I turn from where I’m slipping into my sweatshirt.

“There’s been something I’ve been wanting you to have . . .” He steps over and holds something small and shiny to the thin streaks of light that steal through the round yacht windows. A sliver of excitement runs through my body when I realize what it is.

“Is this a promise ring?”

When my lashes raise, I find him watching me with somber intensity.

With the intensity of a boy who loves you.

Just like you love him.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, reverently reaching out for it.

“It was my mother’s.” His voice is textured with emotion, his beautiful face harsh with it as he watches me slip it onto my finger.

“What are you promising me?” I taunt, lifting my face to his.

I will never forget the cocky lift to the corner of his lips when he said, “Me.”

Oh, god, I love him. I love him like a storm loves a sky and a smile needs a face. Mackenna is the best of me, the rock that holds me, the only one who understands me. He’s all that is left of my life that is tender and happy. I throw myself at him and he catches me, squeezes me, hugs me tighter than anyone else hugs me. “I’ll say yes and take all of you, so don’t joke about this,” I warn.

“No joke,” he promises, lifting my hand so he can see. “Looks pretty on you.”

I squeeze his fingers with mine as my heart squeezes at the very same time. “But my mother and your father . . . they both need us right now.”

Our lives are so imperfect. Cluttered with obstacles between him and me.

After my father died, my mother turned even more strict and bitter.

After Mackenna’s mother died, his father turned to drugs. Dealing drugs.

And now, my mother is the DA in charge of convicting Mackenna’s father, and the case is destroying our every chance at happiness.

I can’t wait to get away.

We need to get away.

He strokes my face with his long, guitar-playing fingers. “I know they need us, but they won’t need us forever. The hearing isn’t until a couple of months. Whatever happens with my father, whatever the judge decides . . . we’ll meet at the park that night, and we’ll run away. Get married. I can get a couple of gigs at a few local bars, I can support you through college.”

“Will you really help me pay my college tuition, Kenna? Are you sure you can do it?” I ask hopefully.

“Hell, I’d do anything for you.” He’s deadly serious as he speaks the words, giving my shoulders a squeeze. “I’m tired of hiding, you know.”

“I’m tired too.”

“I want to be with you. Out in the open. I’m sick of being your secret. I want to be your guy. I want people to know you’re mine.”

“But I am.” I lift my hand to his line of vision again, wiggling my beautifully adorned finger. “I am yours. And our plan’s still on, whatever happens. I’ll meet you at the park after the trial.”

He smiles a sad smile at the mention of the trial, then he kisses the ring on my hand, and then, well . . . then he pulls me by the small of my back against his hard, broad chest and kisses me stupid. “I love you. Always,” he husks out.

There are ways people love you.

There are all kinds and types of love, I’ve found.

The way you love pets. Your friends. The way your parents love you. Your cousins. And there was this whole other way Mackenna and I loved each other.

Our love was like a raging storm and a harbor: unruly and unstoppable, wild and endless, but steady and safe . . .

Or so . . . my fool seventeen-year-old heart thought.

Months later, I sat on a rickety old bench for hours, until the park grew pitch black, empty. I could’ve been robbed or maybe even kidnapped, it was so dark. I was so stupid and naïve, I still waited, my toenails freshly painted, my shoes new, my dress the one I thought I looked prettiest in—at least one of the few that was not black but a light yellow. And I waited, running my hands down my loose hair. I twirled my promise ring on my finger until the base of my finger grew red and I realized he wasn’t coming. And my eyes stung and my lungs closed when the figure that appeared that night was my mother’s, my mother who couldn’t possibly know I was dating him, extending her hand.

“He’s not coming,” she whispered.

“He’s coming, Mother. I’m leaving. You can’t stop me,” I said with more conviction than I felt.

“I don’t need to stop you. I just convicted his father, Pandora. You won’t be leaving with that boy. He’s not coming. I saw him with someone else. I’ll wait in the car.”

With someone else . . .

Just like my dad.

Mackenna lied to me.

And just like that, Mackenna broke me. . . .

FIVE

HAZED

Pandora

Okay, so here’s the deal. A fact of life I’ve just proven. Everyone believes rock bands live in this sick little world, where all the band members get stoned, drunk, and laid, curse and argue, and every day is like this big ol’ party?

Well, it’s true.

They rehearse, of course. They work—some of the time. But holy shit, do these people know how to party. Even Trombone Guy, Violin Guy, and Piano Guy are hitting the booze tonight.

Party animals.

The whole lot of them.

“You wanna drink?” Violin Guy offers, but when I say no, I watch him simply shrug and leave with his buddies, the Harpist and the Flute Guy, instead.