I take a deep breath, pausing on the dress I think I want to wear tonight. Pulling it into my hands, I shut my eyes and run my thumbs along the soft fabric, breathing in once more through my nose before I dive into my defense.

“Yes. I’ve been training. And it feels good. No…” I pause, letting the dress slide through my fingers and dangle back on its hanger. “It feels amazing. My body feels amazing. I look forward to exercising—it’s more than just part of my treatment. I have a purpose, a goal! Ty has been training me, and he pushes me, but never too far. I can take it. I am thriving off of it! But it’s not just my muscles, and me being competitive, Paige. I’m running hard. I forgot what working for something like this felt like—and I think I need this…my soul needs this!”

“Your…soul…needs this?” she scoffs at me, a rude laugh breaking through as she speaks. “Cass, Mom is going to worry herself sick. She’s going to nag Dad until he makes you stop, or worse—she’ll make you come home!”

“Then don’t tell them!”

And there it is. I’m asking Paige to keep a secret. This is where things between us have always been raw. Paige was the one who told the school about my diagnosis. She didn’t do it to be mean—she just wanted something to talk about with her friends. She wanted to talk about how hard life was for her, because everyone was doting over me. Then, when I slept with Jeff and Noah, and neither of them looked my way again once they took what they wanted, I turned to Paige, devastated and confused. To her credit, I honestly believe all she wanted to do was defend me, but she confronted them…in a crowd.

And then it was out there. Cass Owens was the girl who slept with two best friends, only weeks apart. When the boys practically formed a line—I obliged. My reputation spread fast, and for the most part, I kept up—all the way until the end.

I never said it aloud, but it always hung out there between Paige and me. This lack of trust—it runs deep. So deep, that once I ask Paige to keep this secret, this new secret, the one that is bringing me more joy than anything has in months, she doesn’t know how to answer. I can see the redness fighting to take over the whites of her eyes. I’ve hit a nerve, but Paige Owens doesn’t cry. She never shows weakness. And she doesn’t make promises she can’t keep.

Without a word, she grabs her purse and keys and walks away, careful not to slam the door in her wake—always under control, even when she wants to stab me.

It takes Rowe almost an hour to realize that Paige is gone. She finally turns her iPod off and looks around as she wraps the cord up neatly. “Paige left?” she asks.

“Yeah, she had some party or something. I think she’s dating a football player now,” I respond, quickly returning my focus to the dress in the closet and the perfect shoes to go with it. It’s not a total lie—I think Paige really is into a football player. But who the hell knows about the party. I just know she’s not coming back tonight.

That’s the weird thing with twins. You fight enough—you start to really understand the idiosyncrasies of your match. And I know Paige won’t step foot in front of me again until she can look me in the eye and tell me I’m the one who’s being unreasonable. And when she does, her face will almost convince me she’s right.

Chapter 12

Ty

When Kelly looks at her phone, she’s going to think I’m a crazy man. Scratch that—a crazier man. I’ve called¸ heard the start of a ring, and hung up a dozen times. I know it records every missed call, and I know there’s a chance Jared is probably going to see my name lighting up her phone screen about a million times. And it’s going to piss him off. But he won’t say anything. Not directly, at least. So I dial again, my finger hovering over the END CALL button while I force myself to hear two rings this time.

Once I make it to two, I power through, like I’ve passed some stupid barrier. Once the third ring finishes, I almost press to end the call, but Kelly’s voicemail picks up.

Hey, it’s Kelly. I can’t talk now, but I’ll be sad I missed you, so please leave a message.

And then there’s the beep.

Fuck! I’ve already let two or three dead seconds pass before I stutter into talking.

“Kel, hey,” I start. This is weird—this whole thing is weird. She had to know this would be weird. And she had to know that there was no fucking way I would be able to wait until Thanksgiving—almost two months away—to find out what’s wrong.

“I’m returning your call. You kind of, well…left me hanging there with that message. I was just worried about you. So, uhm…yeah. Give me a call when you can. I’d love to talk.”