“That means you think she’s cute.”

“She’s out of my league.” The words leave me before I can stop myself. No way did I want to admit that to my sister.

“Please. No one is out of your league. You’re good-looking, smart, and you’re on the freaking football team. What girl wouldn’t want you?” She bursts into laughter. “What am I saying? I ran from Drew as fast and far as I could when I first met him. Maybe you intimidate her.”

“No, that’s not it.” She intimidates me. Chelsea has her shit together. I’m just some jackass still out fucking around, smoking too much weed, trying to please someone who’s only using me for money—and just so happens to be my mother—and I can’t keep my life together unless someone is right there beside me with a checklist, asking if I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. “Why am I even having this conversation with you? There’s nothing going on between me and Chelsea.”

“Oooh, Chelsea. Your voice changed when you said her name. Got all soft and stuff. I think you like her.” Fable’s teasing me, just giving me shit, but it cuts too close to the bone.

Because I do like her. In more than a hey, let’s bang kind of way, too. I like talking to her. Looking at her, just basking in her presence. She offers up these little tidbits about herself that are never enough for me. I want to know more, more, more, but I don’t push. I’m afraid she’ll push back. I have enough secrets—she’d go running if she discovered them.

But Chelsea? She’s a mystery. And I desperately want to figure her out.

“My voice did not change.” Jesus, she may be a wife and mother, but Fable is still my pain-in-the-ass sister sometimes.

“It so did. Say her name again.”

“No.” I push out of the chair and go to the mirror that hangs on the back of my bedroom door. I need to get a shirt on and get to school soon. Probably should take a shower before I do all that because …

Yeah. Because I’m seeing Chelsea today.

Sucker.

“Oh come on, Owen. Say it. I dare you to.”

Hell. She knows that’s my weakness. “Fine.” I heave an exaggerated sigh. I think Fable’s enjoying this.

Correction: I know Fable’s enjoying this. I miss her. I think she misses me, too. I hate that she’s so far away, but I guess I shouldn’t complain. Drew could be playing for a team clear across the country. I’d never see them then.

“Okay. Repeat after me.” She pauses and I can hear the baby coo again, a soft, sweet little sound that strikes me right in my heart. Damn it, I wish we were all in the same room together. “‘I’m in love with Chelsea.’”

Now it’s my turn to burst out laughing. “I am definitely not saying that.”

“Spoilsport.” She laughs, too, but it’s tinged with sadness. I need to go see her. I don’t know when I can find the time, but I want to see Fable and the baby and Drew. I want to watch Drew play live. It’s been too long.

I miss my family.

“I don’t ever plan on falling in love,” I say, turning away from the mirror so I don’t have to see myself when I say something like that. It’s such a macho, assholish remark and I know Fable’s going to give me shit.

Maybe I said it on purpose so I can get her to stop talking about Chelsea.

“You can’t make such a broad statement like that. It’s guys like you who are the ones that fall hard and fast. Just ask Drew,” she says, ever my wise and level-headed sister.

“Whatever. Love is for sissies.” I flop onto my unmade bed and stare up at the ceiling, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear. “I should go, Fabes. I need to get to class soon.”

“Be good, okay? Have fun with your tutor. What’s her name again?” She asks the question innocently, trying to get a rise out of me, but I don’t take the bait.

“Chelsea.” I say her name again because I want to. I like how it rolls off my tongue. And yeah, my voice did soften when I said it, but I’m not going to examine that too closely.

I might not like what I discover.

“Yes. Chelsea.” Her voice softens, too. It’s taking everything within her not to make total fun of me. She’s a total brat. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do with your precious Chelsea.”

“Ha, that leaves it wide open.” I laugh.

“Jerk,” she says good-naturedly. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, Fabes.” I hang up and toss the phone onto the mattress beside me, my gaze locked on the ceiling fan circling lazily above my head. Inhaling deep, I recognize the pungent smell of weed and I wrinkle my nose.

No way can I bring a girl into my room with it smelling like this.

You’re not thinking of just any girl. You’re thinking of …

I close my eyes and fight my thoughts about Chelsea. I don’t know her that well. There’s really nothing to know. Within the next few weeks, everything will be over between us and I’ll never see her again. We definitely don’t run in the same social circles.

Resting my hand on my chest, I feel my heartbeat beneath my palm. The steady thud, thud, thud letting me know I’m alive. But I don’t feel alive. Not really. Everything just … happens. I work hard and it’s the same old thing. I work not as hard and it’s still the same thing.

Nothing changes. I go to school, I play football, I work, I get high, sometimes I get drunk, I want to knock Wade and Des’s heads together. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Then Chelsea walks into my life and I’m thinking differently. I think … I want to ask her out. On a bona fide date. And I never want to date anyone. I fuck around and that’s it. Something lasting isn’t what I want. A quick lay? That’s always worked.

But it’s not working when it comes to Chelsea. I want more. And I doubt she wants to give it to me.

Chelsea

I’m nervous. Owen should be here any minute for our meeting and I don’t know what to do, what to say. The last time we saw each other, I’d been so stiff and uncomfortable I hardly said anything to him. Then I bolted out of the room like a frightened chicken without saying goodbye.

He probably hates me.

I pace the classroom, too agitated to sit. Back and forth in front of the whiteboard, my gaze constantly straying to the door no matter how much I tell myself I don’t care when he shows up. I’d prefer he never show up.

I am also a complete liar.

Yet again I dressed with care, wanting to impress him despite myself. Another good pair of jeans; these are old and worn, a little faded and comfortable, yet they make my legs look long. Not that I care about what my legs look like. Or any part of me. I just want to look nice. Not because I’m trying to catch Owen’s eye or whatever.

God, I sound like such a failure even in my own mind. I stop pacing and hang my head, staring at my feet. I’m wearing fake Ugg boots—it was cold this morning—and I have my jeans tucked into them. And a big, slouchy cream-colored sweater that keeps slipping off my shoulder and revealing my pale pink, lacy bra strap.

I withhold the groan that wants to escape. My entire outfit looks calculated. Even Kari asked me earlier this morning when we were both getting ready for class who I was dressing for, and I lied. Told her no one. She doesn’t know about Owen. She never seemed to care what happened that night at The District when I left her with Brad. I told her I found a ride home when she asked. That I saw someone I knew and he offered.

She never questioned me beyond that. Kari’s too wrapped up in her own thing lately. I know she’s been seeing Brad casually but he’s not giving her the attention she wants.

What a surprise.

The door creaks open and my gaze jerks to the door. There he stands, looking like complete male perfection, wearing a blue-and-red plaid flannel unbuttoned shirt over a white T-shirt and dark jeans with boots that are for whatever reason unlaced. His hair is a haphazard mess and that sexy golden-brown scruff still shadows his face.