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The next afternoon, there was a knock on the door.

Rachel and I were seated on opposite ends of the living room, both of us still dressed in our pajamas and neither of us showered. We had done a good job of ignoring each other all morning, except for the occasional glares Rachel sent my way, but the silence in the house was starting to eat away at me. To be completely honest, I was considering breaking out into song—just to fill the void—before we heard that knock on the front door.

"I'll get it," I said, making a move to get up from the armchair I was seated in.

"No," Rachel snapped, "I'll get it. You stay there."

She leapt up from the couch and shuffled across the living room, the soles of her fuzzy blue slippers slapping against the hardwood floor. I sunk back into the armchair and buried my face in my hands, feeling miserable. 

Whatever trust Rachel had given me, I had managed to lose it in one evening of bad decisions and pure stupidity. I had followed Blake Hamilton to a party. I had technically stolen Rachel's car. And I had done it all with a two-year-old.

I was not exactly killing it on the responsibility front.

Rachel pulled the front door open. I listened, a little curious to know who would be dropping by the house.

"Lena," Rachel chirped, her voice still a bit groggy.

"Hi, Ms. Lyons," Lena's voice sounded cheerful, but there was a hint of calculation in her voice. I dropped my hands back into my lap to see Lena standing in the front doorway, her wild mass of blonde curls pulled up into a bun and her hazel eyes bright. She looked rested. At least one of us had gotten some sleep last night.

"What brings you here so early?" Rachel asked her, yawning as if for emphasis.

"It's almost three o'clock, actually."

Rachel blinked at Lena as if she'd just told her that the Earth was square.

But I couldn't exactly blame her. She'd had a long night, and it been mostly my fault.

Rachel always took the bus back and forth between Marlin Bay and Holden, partly because it was cheaper than paying for gas and partly because it was easier than sitting behind the wheel of a car for forty-five minutes after a long day of painting. When she had finally trudged into the house, covered in paint splatters and looking like all she wanted to do was pass out on the couch, I'm sure the last thing she wanted to see was her niece with a black eye.

The next three hours had been dedicated to figuring out what the hell had happened and what we needed to do before I could fall asleep. 

Rachel went on her computer and searched the word concussion on one of those medical websites, but after five minutes of reading, she was convinced that I had some form of tetanus infection—which, might I point out, could only be acquired in the waters off the port of Acapulco—and was going to die a slow, painful death. 

So I made her shut down the computer and call one of her friends, a nurse, from the hospital down in Marlin Bay to ask what really happens when you have a concussion.

It was probably one o'clock in the morning by the time Rachel hung up the phone and sent me to my bedroom, saying we'd discuss this in the morning. I had made it halfway upstairs before I realized I hadn't apologized for making Rachel's night so long. But by the time I had spun around at the top of the stairs, a weak I'm sorry hovering on the tip of my tongue, Rachel was already fast asleep on the couch, the decorative pillows strewn across the floor.

I had sighed and then trudged off to bed.

But even in my cocoon of soft blankets and lush down pillows, I'd had trouble nodding off. Whenever I closed my eyes, all I could see was Blake Hamilton's face coming closer and closer, ever so slowly, but never touching mine. Jesse's words from earlier that night echoed in my head.

Blake likes you, too.

The thought had left an odd feeling in my chest. It was wonderful and uplifting, almost like the kind of feeling I got when I saw any kind of sign advertising free food.

Blake Hamilton had wanted to kiss me.

Needless to say, I hadn't slept very much that night.

"So what brings you here, then?" Rachel asked, rubbing her eyes.

"I just wanted to stop by and make sure Waverly's alive," Lena explained, glancing over at me again. I shot her my best I-need-to-talk-to-you-right-now look, and she nodded back.

"She's alright," Rachel said, jabbing a thumb in my direction, "just concussed."

"I suspected as much," Lena sighed. Then her face wrinkled up and she pointed a finger towards the living room. "Would you mind if I came in? It's a little muggy out today."

It was considerably humid outside.

Waves of sticky, hot air were slowly creeping into the house through the wide-open front door, replacing the perfect air-conditioned cool I preferred.

Rachel frowned.

I could tell she was having an internal debate. Obviously, she had never had to ground a child before, so she had no idea what the proper protocol was for visits from friends.

And I had never been grounded before, so I didn't know, either.

Neither of my parents had ever been very good at the whole discipline thing, and I wasn't much of a troublemaker, so the worst I'd ever received as far as punishment was a stern scolding and a threat to have my phone taken away—which wouldn't have been much of a punishment, anyway, considering I almost never texted anyone. 

It seemed like every other teenager had stories to tell about their wild shenanigans and the resulting period of house arrest, but I was missing out. So when Rachel had told me, with her best I'm-stern-and-parental-and-refuse-to-put-up-with-your-shit look, that I was grounded, I did something I don't think either of us was expecting.

I had laughed.

Which, of course, had gotten me an extended sentence.

But I was okay with that, because I knew I deserved a couple weeks on lockdown.

"Here are the rules," Rachel finally announced. "Waverly doesn't leave the house. You two can talk in the living room or the kitchen, but no going upstairs. I don't want anyone trying to sneak out through the second-story windows. Given her—" she jabbed a finger at me, "—track record, she'll break both her arms. And today's my day off, so I really don't want to have to drive down to Marlin Bay. Got it?"

Lena and I nodded in unison.

Rachel eyed us warily.

Then, finally, she sighed and stepped aside, letting Lena step into the house.

"Thanks, Ms. Lyons," Lena said, the epitome of polite.

While Rachel closed the door, Lena shot me a wink and thumbs up.

I had to bite down on my tongue to keep from giggling.

"Can I get you anything to drink, Lena?" Rachel asked as she padded back into the living room, the rubber soles of her fuzzy slippers scuffing against the hardwood floor.

"Water would be great," Lena replied.

Rachel nodded and started across the room. Lena and I both seemed to be holding our breath as we watched her walk past the sofa. The second she disappeared into the kitchen, Lena lunged at me and grabbed me by my shoulders.

"Look at your eye, Waverly!" she cried, turning me back and forth to examine the purplish bruise. "Holy crap, you look like you were in an action movie! This is so cool!"

"I'm glad one of us is getting some enjoyment out of this," I grumbled.

"Sorry," Lena mumbled, releasing my shoulders and falling back onto the couch, "it just looks so badass. Anyway, did Jesse get you home okay last night? He didn't run over any stop signs again, did he?"

Again?

How bad of a driver was he?

"No," I shook my head, laughing a little, "he didn't run over anything."

"Thank God," Lena sighed, "I don't think our insurance could handle another lawsuit."

"Another?" I frowned at her.

"Long story," she said, shaking her head dismissively. "Anyway, how long are you grounded for?"

"Two days," Rachel answered before I could.

Lena and I both looked over to see her trudging back out of the kitchen, a glass of water in her hand. She passed the glass to Lena, who muttered a timid thank you. "And before you tell me that two days is nothing, consider the fact that Waverly is only here for two months. If that two months was eighteen years, I'd be grounding her for about eight months. Now, I don't know about you, but that's what I call stern parenting."

Lena laughed.

"I'm loving the logic, Ms. Lyons," she said.

Rachel nodded and, although I could tell she was trying to keep a straight face, the corners of her lips twitched upwards. It was probably the first time she'd ever had anyone compliment her on her parenting skills. Rachel must've realized that Lena and I had noticed her smile, because she cleared her throat and hurried back into the kitchen.

When I was sure Rachel was out of earshot, I turned to Lena.

"Nice," I whispered appreciatively.

Lena grinned.

"I try," she shrugged, "but this is good news, you know. You'll miss Jesse's volleyball tournament tomorrow, but at least you can come to the beach with us on Saturday."

"The beach? Is Blake coming, too?"

The question came tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Lena blinked at me.

Then her eyes narrowed.

And then—and this is when I knew I was in trouble—she grinned.

"I knew it," she said.

"Knew what?"

My cheeks were on fire. How could she know? How could she tell, from one little question, that I was falling in love with Blake Hamilton? Was I really that obvious? Ugh. Cross professional actress off my list of potential future jobs.

"I should've guessed before," Lena said casually.

"Oh God," I moaned, leaning forward in my chair to rest my elbows on my knees and hide my face in my hands, "please don't tell Alissa."

"Why shouldn't I tell Alissa?" Lena's eyebrows furrowed.

I gaped at her.

For someone who seemed so smart, Lena sure was acting like an idiot.

"Because she'd probably claw my eyes out!" I cried. "Can you imagine? Hey, Alissa, I know I'm new to town and everything and I got here less than a week ago, but I think I'm in love with your ex-boyfriend! She'd eat me alive if—"

I didn't get a chance to finish that thought.

"You're in love with Blake?" Lena demanded, her hazel eyes as wide as golf balls.

I blinked.

And then I blinked again.

It took me two full seconds to realize what a giant mistake I'd just made.

"I thought you said you knew," I choked out, my voice sounding tiny.

"What? No!" Lena shook her head. "I meant I knew you weren't going to be upset about missing Jesse's volleyball tournament! Because you didn't even try to sound disappointed... that's not important! Don't try to change the subject. Are you serious?" Her voice dropped to a whisper and she leaned towards me. "You're really in love with Blake?"

I frowned.

There was no way I was in love with Blake Hamilton. I had only met him a week ago. I didn't even know his favorite color! How could I be in love with someone I knew so little about? I'd only used the word love because it was shorter than abnormally large and incredibly embarrassing crush.

"No," I shook my head, "it's just a little crush."

Lies. It was the size of fucking Texas.

"But I thought you hated him!" Lena cried. "I thought—"

She trailed off, and then suddenly a look of fury appeared on her face.

It made my stomach churn.

"Lena, I'm so sorry," I croaked out as quickly as I could, "Please don't tell Alissa. I swear I'll leave you guys alone for the rest of the summer. I won't go within two hundred feet of Blake. Except, you know, when we're in our houses. But aside from that, I won't—"

Lena's eyebrows knit together.

"What are you talking about?"

"Please don't be mad at me," I begged, digging my fingernails into the upholstery of the armchair I was sitting in.

Oh, God.

I could see it. My entire summer, slipping right out from underneath me.

"Mad at you?" Lena repeated, sounding confused. She frowned for a moment before her face lit up with understanding. "No, no, I'm not mad at you, Waverly! I'm mad at myself!"

I stared at her for a moment, completely confused.

"What?" I finally asked.

"I'm mad I didn't see this earlier!" Lena explained.

And then, all at once, it hit me.

Lena wasn't mad at me. She didn't hate me, and she didn't think I was some sort of parasite in her perfect summer, and she wasn't going to storm out of my aunt's house and demand that I never try to contact her again. A wave of relief came crashing over me, and I had the sudden urge to launch myself onto the couch and give Lena a bone-crushing hug.

But I realized that, with my luck, I'd probably just end up injuring the both of us. So instead, I let out a little high-pitched laugh.

I sounded borderline hysterical, but Lena was nice enough not to act creeped out.

"So you won't tell Alissa?" I asked again.

"Of course I won't tell," she snorted, "I'm not stupid, and I don't have a death wish."

"Thank you!" I sighed.

"Don't thank me just yet," Lena said, the corner of her semi-chapped lips pulling up into a devious smirk. She leaned forward and propped her elbows on her knees, then rested her chin in her hands and batted her eyelashes, looking extremely suspicious.

She's up to something.

"What's that look for?" I demanded.

"What look?"

"The one you're doing right now. The one that looks like you're plotting a murder."

"I'm not plotting a murder!" she argued.

"But you are plotting," I insisted.

"Well, yeah," Lena admitted, rolling her eyes, "but can you blame me? This is like that awesome moment when you realize that your two favorite characters on a television show are in love with each other! Now all you two need is a little bit of guidance and—"

"Lena."

"—you'll be dating and then—"

"Lena."

"—I'll be the maid of honor and—"

"Lena!"

She stopped mid-rant.

"What?"

"Look," I said, leaning over the side of the armchair. I glanced at the doorway to the kitchen out of the corner of my eye, checking to make sure that Aunt Rachel was completely out of earshot. "No one else can know, okay? Not my aunt, not Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and definitely not Alissa Hastings."

Lena nodded vehemently.

"Got it, got it," she told me, adding, "I won't tell Jesse, either."

"Um," I mumbled, thinking back to last night, "that won't be an issue."

Lena's eyebrows knit together.

"Why not?" she asked.

"He, uh, already found out," I admitted, "that, you know, I like Blake."

Lena's mouth popped open, and for a moment, she just looked shocked.

Then her face twisted up into a grimace.

"Jesse knew?" she cried indignantly. "You told him before you told me?"

"I never told him anything!" I argued. "He found it out—"

"Found it out?" Lena repeated, then threw herself backwards across the couch—her legs swinging up and nearly kicking me in the face before she draped them over the armrest—and grabbed a decorative orange pillow. She buried her face into it, moaning, "I am an idiot!"

Rachel chose that moment to come padding back into the living room, a steaming mug of something—coffee, most likely—clasped in her hand.

"Lena, dear, not with my nice pillows," she scolded, sipping her drink.

"Sorry, Ms. Lyons," Lena grumbled, sitting up and setting the pillow back in place.

Rachel plopped down in the other armchair.

"Now," she said, snatching the remote up from the coffee table, "what should we watch?"

"Anything but The Bachelor," I groaned.

Within the course of less than a week, Rachel and I had managed to watch not one but two season of The Bachelor. Rachel thought it never got old. I had a different opinion. You can only watch scripted reality romance shows for so long before insanity starts to set in.

Lena opened her mouth to voice a suggestion, but was interrupted by the doorbell.

"Who's that?" she asked.

"Let me consult my crystal ball," I deadpanned.

Lena shot me a look that could only mean I'm getting real tired of your shit.

"I'll get it," Rachel announced, but didn't move right away. Instead, she glanced first at her left hand (the one holding her mug of coffee) and then her right hand (the one clenched around the remote). 

I could tell that she was having an internal battle about which object to put down on the table so she could go answer the door. But Rachel couldn't decide between her caffeine and her reality TV, so she tucked the remote under her left arm and rose from her chair slowly, her eyes locked on her cup of coffee. She managed to stand up without spilling even a drop. I considered giving her a standing ovation, but she'd probably think I was just being a sarcastic smartass.

"Five bucks says it's Blake," Lena whispered as Rachel started towards the door.

My heart did the funniest thing.

It lurched, like I was on a rollercoaster.

Just the idea that Blake Hamilton might be at the front door sent a shot of adrenaline running through me.

"Five bucks says it's not," I whispered back, my voice sounding oddly high-pitched.

Rachel pulled open the door slowly, so she wouldn't spill her coffee.

Standing in the doorway was Chloe Hamilton, wearing a little yellow sundress and carrying a white designer handbag on her arm.

"Damn it," Lena swore.

I laughed, half relieved and half disappointed.

"You owe me five bucks."

Lena groaned and sunk further down on the couch.

"Hi there, Chloe!" Rachel greeted, the friendly grin on her face wavering a little as she compared her attire—fluffy robe, slippers, and haphazardly constructed bun—to Chloe's impeccably cute outfit. "Would you like to come inside?"

"Yes, thank you," Chloe said, stepping into the house. Even in her wedge heels, she was shorter than Rachel by a good four inches.

"So what brings you here?" Rachel asked, kicking the front door closed.

"I came to see how your niece is doing," Chloe answered, glancing around the living room for a second before her dark eyes landed on me. Her face twisted into a grimace for a split second before she could compose herself. "Waverly! You look...better."

Lena snorted.

"I feel better," I replied.

Aside from the throbbing pain in my eye.

"I, ah, have something for you," Chloe said, reaching a perfectly manicured hand into her white handbag. After a moment of digging around, she pulled out a little blue envelope with my name scribbled on the back of it. "This is from Blake."

I could practically feel Lena smirking at the back of my head as I shot up from the armchair and hurried across the living room. My cheeks suddenly felt like they were on fire and I nearly lost my footing and tripped on the edge of the rug under the coffee table.

"Thanks," I murmured, snatching the letter from Chloe's tiny hand.

"I made him write it," Chloe admitted, smiling sheepishly as she tucked a curl of platinum blonde hair behind her ear. "It's an apology note."

"Oh," I said, my cheeks burning even hotter, "he really didn't need to—"

"He did." Chloe interrupted.

I didn't have the balls to argue with her, so I just smiled awkwardly. Rachel was suddenly staring at me like she expected me to rip open the envelope and read Blake's note aloud, so I decided I wanted a bit of privacy.

"I'll, um, go read this," I said, waving the letter around for emphasis, "in the kitchen."

I spun on my heels and started walking.

"I'll come with you!" Lena cried, tumbling over the back of the couch.

The kitchen was bright, partly because it was sunny outside and partly because the walls were painted an incredibly reflective white. I sprinted towards the little kitchen table—which was covered in a menagerie of art magazines, paint swatches and unopened packets of brand-new paintbrushes—and launched myself into one of the cute little chairs that were made of driftwood and painted vibrant orange, green and blue. Lena grabbed the chair next to mine and yanked it over so our legs and shoulders were pressed together.

"Open it, open it!" she giggled.

"Shush!" I hissed. "Stop acting like a four-year-old! It's just a letter."

But I was excited, too. So excited I felt like giggling.

"Oh, come on!" Lena said, slapping me on the shoulder. "This is so romantic!"

"It's a sorry-I-inadvertently-gave-you-a-black-eye note, Lena."

"But—"

"That his mom forced him to write."

"Could you stop being such a downer and open the goddamned letter already?"

I sighed and looked down at the envelope.

My name, Waverly, was scrawled on the envelope in thick blue crayon. I had to laugh at that. Blake must've borrowed one of Isabel's or something. The sudden image of him, plucking his favorite color crayon out of a box, flashed through my mind. It was oddly endearing.

I flipped the envelope over and tore it open.

Inside, I found a piece of standard paper, folded up into fourths like the little birthday cards I used to make all my friends in second grade, with a large I'm sorry printed across the front—in blue crayon, again—and a sticker of Dora the Explorer with her purple backpack.

"This is the most adorable thing I have ever seen in my life," Lena cooed. "When you two get married, I expect a Dora the Explorer sticker on my wedding invitation."

I shot Lena a death glare.

Then I tucked my hair behind my ear and prayed I wasn't blushing too noticeably.

I opened up the letter.

Dear Waverly, it read, I am really sorry that I made you come to that party with me, and I am really sorry that I started that fight. I am also sorry that the guy at that party had a hard elbow, and I am sorry that you were standing next to him. I am sorry I made you play Scrabble, too. And I am sorry I got you grounded (Chloe told me that) and I am sorry that your aunt is probably making you watch The Bachelor. Again.

"I'm going to have a fucking heart attack," Lena said, snatching the letter out of my hands and reaching for the pocket of her shorts, "but first, I'm Instagramming this."

She poised her cell phone about the note.

"No!" I cried, snatching the letter back. Lena made a sound of protest as her cell phone's camera went off a second too late, leaving her with a blurry picture of the kitchen table. "No one can see this, okay?"

"Waverly! This is comedic gold! You can't just—hey, what's that?"

Her thin eyebrows scrunched together and she leaned forward, narrowing her hazel eyes at the letter.

"What's what?" I frowned.

"Hold on," she mumbled, tilting her head to the side, "unfold it."

"Unfold it?" I repeated.

I looked down at the note in my hands.

It was, as I said, folded into fourths. I grabbed the bottom of the note and pulled it up, completely unfolding the piece of paper. There, in the center of the page, were a few more words. These ones were messier, obviously jotted down in a hurry.

I am also sorry for that thing I tried to do after you won Scrabble. I will not try to do it again, I promise. Just please forgive me. I will see you at the beach on Saturday.

"What's he talking about?" Lena asked me, her voice low and urgent. "What did he try to do after you won Scrabble?"

I tried to open my mouth to answer, but my lips were suddenly dry. There was an odd sort of burning feeling in my throat, like I couldn't breathe. My eyes scanned over the note again, this time lingering on one sentence. The sentence that made me feel nauseous. The sentence that made me remember how frizzy my hair was, and how pale my skin was, and how awkward and rambling I could be. The sentence that reminded me that I wasn't from Holden.

The sentence that told me Blake Hamilton couldn't possibly like me the way I liked him.

I will not try to do it again, I promise.

"It doesn't matter," I croaked.

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