Prologue
Graduation Night - 11 years before
Olivia
“Luke, let me go!” I shout angrily, failing to wiggle myself free from his arms.
It’s the night of our high school graduation, and, as is tradition, the senior class is gathered by the beachy area of Lake Covewood. Everyone is huddled together around a blazing bonfire, its orange flames licking up at the night sky, casting long, flickering shadows over the sand. Half the senior class is here, laughing too loud, dancing barefoot. There is this sense of reckless freedom that only comes when you know everything is about to change.
It’s supposed to be a night of celebration, of making final memories with our classmates, but within the last hour, things within my friend group have utterly fallen apart. Not only did Luke show up with a freshly blackened eye and a thirst for whiskey, but our other two best friends, Raine and Ryland, broke up with each other, which is why Luke is currentlydragging me away in an attempt to keep me from punching Ryland in the face for breaking Raine’s heart.
As I watch my friends, the last thing I see is Ryland turning and walking away from Raine. Her shoulders slump in defeat before she runs toward the row of parked cars. Every nerve in my body is screaming at me to rush to her, but my petite body fails me because I’m unable to budge out of Luke’s grasp. I kick my legs, shimmy my shoulders, and throw my head back, slamming into his chin. My attacks do absolutely nothing.
“Get your Hulk arms off of me!” I hiss, squirming one last time, even though it’s hopeless.
“Not a chance,” he grunts into my ear, sending a warm surge of rage rushing through my veins.
“We can’t just sit back and let this happen! Ryland isn’t thinking clearly, and Raine?—”
“No, Liv, we can’t get in the middle of this.” He stops walking backward and twists my body around so I’m facing him.
His steady but gentle hands are warm against my arms, like he knows exactly how much pressure to use to get me to stop and listen to him. I study the bruise under his left eye, appearing angrier and more swollen now, a blotch of deep purple fading into sickly yellow at the edges. It’s the kind of bruise that makes most people flinch when they look at it, but not me.
There is something sharp and protective that has my chest twisting at the sight of it. I want to reach up and touch the bruise, as if that might undo whatever pain he’s feeling right now. Instead, I look at him—really look at him.
His dark hair is a windswept mess. His dark-chocolate eyes meet mine, silently trying to say what he hasn’t yet spoken.
He’s wearing that old black T-shirt that always fits him unfairly well. It clings just enough to show the way his shoulders taper down to his waist, and I catch myself watching the rise and fall of his chest as if it’s something new to me. As if Ihaven’t known him most of my life. My eyes begin to trail down his torso before I snap myself out of it, and remind myself that we’re just friends.
Friends who have hundreds of almost-moments we never talk about.
Standing here, with his hands still on me and his jaw clenched like he's holding back words he doesn't trust himself to say, something seems to shift. The air between us tightens. Our unspoken rules start to blur at the edges, and I hate that I notice it.
I try to pull away, desperate for some space, needing to breathe before I say or feel something I can't take back, but Luke is quicker. He lets go only to cup my face in his hand, turning me back toward him before I can fully shake free.
“This isn’t our problem to fix. Not this time,” he says.
I stop moving and blink up at him, confused. What does he mean it’s not our problem to fix? Ever since middle school, that’s what we do. We always work together to solve our problems and make sure we’re there for each other. I’d do anything for my friends, and he knows that.
“I don’t care what the problem is. I have to help.”
Luke huffs in frustration before finishing the beer he has surprisingly held onto the whole time he’s detained me. He doesn’t pull his gaze away from mine, causing warmth to coil low in my stomach and spread to the tips of my fingers. I stare back at him, an arch lifting my brow, an invitation to a challenge.
“Since you won't let me focus on that problem, let's focus on this one." I wave at him. "Why do you have a black eye?"
Every line of his body tenses. He doesn’t have to tell mewhopunched him, because I can see the answer written in every angle of his face. I reach up to touch his cheek, and he flinches slightly, like the motion is triggering to him, before he realizes it’s just me.
My thumb brushes against the lower part of the bruise andalong his cheekbone. I hate that someone as wonderful as Luke has a father that hurts him, and I despise it even more that his father gets away with it. Anger flares through me as I scan his body for more signs of Davis’ hands.
“I’m fine.” His words are scratchy, and my nose scrunches at the scent of alcohol on his breath.
“Why do you have a black eye?” I repeat, letting my hand drop to my side with a loud smack.
Luke studies me, his lips pressed into a thin line. Twin half-moons form in the space between his brows. I have the urge to smooth them out with the pad of my thumb but shake the thought away.We don’t go there, Olivia, I remind myself.
Something changes in his eyes, as if he read my thoughts, and I catch the moment he decides to give up his restraint and let his walls down. As Luke exhales, he opens his eyes, and stares toward the nearby bonfire. The orange and yellow flames reflect in his irises, as if revealing the burning he also feels inside.
“You can’t fix this one either.” He huffs, tossing his empty beer bottle. I watch as it lands near the bonfire with a clank.
