The front of the house faces the driveway. I sit on the bottom step of the main staircase and wait.

Within minutes, my cell vibrates. It’s him. He’s walking up the driveway. I catch a glimpse of myself in the gilded mirror Mom shipped home from Venice a few summers ago. Moonlight from the skylights streaks the glass, giving my skin a pale glow. I shake out my dark waves.

Two light knocks on the door, and my stomach flutters. I open the door and Marco slips inside, pushing it closed with one hand and sliding the other around my waist. “Hey.”

The desire in his eyes is only a fraction of the tension building inside me. “Hey.”

“I missed you.” He brushes the hair over my shoulders and away from my face. His thumb grazes the sensitive skin along my collarbone, and the tension coils tighter.

“You saw me a few hours ago,” I say, as if I didn’t miss him just as much.

Marco tugs on the belt loops of my jeans, pulling me against him. “Four and a half, if we’re counting.” He licks his lips, staring down at me. “Which I am.”

“Me too.” I rest my hands on his hips, wishing it were raining outside so I’d have an excuse to make him take off his shirt again.

“You’re sure you won’t get in trouble?” he asks. “What if Lex’s mom figures out you aren’t there?”

“That would require her mom to pay attention. If that happens, we should prepare for Armageddon.”

“How much time do we have?” He tunnels his hand through my hair.

Not enough. “Two hours.”

A week ago, that would’ve felt like plenty of time. Now it seems like seconds. It’s crazy how much your life can change so fast. How someone you like can become the person you can’t live without.

Tugging on Marco’s shirt, I walk backward to the marble staircase. “Come on.”

He looks up at the massive crystal chandelier hanging above our heads. “I’m not arguing.” He takes my hand, and I lead him up the steps and down the hallway toward my bedroom. Marco takes in the surroundings—colorful oil paintings, Impressionist landscapes, and a charcoal Miró sketch; stained red cherry floors; and Turkish rugs worth more than his car. I walk faster, embarrassed by the extravagance.

Marco has never seen this part of my life. I can’t help but wonder if it will change what he thinks of me.

I stop at my bedroom door, hand on the knob and my heart beating wildly in my chest. I’ve never had a boy in my room before—except Abel, and he doesn’t count, because we were never more than friends. Noah and I had to hang out in the living room or the basement—rooms without a bed.

“What’s wrong?” Marco senses my hesitation. “You don’t have to take me in your bedroom.” He wraps his arms around my waist from where he stands behind me.

“I want to.” I turn the knob and press the pad that switches on the crystal chandelier on the ceiling, sending dots of light dancing across the pale blue walls. Blue and silver. Velvet and silk. Mom wanted my room to look like the inside of a Tiffany’s little blue box.

Marco walks over to my dresser and picks up one of the silver frames I left behind. It’s a shot of me playing the piano at a showcase concert last year. “I didn’t know you played the piano.”

“I don’t anymore.”

He reaches for one of the frames lying facedown.

“Not that one.” I rush to stop him.

“Is that him?” He keeps his hand on the frame but doesn’t pick it up.

“Yeah. I haven’t turned it over since…” I look down and study the pattern on the rug. It’s hard to distinguish between the blues and greens in the dim light.

Marco lifts my chin with his finger. “If you need more time because … you’re not over him.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m an idiot. Of course you aren’t over him. Maybe you’re still in love with him?”

“Stop.” I touch his lips with my finger. “I miss him, but it’s not what you think. We grew up together, and Noah was one of my best friends. But he feels so far away.” I feel guilty admitting it.

And you’re my right now.

The corner of his mouth turns up. “I like your room.”

It looks like a page out of a trendy magazine. “No, you don’t.”

He takes my hand and leads me to the end of the bed. We sit on the edge and he smiles sheepishly, planting a quick kiss on my lips. “Okay. I don’t. It doesn’t feel like you in here.”

“I know.” Mom decorated every inch, and except for a few framed photos, there’s nothing personal in this room.

“Sofia would love it.”

I try to imagine how it looks from his point of view.

“What’s going on in your head?” Marco asks.

“My bedroom—this house—it must make me look like a spoiled rich girl from the Heights. But I’m not that girl anymore.”

“I know who you are, Frankie.” He reaches out and traces a line down the center of my lips, and my breath catches. “You’re so beautiful it hurts to look at you. And you’re even more beautiful on the inside.”

I touch his chest and feel his heart pounding. He’s the beautiful one. I tug on his T-shirt, needing him closer. “Come here.”

He watches me from beneath long lashes, drinking me in. I clutch his shirt tighter and press my forehead against his. Marco’s response is immediate—his fingers slip under the hem of my T-shirt and press against my sides.

“I’m scared.” Finally, I say something true.

“Me too,” he whispers. “Whenever you’re one minute late, I think you aren’t going to show. That you finally figured out I’m not good enough for you. I used to be different. Maybe if you’d met me back then … before my mom died and my dad got locked up. But after the accident, things changed, and I can’t go back.”

Every word feels like it could have come from my lips. I’m not the same person I was before Noah died. If anyone understands how one experience can change your entire life, it’s me. “I used to be different, too. Noah’s death changed me. I’m broken, Marco.” A knot forms in my throat, and I can’t choke it down. “And there’s no way to fix me.”

His lips graze mine, and he pauses to suck my lower lip. The ice inside me melts, and a sigh escapes my lips. “I don’t want to fix you, Angel. I just want you.”