Be the Girl(73)

“Yeah. Of course. Go.” I force a smile to hide my disappointment and watch him trot down the steps.

He makes it maybe five feet before he stops abruptly, doubles back, and jogs back to pull me into his arms.

I sink into his warm body.

“My head is scattered.” He leans down to kiss my lips softly. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m sorry tonight didn’t go the way you probably wanted it to.”

I smooth my hand over his chest, reveling in the warmth and the hard curves one last time before bed. “I was with you so it went exactly how I wanted it to go.”

He clenches his jaw. “I just hate that Adam did that to her. It’s one thing to do something like that to me or you, but to make her a target?” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t paying attention to her like I should have been. I feel guilty.”

“She’s going to be okay.”

He nods, and then presses a lingering kiss against my jawline, just below my ear, that sends shivers through my body. “See you tomorrow.”

I watch him jog across the lawn before I step inside, locking the door behind me, finally feeling the exhaustion of tonight’s drama weigh me down.

“Happy birthday!” Mom appears at her bedroom door in her pajamas as I reach the top of the landing, a rectangular box with silver wrapping in her hands. The soft hum of the TV carries from her bedroom. “Good night?”

A small voice in my head suggests that maybe I should tell her what happened. But then I’d have to confess to this growing rift between Holly and me, and that would only spark her fear and worry.

I shift my eyes to the gift in her hand and nod.





Dear Julia,

I’m not going to lie—sixteen doesn’t feel any different than fifteen. Maybe it’s because it’s only been a few hours, so there hasn’t been a chance for any big revelations, no time to take my driver’s test yet. I’m still in bed. Waiting for Emmett to respond to my text about what happened last night with Cassie after he dropped me off.

I have this gut feeling that sixteen is going to be a good year for me, but nothing has happened yet. Here’s hoping, right? I’ll keep you posted, so you don’t feel like you’re missing out.

~AJ





“The pie crusts are a little flakier than I’d like.” My mom cringes with apology.

“Is dinner going to be at six? Because I need to eat at six,” Uncle Merv reminds Heather as he climbs the front steps.

“Hi, Murphy!” Cassie beams at the old dog, ignoring everyone else.

I hang back, pumpkin pie in hand, watching as the chaos unfolds in the entryway ahead, until Heather’s eyes land on me. “Come in, come in! It’s cold outside! And happy birthday!”

The Hartford house is the epitome of Thanksgiving—the scent of roasted turkey and sage lingers in the air, the dining room table is decked out in fancy china and crystal wine glasses beneath the glowing chandelier, and the center is lined with oddly shaped gourds and short vases of white roses and cranberry sprigs.

“Wow, Heather. This looks … you’ve outdone yourself.” My mom’s eyes twinkle as she takes in the sight.

Heather waves it off, collecting the pie from my hands. “It’s my favorite holiday. Though, I’m taking it easy on the wine after last night.” She chuckles. “But I have a bottle chilled and ready for you. Come in, please. Aria, Emmett’s in his room, finishing up an essay. Go on up. Dinner should be ready in about twenty minutes.” She adds with knowing eyes, “At six o’clock, sharp.”

I smile. “Okay.”

Mom glances warily upstairs before shifting to me, and I know what she’s thinking—Aria and Emmett in his bedroom together, alone?

Really, Mom? With Cassie around? I even dip my head toward Cassie, who’s currently enthralled with Murphy but won’t be for long. Emmett said she slept through the night and when she woke up this morning, she seemed fine. Looking at her now, you’d never know about the drama that unfolded last night.

“Keep the door open,” Mom mouths.

I can’t resist rolling my eyes at her before making my way up. I knock once on the closed door, waiting for an answer. I don’t hear one and assume there’s too much noise carrying from downstairs to decipher his deep voice, so I turn the handle.

Emmett is sprawled out on his bed, his laptop pushed aside, his eyes closed, earbuds in his ears. His broad chest rises and falls slowly.

I push the door until it’s open a crack and then ease my way over to study him in sleep—his impossibly long, thick eyelashes, his messy hair, his full, soft lips, the way his neck meets his collarbone, hard muscle carving the curves.

Is he more beautiful asleep or awake? I can’t decide.

His hand—still bruised from last night’s fight—rests atop his stomach, partially covering where his T-shirt has ridden up. I study the cut of his hips and the thin strip of dark hair that trails down below his belt buckle and elastic band of his underwear.

An overwhelming rush of nerves hits my gut at the thought of touching him there.

“Is it dinner already?” Emmett’s deep voice cuts into the silence, startling me enough that I jump.

How long was he watching me gawk at him?