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I launched myself onto the bed with all the might (and none of the grace) of a professional wrestling champion. When I came down on Blake's back, I landed hard—which was great, because my pirate romance novel tumbled out of his hand, but also decidedly not great, because when I bounced my momentum carried me right off the side of the mattress.

I hit the floor with a thud so tremendous it shook the walls.

Blake coughed (I'd knocked the air out of both of us, it seemed) and stuck his head over the edge of the bed to peer down at me where I lay sprawled on the carpet.

"Is it just me," he asked, "or are you super aggressive today?"

Then, in unison, we both turned to regard my fallen book.

And as my luck would have it, the damn thing had landed cover-up.

"Wait a second—"

I lunged for it, but Blake somersaulted off the bed and beat me to it.

"—what is this?"

He leapt to his feet, examining the cover with wide eyes and a shocked smile. I popped up, hair in my face and chest heaving, and made a move to grab it from him. He just held it up out of my reach and stared at me, open-mouthed with amusement.

"Nothing," I blurted. "It's nothing."

The corners of Blake's lips twitched.

"Well, I had no idea I was interrupting your—uh, reading time."

I folded my arms over my chest, trying to look stern rather than humiliated.

"The plot's really captivating," I said.

"Right," he replied, nodding solemnly. "The plot."

I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Did you just come over to mock my taste in literature?"

"No," Blake said. "I came over here because my stepmom dunked my phone into a pitcher of sweet tea, and to be honest, it's been kind of a shitty afternoon. I just wanted to see your smiling face. But apparently, you just want to beat me up and then read—I don't know, some stupid pirate romance novel."

My shoulders fell.

"Blake."

He shouldered past me and crawled back onto my bed.

"Don't give me that look," he grumbled.

I watched him settle so his back was propped upright against a blockade of pillows, his eyebrows pinched and his lips curled into a slight frown despite how utterly comfortable he looked. He turned The Prince of Turning Tides over in his hands and scrutinized the back cover, then set the book down on his lap.

"You want to talk about it?" I asked.

Blake shook his head.

"You sure?"

His chest rose and fell with a long breath.

"I shouldn't have said it," Blake blurted. "That thing about her pretending to be my mom. I know it was a dick move. It just came out, like—like it wasn't even me."

I plopped down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight.

Blake reached out one hand and traced the plaid of my pajama pants with his fingertip.

"She just treats me like a child," he added.

"Well, her only experience being a mom is with a toddler."

Blake was quiet for a moment.

"I guess," he mumbled, stubborn as ever.

"Look," I told him. "I think Chloe's trying her best. Neither of you has any idea how to do this—this whole stepmom, stepson thing. You're both crap at it. You need to sit down and have a conversation about what you want from each other."

Blake tugged his hand back from my leg to rub the heels of his palms against his eyes.

"We've tried," he groaned. "Every time we talk, we just end up fighting."

He let his head fall back against the wall, then dropped his arms to his sides.

The hurt in his eyes was more than I could bear.

So, I blurted out the first thing I could think of.

"Knock-knock."

The corner of Blake's mouth twitched.

"Who's there?" he asked.

It occurred to me, suddenly, that I didn't know any knock-knock jokes.

"Um. Give me a second."

"Give me a second who?"

"No," I huffed. "I mean—ugh. Sorry. I really thought something would come to me."

Blake blinked at me for a moment.

And then he absolutely lost it.

His laughter was the heaving, silent type—that kind of laughter that made your shoulders shake and your eyes well with tears. I sat there and watched him, my arms folded over my chest and my face what surely had to be the brightest shade of red ever witnessed.

"I was trying to cheer you up," I snapped.

"I know," Blake said, wiping his fingers under his eyes. "It worked. How the hell do you not know a single knock-knock joke? What about orange you glad I didn't say bananas? You had, like, hundreds of years of comedic discourse to pull from."

I huffed and threw myself back on the mattress, so my head was beside his hips and one of my legs dangled off the edge of the bed.

"All I wanted to do," I grumbled, "was read my book in peace."

Blake was quiet for a moment.

Then he picked up The Prince of Turning Tides and began flipping through pages.

"Where'd you leave off?" he asked me.

"Chapter three. Bar fight with the Duke. Why?"

Blake muttered something under his breath about historical accuracy, then, having identified the page on which the aforementioned bar fight began exercising some real artistic license, cleared his throat and started to read aloud.

"Jem Blackheart—really?—sliced his sword through the air and struck down Duke Witherington—these names are just getting worse—where he stood."

"I could go without the commentary, Blake."

"Yeah, and I could go without the shirtless dude on the cover," he grumbled.

"He looks like you, you know."

Blake sputtered out a surprised laugh.

"That's the meanest thing you've ever said to me."

"It's not an insult! He's hot. That's why I picked it up in the first place."

"Because this shirtless thirty-year-old man turns you on?"

"No, dipshit. You do."

I had all of two seconds to be mortified by what I'd just admitted before Blake chucked my book clear across the room—something I was determined to admonish him for later—and rolled on top of me, so his hands were braced on the mattress on either side of my head and his knee was wedged between my thighs.

"Waverly?" he asked.

I nodded and tugged him down by the sleeves of his shirt.

Thank god I locked the door, I thought vaguely.

And then we were kissing.

Here's the thing about making out—I don't think anybody really knows what they're doing the first couple times. You kind of just move your lips around and put your hands on their shoulders and hope you're not doing anything flagrantly weird. So even though Blake and I had kissed before, several times, the moment his lips touched mine, my worried little brain started working overtime to assess how badly I was doing.

Okay, what am I even doing with my tongue?

And what's with the hands on his shoulders?

What is this, a middle school dance?

Blake must've noticed I'd gone stiff, because he pulled back.

"You good?" he asked.

I am the opposite of good. I am the worst.

"Yeah," I lied, tugging at his shoulders a bit desperately. "I'm super good."

But he didn't kiss me again, and immediately, I was panicked.

I knew I should've brushed my teeth after the barbecue. Way to go, Hot Dog Breath.

"I can just, like, get off of you. If this is weird," Blake said.

It took me a second to realize he was nervous.

"No," I blurted, "no, this is nice."

Blake looked skeptical.

"We don't have to do anything," he insisted. "I just wanted to kiss you."

"I know!" I hurried out, then sighed. "I know. It's not—it's not that."

He frowned in question.

I took a deep breath and swallowed my pride.

"I just have no clue what I'm doing. Or where to put my hands."

Blake's shoulders went slack beneath my fingers.

"Oh," he said, sounding a little relieved. "Wherever you want."

I looked down, between our bodies, at the hem of his grey sweatpants. And then I immediately snapped my eyes up to his face, mouth pressed into a thin line as my face flushed what had to be the deepest possible shade of red.

Blake blinked at me for a moment, equally pink-cheeked.

"You've really got your mind in the gutter, huh?" he asked.

I burst out laughing.

And just like that, when he bent down to kiss me again, it felt easier. I tossed my arms around Blake's waist, my whole body slack beneath his, and let my eyes fall closed. I ghosted my fingertips up and down the length of his back, raking my nails against his shirt. Then—because he'd said I could—I let one of my hands wander down to where my grey sweatpants were stretched over his butt.

I giggled, because I had the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old boy.

"Are you really grabbing my butt right now?" Blake asked against my mouth.

"You said wherever I want," I argued.

He laughed.

The mattress dipped and bounced. I felt, rather than saw, Blake reach around his back to drag my bedsheet up over us, so we clung to each other admidst a sea of white fabric.

I could've kissed him forever.

This is something people say all the time, but I'd never really understood. I'd always sort of thought that kissing was something people had to get bored of, like, fifteen minutes in. You move your mouths around for a few minutes and then one of you says hey, I'm kinda hungry, do you wanna grab some Chipotle? and you call it a day.

I didn't think it could be fun.

Every brush of fingers against skin, every bump of my legs against his, every little exhale.

When we finally broke apart, what felt like an hour later, we were both breathing hard.

"Okay, I think I need a sec," I admitted. "I'm really winded."

"You should try swimming," Blake panted. "Great cardio."

I pinched his arm.

He squirmed, jostling the sheets over us and brushing our thighs together.

God. Bless. Grey. Sweatpants.

I grinned up at Blake. His face hovered inches above mine, so familiar to me now—the freckles across his nose, the little white scar above his left eyebrow, the bright blue eyes. We stared at each other as our breathing evened out.

"We should just stay under here," I whispered.

"I think we'd get hungry, eventually," he whispered back.

"I have some Cheez-its on my desk."

"Sweet. We're set then."

I laughed. Then I lifted my head a few inches to kiss the tip of his nose.

"You'd get sick of me," I mumbled. "Even I get sick of me."

Blake frowned in question.

"I worry," I explained. "A lot."

He hummed thoughtfully.

"That makes sense. I mean, you did choose to risk drowning in the ocean just to avoid having people think you were lame."

My face flushed.

"So, that was dumb," I conceded.

"I don't think I've ever met someone who second guesses herself so much."

He said it kindly. Like it was absurd that I could be so anxious about who I was and what people thought of me, but that he didn't hold it against me. He understood. He cared about me, in spite of myself.

"You're gonna be so glad to get rid of me," I teased, my throat oddly tight.

Blake's head fell down against my shoulder, so his hair tickled the side of my face and his lips ghosted over my skin just above the collar of my T-shirt.

"I can't believe I only have you for two more weeks," he murmured.

It was the worst thing he could've said.

Every little worry and anxious thought I'd carefully packed and vacuum sealed into my metaphorical emotional suitcase came tumbling out. I was going to leave. It seemed so cruel that everything I'd never let myself daydream about—friends, a family member who genuinely cared about what I wanted, a boyfriend—had been thrown into my lap just long enough so that I could know what I'd be missing when it was all ripped away again.

I had to go back to Alaska.

Back to my mother, stone-faced and bitter.

Back to my father, cold and never present.

Back to my crappy cell phone, filled with a grand total of five contacts (one of which was for pizza delivery), and a year of high school with people who were not Blake and Alissa and the Fletcher twins.

Blake felt me tense beneath him and lifted his head.

I stared up at his face, willing myself to hold it together.

The tears came anyway.

They welled up and spilled over, dribbling down the sides of my face and soaking my hair at my temples. I managed to stay quiet for one long, agonizing moment before I finally had to take a breath.

It caught in my chest.

I sobbed.

Blake's face fell into a frown.

"Hey, hey, hey," he said, gently.

I screwed my eyes shut. It didn't help stop the tears.

It was humiliating, to fall apart like that in front of him. I buried my face under my hands, wishing my mattress would just swallow me whole.

"I'm sorry," I croaked, then sobbed again.

Blake's fingers ghosted through my hair.

"Hey, don't apologize," he whispered. "It's just me."

I huffed in frustration and wiped my hands underneath my eyes, then held them up for inspection and saw wet mascara smudged everywhere.

"I'm so gross," I blubbered.

"Do you want me to grab you a tissue, or something?"

I nodded.

"That would be—" sniffle, "—really great."

Blake shot off the bed and disappeared into my bathroom.

I heard him riffling around, opening the cabinets under the sink and knocking over shampoo bottles and what sounded like my tweezers, before he came marching back into the room with a pack of make-up removing wipes.

"Chloe uses these," he muttered in explanation as he peeled back the plastic tab and tugged out two wipes by accident. "Here. Let me—I don't really know what I'm doing, but—"

He motioned for me to close my eyes.

And so I folded my hands one over the other against my stomach and tried to steady my breathing while Blake rubbed mascara stains off my eyelids with a cleansing towelette.

"Okay, open," he murmured.

I did.

He wrapped a wipe around one finger and, very delicately, ran his fingertip along the tender skin under my eyes.

"I think I got it all," Blake announced, sounding quite pleased with himself.

I sniffled again.

"Hey Waverly?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Knock-knock."

I didn't stand a chance.

I burst out laughing.

It didn't matter what the punch line would've been. What mattered was that I knew, without a single shred of doubt, that Blake Hamilton cared as much about me as I cared about him. I grabbed him by the shoulders of his shirt and pulled him down, kissing his forehead—thank you—and nose—I'm so glad I met you—and, finally, his lips—I love you.

Distantly, I heard footsteps out in the hall.

But this is so nice...

Someone was coming.

Two more minutes, please. Just give me—

A stern knock sounded against the door, so jarringly loud that Blake lurched off me and went tumbling off the edge of the bed onto my floor.

"Open up!" Aunt Rachel demanded.

My inner monologue was an endless train of swear words.

"Um, I fear rejection!" I blurted, scrambling off the bed and searching wildly for a place to hide a whole ass person in a room that I was only now realizing had very little storage space.

"Alright, I'm letting that one slide because it was funny," Rachel huffed. "But I'm serious, Waverly, open the door. I know Blake's in there. I'm middle-aged, not blind, deaf, and a raging idiot. It sounded like elephants were having a tea party up here."

Blake and I looked at each other over the bed.

Yeah. Mortified was an understatement.

I swallowed my shame and hurried over to unlock the door.

Rachel stepped into the room with one arm slung over her face and the other stretched out, feeling around so she wouldn't bump into furniture.

"Is everybody clothed?" she asked.

My face could not possibly be redder.

"Yes! Oh my god. We weren't—that's not what—"

"We were just working on her knock-knock joke delivery," Blake blurted.

"I don't even want to know what that's code for," Rachel said, dropping her arm to her side and shooting him a withering look. "Sorry to crash your party, but Blake, your dad just called me. He figured you'd be over here. He wanted to know if you said anything to Chloe before you left—or if she said something."

She looked uneasy. When she ran a hand through her hair, which had gone wild in the humidity, I could see her fingers were shaky.

Something was up.

"No," Blake said, drawing the word out long and slow as his eyebrows pinched in confusion. "We didn't talk. I went up to my room as soon as we got back from the barbecue."

Rachel huffed.

"What's wrong?" I asked, folding my arms over my chest.

"Well, Chloe left," Rachel said. "And George doesn't know where she went. She took the car without saying anything. He was hoping she mentioned something about an errand she needed to run, or something. I'm not sure. In this weather, you'd think it could wait."

She shrugged helplessly.

Chloe was probably still upset about what'd happened at the barbecue. Maybe she'd decided a little drive would calm her down, or maybe she'd thought to do a quick run to the grocery store so she could channel her nervous energy. I, for one, understood that innate urge to buy eggs and flour and cocoa powder when in distress.

But I wasn't too worried about her. I had a feeling that Chloe just needed some space.

I turned to look at Blake, to say as much.

She'll be back soon. I bet she's fine.

But the sight of him made the words turn to ash in my mouth. Blake had gone very still, and very pale.

"She's gone?" he whispered.

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