking at the small music note key ring in my hand, the lone Volvo key hooked on it. “Thanks, Mom.”

I reach for my mom, hugging her tightly, my eyes still finding Owen behind her.

“Thank Owen, too. I couldn’t have done this without him,” she says, confirming what I’d already figured out on my own. “I didn’t want to get ripped off, since I don’t know a thing about cars. He went to the dealer with me, made sure everything was working right.”

Stepping by my mom, I move closer to Owen, my throat closing up with all of the things I want to say to this boy that I…I love, my god do I love with so much of myself. I’m so afraid of everything, of what people say, of what Cal said, but I also don’t care because standing here in front of me, looking at me like he is, I know in my heart that Owen is good.

Owen is good.

In front of my mother, in front of my new best friend, I stand on the tips of my toes and kiss him lightly, pulling my face away from his before anyone notices, before anyone sees. And I whisper.

“I see you,” I say.

Owen’s eyes…they respond.

Chapter 15

I honestly think Gaby is trying to make me hate my own birthday. There’s no other reason for her to do what she did.

A Facebook message would have been simple—an email, simpler. A text, something I could easily ignore, delete without reading. What Gaby’s done is far more about Gaby than about my birthday. This package—the one I’ve been sitting on my bed with, staring at, since about seven this morning—is a Trojan horse.

The knock on the door was faint, but I heard it. I was awake, listening for the sound of Owen’s truck, waiting for him to be awake too. Instead, the only other person awake at this hour near my home was whoever left this package on my doorstep.

I know it was Gaby.

There was no return address, only my name and house number. More than suspicious—it was obvious. Yet, I brought it inside with me anyhow. I tried not to open it. But I’ve never been good at ignoring impulses. The pull—it was just too much. I had to know what was inside.

Digging my nails into the taped sides, I pulled the flap of the cardboard free, then pulled out the layers of tissue paper hiding my gift. I recognized the dress as soon as I saw the blue fabric of the sleeve. I’ve coveted Gaby’s blue Alexander McQueen dress since the day her mother bought it for her. She let me wear it to one of my performances, and it was the one that caught the attention of recruiters from Tisch and Julliard. She never let me borrow it again—and now, part of me thinks she was jealous of the attention I received when I wore it.

Gaby was always in it for our school dances our junior year. And now, sitting here, looking at it resting in crumpled tissue paper—in a non-descript brown box, borrowed from something else—I can’t help but wonder if she wore it for my father.

“I’m going to burn you,” I say to myself, to the dress, a small smile inching up my lips.

There’s a letter in the box—a letter I have no intention of reading. I don’t even bother to tear the small seal on the envelope; instead I stuff the letter into the crinkles of the tissue paper surrounding the dress.

The incessant faint knock that’s happening at my door again feels different this time, and I welcome being pulled away from Gaby’s sad attempt to erase the damage she did to our friendship. I toss the box to the floor, leap to my feet, and patter down the stairs quickly, opening the door to a rush of cool air and faint flakes of snow falling behind Owen.