“What do you mean?”

“It has to be timed so that it hits Vincent all at once.”

“What does?”

“A hostile takeover alone won’t do it. I have to push him from every direction. The publicity for Mom’s movie starts this week. We have to start this week.”

I’m starting to panic. I need this to go according to plan. It has to.

“Oh,” he says. He closes his eyes and looks down. I notice he looks stressed.

“I have something I need to tell you.”

“Okay.”

“Something was delivered to my hotel room earlier.”

“What?” I say, instantly on edge.

 “A box. In it was a framed photo of me, taken when they handed me the trophy this past, uh, weekend,” he stutters again. He’s shaken.

“Can I see it?”

“Garrett made me send it to him, hoping for forensics.”

“He won't find any.”

“Probably not, but I took pictures of it. The ones I texted him when I got it.”

“Send them to me.”

I watch as he grabs his phone off the table. He gives me a bleak look and I wish I could reach through the phone and brush the lines of stress from his face. They just don’t look right on him.

My phone vibrates with the text.

“I know this is going to upset me so, before I see it, I just want to tell you how proud I am of you. How, through all this shit, you've grown and focused and taken a chance on your dream.” I put my fingers against the computer screen.

He mimics me, our hands touching tenderly onscreen.

“I was serious when I said I wouldn't be here without you. That night at the Undertow was a turning point in my life.”

In both our lives, I think, remembering falling straight into Vincent's arms.

I keep my hand glued to his as I look down and see the photos pop up on my screen. I click on the first one, making it bigger. It’s of a plain white gift box, white tissue paper pulled open, and black rose petals sprinkled around an ornate black picture frame.

I look up at him. “I just looked at the first photo with the black rose petals, so I know it's from Vincent. B, have you been keeping anything from me?”

He stutters, “Uh, um . . .”

“Look, it's okay if you have. My mom did the same thing, trying to protect me. So, if you've gotten other things from Vincent, or seen him, tell me now.”

“What? Uh, no. He's never been spotted, other than Long Beach. But, except for Hawaii, my tournaments have been out of the country.”

“And he’s never sent you anything else or threatened you in any way?”

“No. Other than not being able to see you, this whole thing really hasn't affected me that much. Until now.”

I look at the second text. This one is a close-up version of the photo inside the picture frame. I can see B holding a trophy above his head in victory. It's exactly as I imagined the scene when I heard it. But then I notice writing on the bottom. I quickly zoom in to read, I wouldn't be here without you. I love you, Keats. I smile until I notice the spots. I squint, trying to figure out what they are.

“What are you looking at?”

“Your quote. But I see spots around them and I—” I instantly lose my voice as my eyes focus in on the reason for the red spots. There's a single bullet hole in Brooklyn's forehead and the whole back of his head is blown away. A horrible special effect frozen in time.

I drop my phone into my lap and cover my eyes with my hand, willing my brain to wipe away what I just saw. No wonder Mom freaked when she got a similar photo of Tommy.

“Keats.”

I uncover my eyes, B’s face a welcome sight compared to the horrible image in the photo. “What you said about me has put you in danger.” Guilt, love, and horror swirl in my brain causing tears to spill down my face and filling me with hysteria. “I’m so sorry, B. I'm so sorry you had to see that. You never . . . should’ve . . . said you love me.”

“Um, about that.”

“About what?”

“The I love you part.”

“That's what made you a target. This photo is for me, not you. He's trying to scare me,” I sob. “He’s succeeding.”

“Keats, look, I just need to tell you something . . .”

“You have gotten other stuff from him?”

“No, it's, well, there's this girl . . .”

His words feel like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me.

“No! Don’t, B,” I beg, covering my eyes again. “Don’t say it. I can’t hear it. Not right now.” 

“Keats. I know you’re seeing . . .”

“No, don’t! Just lie to me.” I feel like a riptide is pulling me under, drowning me. I’m crying hysterically now. I put my hand against my forehead, trying to calm myself down, but I can’t. My heart’s beating wildly.

“You need to calm down.”

And that sets me off. “Calm down?! Calm down?! The only thing that’s getting me through this is the thought of being able to go home. You made me promise you another chance. That we’d be back on our beach. I can’t do all I’m about to do if you aren’t gonna be back on that beach with me.” I sob more. “I just want to go home. He ruined our beach, B. I want it back. I want my family back. You and the beach are part of my home. I. Just. Need. To. Go. Home.”

“It sucks, but . . .”

“No buts! What if that horrible picture happens?”

B nods and buries his face in his hands.

Then he looks up at me with a mix of tears and determination in his eyes. “You're right. We have to do this. We have to get our lives back. I’ll text you with a time to talk to the takeover guy.” He puts his hand back on the screen. I reach up and touch it. “And I promise when this is over, we'll both go home.” I nod as he says, “I love you, Keats,” kisses his tattoo, and gently closes his laptop.

I shut mine too.

And cry.

I’m sure he’s seeing someone. And it’s okay if he is, but I need him in this with me. I’m not sure I have the guts or the courage to do it alone.

I love you flits through my brain. I do love B. I just don't know what kind of love it is anymore. And, based on what he says, he doesn’t know either. Still, I know he's part of the mix. Of all the people I love. Of my family. Of my friends. Of him. My home. And I know that neither one of us will be able to go forward without going home first.

I sneak back into my bedroom and try to go to sleep, but every time I close my eyes, I see the photo Vincent sent B.

Only I see it in motion.

My phone buzzes on my nightstand.

Hottie God:  You’re probably asleep, but I just wanted to tell you I miss sleeping with you. 

Me:  I’m awake. I miss it too.

Hottie God:  Then maybe I should do something about it.

Me:  I think maybe you should.

I unlock the window and keep my eyes open until I’m safely wrapped in his arms.

Planning a mutiny.

7am

Social Committee meeting.

I am secretly planning a mutiny due to starting at this ungodly hour.

Although, I shouldn’t say ungodly.

Not when there is a beautiful god sitting next to me.

One who keeps playing footsie with me.

And whose smile is definitely worth getting up for.

Whitney and Brad go over what’s already been planned.

Whitney says, “Okay, so, Friday during school, we will transform this place into Paris. The dorms will once again be competing for a dress-down day based on how they decorate their houses. Friday night dinner in the café will be steak and steak frites. Everyone will be encouraged to attend the basketball home opener. The coffee shops will be open late, serving pastries and drinks.”

Brad continues. “Since we’re hosting a wrestling match on Saturday, we didn’t plan any games, but the café will be open all day, serving French grilled ham and cheese sandwiches—or croques monsieur—French pastries, and chocolate soufflés, and will be holding hourly French cooking classes.”