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Amber Blake is having dreams, and they just might be the key to saving her best friend, Mark.
Unfortunately, she's too preoccupied pretending to hate the boy next door, Carter Hayes. Secretly hoping to rekindle what once was, Amber atte...
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I break down when I walk through the door for two reasons.
One, because Carter's house is blissfully the same. To my left is the sitting room, furnished with two plush chairs facing a raised platform. Michael would use it as a stage when he first started the trumpet, sometimes forcing Carter and me to act as his audience. I used to sit on my hands to refrain from covering my ears.
On my right is the dining room, the one my family sat at for Thanksgiving one year after our flight to Alabama got canceled. I wasn't complaining; I like my dad's family, but back then, I would've picked Carter over anything. We sat next to each other, our chairs close enough that his thigh grazed mine as we ate. Each brush of his leg sent butterflies fluttering in my stomach, and I blushed through the entire meal.
Straight ahead are the stairs where Michael and Andrew once spent an entire afternoon teaching us how to mattress surf. We took turns sliding down those steps, and somehow none of us broke our necks. It was one of the few times Carter was included in his brothers' games; I remember him smiling for days afterwards.
Next to them is the hallway that leads to the living room. From the door, I can see the same faded couch Carter and I spent hours watching late night movies, cuddled under blankets with snack bags of popcorn. And sitting on the edge of it, wearing the same bathrobe she's had since I was young, is Carter's mom.
Reason number two.
My heart stops when I see Julia. She's in the same spot she always chooses: the end that's long enough to prop up her feet. Tonight, she has her legs pulled up to her chest, hugging them tightly. She's focused on the far wall of the room — until I shut the door behind me, that is.
As soon as Julia spots me, she's on her feet, crossing the length of the hallway in seconds. She pulls me into her arms and I'm nine years old again. Through ragged breaths, I catch a whiff of cinnamon, Julia's signature scent. As she strokes my hair and holds me close, a single word comes to mind.
Home.
"Chloe called me after the two of you ran out. I'm so sorry, sweetheart," she says, her voice soothing. The familiarity of it comforts me like a childhood blanket. All I can do is whimper against her shoulder. She holds me tight until they subside, then pulls back to wipe away the tears.
