“Don’t be.” He walked around me, picking up the photo album I’d violated. Flipping past a few pages, he finally came across one and laughed. “This is Izzy when she was two. Completely naked, playing with her toes.” He showed me the picture, leaning towards me. His arms brushed mine. I don’t think he noticed or cared, but I did. How couldn’t I? It was almost like I’d been shocked—it was electrifying.

I stepped aside, smiling with him. “She was adorable.”

“Still is,” he sighed.

Footsteps sounded seconds later, and the girl came rushing down. When she reached us, she put on a large grin, flashing pink braces. “You wanted to meet me!?” she practically shrieked.

“I—uh, yeah! I wanted to say hi and introduce myself to the new neighbors.”

“That’s so cool.” She extended her arm, holding her hand out. I did the same. “Isabelle Black, but you can call me Izzy.”

“Chloe Knight.” I beamed.

“So nice to meet you.”

“You too.” We shook hands, and instantly, I freaking loved Isabelle. “Hey, were you reading a Judy Blume book earlier?”

She let out a girly gasp. “Oh my gosh! Yes! I love her!”

“I do too!” I squealed. “I can spot that blue cover from anywhere!”

“No freakin’ way!”

“Your mom is gonna flip shit if she hears you talking like that,” Mr. Black said, putting the album on the table.

Isabelle put her hand on her hip. “I wonder where I get it from.”

He chuckled, and I laughed because he used a bad word right in front of us.

“Hey, how about I show you the rest of my books. I have almost all of Judy Blume!”

“Okay!” Isabelle grabbed my hand and led the way up the stairs, passing by her mother who was telling two of the movers how to set up the bed in the master bedroom.

“Oh!” Mrs. Black’s eyes expanded when she realized there were two girls instead of one. “Who’s this?” she asked, green eyes bright.

“Mom, this is Chloe. She lives across the street. I’m showing her my Judy Blume collection.”

“Oh really? A new friend already! See, I told you this neighborhood wouldn’t be so bad.” Mrs. Black smiled, revealing dimples. She was a really pretty woman. Strawberry blonde hair, full pink lips, and a body I hoped I would get once I finally blossomed. She didn’t even look like she’d had a child. It seemed she was still considering having babies.

“Hi,” I said, waving.

“Hello gorgeous girl.” She reached for one of my curls. “Your hair is beautiful. Did you do it?”

“I did!”

“You did a great job, sweetie. Maybe you can teach Izzy how to style her hair, huh?”

I shrugged, looking at Isabelle’s frizzy, black mane. “Hmm, maybe.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Can we go now, Mom?”

“Go on. But please be careful, Izzy. You have a lot of fragile stuff in your boxes.”

“I know, I know.” She reached for my hand again. “Come on!” We ran down the hallway, stepping into a room with a bunk bed. The walls were already painted a light shade of pink, the fuzzy white rug on the ground making the color pop.

Isabelle showed me her collection of books. A large box was filled to the brim, piled high with novels, and not just Judy Blume. That day, Isabelle became my best friend, and I didn’t even realize it. We connected and bonded, laughed and talked about books and Disney movies until the sun sank.

It was the most fun I’d had with anyone in a long time. I no longer felt lonely with Isabelle right across the street from me. Her room was the room on the second floor, only a few inches to the left of where my bay window was.

At night, if we couldn’t sleep, one of us would blink a flashlight to see if the other was awake, and if we both were, we’d turn on our night-lights, talk through the walkie-talkies we went half on, and giggle about silly things. Most times, it was books, but sometimes it was boys.

We grew up with each other. We were closer than I ever thought possible. She’d become a sister to me. We gossiped. We watched girly movies and listened to the Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears, and TLC. We’d sing our hearts out, dancing in my bedroom or hers until we were exhausted.

We hardly ever fought, and if we did, it was about stupid things like what boy was hotter at school or which friendship bracelet we would buy from Claire’s. Izzy and I were inseparable. And somehow, Mr. Black became closer to me to, but not in an unconstructive way.

Mr. Black helped Izzy and me with our homework and even took us to softball practice whenever my mother couldn’t. Mrs. Black worked a lot at her bakery in Los Angeles, which left Mr. Black at home, caring for his daughter.

Not that Mrs. Black was a bad mother or wife, she just needed to be busy now. I’d heard from Izzy that her parents had struggled at one point in their lives, when she was seven and Mr. Black was in between jobs, trying to become a car technician, run his own business. They lived with Mrs. Black’s mom in Los Angeles for almost three years.

Mr. Black was a good man—better yet, a great man. He’d take us to the park and to the movies, buying us all the candy and buttery popcorn we wanted, but when Izzy and I felt we were too old to hang out with him at the park (because let’s face it, teenagers didn’t like to be seen with their parents), he’d have no problem dropping us off at the mall and even giving us money to spend.

Things were great. My life was great. I had someone I could call a friend, someone I could consider a sister, maybe not by blood but by spirit and character.

From how I described the Blacks, you probably wonder just how I fell for Izzy’s Dad. Let’s just say it was very… unpredictable. It was something that just… happened—perhaps a simple crush that soon blossomed into something full and real and unique. I had always tried denying my feelings for him. I never wanted anyone to see, but there were certain things he said and did. Things that drove my young mind and body crazy.

Like the night when Mrs. Black wasn’t home and he was drinking in his garage, listening to some R&B music. He moved his hips, dancing and twirling Izzy around playfully. She giggled, and I sat on top of a cooler in the corner, watching them bond. But then the song changed, and he flicked his fingers for me to join him on this one.

I shook my head and waved my hands in a no way kind of gesture, but he insisted, marching forward and grabbing my hand. He tugged me up, and I landed against his chest. He twirled me with a swift, charming effect, laughing as he held me close. I tried so hard not to fall victim to his touch. I tried hard to fight the chills he gave me, wanting badly to ignore the galloping of my heartbeat.

But his smile was too perfect.

And his natural scent was so comforting.

His lips were only a few inches away, and I’m not sure if he noticed, but my stomach was rubbing against his crotch. It was harmless. I was sure because he held Izzy the exact same way, but to me it meant the fucking world to be so close… so intimate.

His laugh was hearty when he caught my embarrassed gaze, and I giggled when he finally released me and teased me about having two left feet. Izzy joined in on the laughter, telling Mr. Black that I’d always been a horrible dancer.

It was true.

I was glad they caused a distraction. I didn’t mind being teased, as long as neither of them took notice of my true feelings. God, I could remember that day so clearly.

I can also recall the time when I was sixteen and had just gotten my car and license. Just like any other teen, it was one of the most exciting times of my life—that is until I blew my tire going into the second week of driving.

I was stranded on the freeway, and it was freezing that day. As I shivered inside my coupe with my cellphone glued to my ear, I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry because my dad wasn't home and Mom wasn't answering her phone. Neither were there to help me, so with heavy tears, I called the one person I knew was always around and also happened to specialize in cars.