I’ve managed to make my way across the fitness hall while watching the bout, and I’ve just reached the edge of the group of spectators when the victor gives a theatrical bow, clearly relishing the attention.

Then he tugs his helmet off, and I find myself looking up at Wesley Ayers.

FOUR

WESLEY AYERS is the stranger in the halls of the Coronado.

He is the Keeper in the garden who shares my secret.

He is the boy who reads me books.

He is the one who teaches me how to touch.

And today, he is the guy on the stone bench, wearing a tux.

It’s the end of summer, and we’re sitting in the Coronado garden. I’m perched on one of the benches in workout pants and a long-sleeve shirt pushed up to the elbows, and Wesley is stretched out on the other in his best black and white. There’s only an hour or two left until his father’s wedding, but he’s still here.

Something is eating at him, I can tell. Something has been since he showed up, and I stupidly assume it’s just the fact that he hates his father’s fiancée, or at least what she means for his family. But he doesn’t offer any of his usual acerbic remarks, doesn’t even acknowledge the wedding or the tux. He just slumps down onto his bench and starts reciting the last of my required reading as if it’s any other day.

And then, somewhere between one line and the next, his voice trails off. I glance over, wondering if he’s asleep, but his eyes are neither closed nor unfocused. They’re leveled on me. I return the look.

“You okay there?” I ask.

A smile flickers across his face. “Just thinking.”

He sets the book aside and pushes up from his bench, smoothing the front of his rumpled tux as he closes the gap between us.

“About what?” I ask, shifting to make room as he settles down beside me. He comes close, close enough to touch, his folded arm knocking against my shoulder, his knee against mine. I take a breath as his rock band sound washes over me, loud but familiar.

“About us.”

At first, I barely recognize him.

Wesley’s hazel eyes are free of the eyeliner I’ve seen him wear all summer; his hair is still black, but instead of standing up, it’s stuck to his forehead with sweat; every bit of silver is missing from his ears. All his little quirks are stripped away, but he’s got those proud shoulders and that crooked smile, and his whole face is lit up from the fight. Even without the bells and whistles, it is still undeniably Wesley Ayers. And now that I see him, I don’t know how I didn’t see him earlier.

Maybe because Wesley Ayers—my Wesley—is supposed to be on some beach, bonding with his family.

My Wesley wouldn’t be here at this stuck-up school, wouldn’t lie to me about going here, and certainly wouldn’t look like he belongs here.

“Who’s next?” he asks, eyes glittering.

“I am,” I shout back.

The spectators—all boys—turn collectively, but my gaze is leveled firmly on Wes. The corner of his mouth tilts up. Of course he’s not surprised to see me. He’s known for weeks where I was enrolled. He never said anything. No “Oh great, we can stick together.” No “Don’t worry, you won’t be alone.” Not even a “Well, what a coincidence.” Why? Why didn’t he tell me?

“Now, young lady, I don’t think—” starts the burly gym teacher as I approach the platform and begin strapping on pads.

“I signed the waivers,” I cut in, tugging on forearm guards, wondering if there even are waivers for this class. It seems like that kind of school.

“It’s not about that,” says the teacher. “This is hand-to-hand combat, and it’s important to match the students in terms of—”

“How do you know we’re not well matched?” I shoot back, cinching down a shin guard. “Unless you’re assuming that because I’m a girl.” I look the teacher in the eyes. “Are you assuming that, sir?” I don’t wait for him to answer. I step up onto the platform, and he doesn’t stop me, which is good enough.

“Give the guy hell!” shouts Cash as I pull the helmet on.

Oh, I think, I will.

“Hey, you,” says Wesley as I meet him in the center of the platform.

“Hey, you,” I mimic bitterly.

“I can explain—” he starts, but he’s cut off by the sound of the whistle.

I kick forward hard and fast, catching Wesley high in the chest before the shrill metallic cry has even stopped. The crowd gives a gasp as he falls, hitting the floor for only a moment before rolling over and pulling himself to his feet. I attack with another kick, which he blocks. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see we’re gaining a crowd. He throws a punch, which I dodge, followed by an uppercut, which I don’t. The wind rushes out of my lungs, but I don’t let it stop me from grabbing his fist and his wrist—pain thrumming up my own—and turning fast, flipping him over my shoulder.

He should hit the mat flat on his back, but somehow he twists midair and lands in a crouch, elegant as a cat. In a blink he’s up again and closing the gap between us. I arch back just in time to avoid a hit and recover fast enough to see an opening—left side, stomach—but I don’t take it. It’s been three weeks since Owen stabbed Wesley. Even though it doesn’t show in his stance, I know it still hurts him. I’ve seen the laughs cut short by a wince, the ginger way he stands and sits.

My hesitation earns me a swift kick to the chest, and I’ve got just enough time to hook my foot behind his knee and wrap my hand around his chest plate before I go down, taking him with me. I hit the mat hard and brace myself for Wesley’s weight to land on top of me; but his palms hit the floor before his body hits me, and he manages to catch himself.

He hovers inches over me, breathing hard. Then his mouth quirks into a crooked smile, a familiar smile, and he knocks his helmet playfully against mine.

“Miss me?”

The garden is silent except for the sound of my pulse.

Wesley leans across the stone bench and brings his lips featherlight against my temple. Then against my cheekbone. Against my jaw. A trail of kisses that makes me suck in a short breath, because the only time Wesley has ever kissed me—truly kissed me—he did it to read my memories. That was an angry kiss, forceful and firm. But these kisses are different. These kisses are cautious, hopeful.

“Wes,” I warn.

His forehead comes to rest against my shoulder. “You sound like thunderstorms and heavy rain, did you know that?” He lets out a soft, low laugh. “I never liked bad weather. Not until I met you.”

His voice has its usual easy charm, but now it’s also threaded through with longing.

“Say something, Mac.”

Wesley’s body rests against mine. The combat padding acts as a buffer, and for a moment all I hear are the sounds of his breathing and my heart. How strange. It’s so…quiet. I’ve gotten used to the sound of Wesley’s noise—learned to float in it instead of drowning—but even the relative quiet of the familiar can never match this. His body on mine. Simple as skin.

My pulse quickens, and I have to remind myself that I pushed him away. I pushed him away. Now, looking up through Wes’s face mask into his eyes—his lashes darkened with sweat—I will myself to do it again.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss, trying to hide the hurt in my voice.

“This might not be the best time to—”

“Tell me.”

He opens his mouth. “Mac—”

And then the whistle blows.

“All right, enough of that,” calls the teacher. “Both of you, up.”

Wesley closes his mouth but doesn’t move. I realize my hand is still hooked around his chest plate, holding him there. I let go quickly, and he winks before springing to his feet. He offers me his gloved hand, but I’m already standing. I tug my helmet off, smooth my hair, and scan the crowd of students that gathered while we fought.