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Prologue
My hair felt like it was melting beneath the beaming LA sun, and I pressed my hands against my thighs, preventing them from rubbing at my face in search of leaking blond dye. The university courtyard had no shade, and the line for student ID’s was crowded enough to break the breeze. A trickle of sweat broke free of my hairline, prompting an irrational mental image of bottle-blond rivulets trickling down my forehead. I couldn’t believe I’d placed my trust in something called Hair Cair. The egregious spelling had seemed an especially bad omen the day before I started my freshman year of college, but the sale price had simply been too good to pass up. Surely, my new roommate would tell me if I looked like my pores were leaking lemonade.
Wouldn’t she? She seemed like the type who would. Phoebe seemed like the type who would say anything that came to her mind, without considering how it might be interpreted. Not that she was rude. She just had a confidence—the kind of self-assurance that was rare in anyone, much less a teenager. She was warm and charismatic and paralyzingly intimidating.
I was, in contrast, attempting to play it cool. Phoebe seemed to think our random room pairing destined us to be friends, and I was desperate to prove her right. Blaire Barton, author of How to Impress, which I’d checked out from the library the moment I received my acceptance letter, claimed shared interests led to deeper connection, so I searched Phoebe’s words for context and parroted it back to her.
"Oh, totally. Me too. I love Monkey Balls," I said, hoping I was expressing interest in a movie or a band and not some kind of sexual deviancy.
The stocky guy in line in front of me turned around, smirking before opening his mouth to deliver some crass remark. I shot him my iciest stare, and he froze for a moment before quickly shifting his gaze toward a couple of guys pelting candy at each other in the grass nearby.
"Right?" Phoebe beamed with pleasure at this shared sentiment, causing me to silently praise Blaire Barton for coming through once again. “They’re so talented. But what about Andre? He’s…”
Phoebe trailed off, her eyes drifting closed and her chin tilting up. Her dark skin glittered at the edges of her Afro, the same perspiration that was threatening to make me look like a microwaved Peep only making her more striking. My mind scrambled for the word to end her sentence. The lead singer? The guitarist? The drummer? It wasn’t a pop quiz. Phoebe couldn’t be looking for me to offer facts she already knew. The correct answer had to be an adjective.
"Pretty grimy in person, actually," a voice behind us said. "Andre is, I mean. Long hair in pictures and long hair in person are two very different things."
I turned around, simultaneously grateful for the answer and annoyed that someone had interrupted the conversation. My chest tightened when I saw the pretty girl with the almond eyes and glossy black hair who’d spoken. A tiny “s” dangled from her necklace, comprised entirely of diamonds. Her words re-filtered through my mind, morphing from a knowing observance to a brag.
Simone Zhang. I hadn’t yet met her, but I’d noticed her on move-in day, bossing around what appeared to be actual hired help. So, it was unsurprising to discover she’d seen a famous person up close. She was clearly wealthy. All the effort I’d put into my outfit wouldn’t trick her. She was almost certainly rich enough to know my cotton sundress had been worn just a little too thin and the sandals I snagged at the Goodwill—the best one, where the trophy wives up in the Hills discarded outfits that couldn’t be worn more than once and bags with a single scratch—might be Loeffler Randall, but they were from three seasons ago.
"Grimy can be sexy," Phoebe said, turning toward Simone like she’d already been a part of our conversation.
My heart raced, but my face stayed blank, chin slightly lifted to project confidence. Most people were easy to fool, but truly rich girls could always spot the things other kids missed. They were police dogs, trained to sniff out weakness. And if they found it, they would make sure you never lived it down. I pressed my thumbnail into my thigh, reminding myself that things were different now. I was just a normal college student, living in a dorm like everyone else. There was nothing for her to find out.
"Maybe it can be,” the girl said, “but not when it’s paired with perverted."
"No." Phoebe breathed out the word, looking both horrified and intrigued. "What did he do?"
"Well, let’s just say that I thought drummers were sexy too. It’s why I begged my father to get Monkey Balls to play for my seventeenth birthday party. I just wanted to meet him. It’s not like I really thought anything would happen between me and a grown man." Her eyes narrowed. "But, apparently, he doesn’t have a problem with going after young girls."
Phoebe gasped. "Did you hook up with him?"
"No." Simone’s mouth twisted at the thought. Her cheeks flushed with anger. "He tried to kiss my sister. My little sister."
The way she said it made me understand jealousy didn’t play a part in her disgust. She was simply a big sister, protective of someone she loved. My chin lowered as I softened toward her. I’d never had a sister, but I’d always wanted one. I’d imagined we’d look out for each other, freeing my mom up to look out for herself.
“You stopped him?” I asked, without intending to.
She barked out a laugh, flashing perfect white teeth. “Are you kidding? My sister’s a terror. She kicked him in his monkey balls and went right back to watching Gossip Girl. But I did grab him by the hair and drag him to the door when I heard. I’m not kidding when I say I had to wash my hands five times afterwards. The man is dirty.”
I ignored the faint chant in my head. Livvie smells like rotten meat. That’s because she lives in the street! That was a million years ago. And it was ridiculous even then. I might’ve stayed in a car that just happened to be parked on a street, but I certainly didn’t live there. If I’d vacationed in Paris for twenty-three days, I guarantee nobody would’ve allowed me to claim I’d lived in France.
“Well, that’s it, then,” Phoebe said, exhaling with disappointment. "Monkey Balls is dead to me."
I nodded my agreement, distracted by the two guys to my left. The two boys had been messing around next to us long enough that I’d picked up their names. The one called “Dice” was average-height and unremarkably dressed with straight dark hair to his shoulders and scruff that covered half his face. The other—Mac—was the most gorgeous guy I’d ever seen. He was almost pretty, his features delicate and his eyelashes visible from ten feet away. It was only his height and broad shoulders that balanced it out, making him proper Ken doll material.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him, despite the fact that I knew better than to be interested in anyone that good looking. Like with rich girls, I’d already learned overly attractive men are dangerous. It wasn’t his looks that had me captivated, though. It was how much fun he was having. They’d stopped pelting Jellybeans at each other, and now Dice was tossing them up in the air while Mac attempted to catch them in his mouth. It was the most idiotic thing I’d ever seen.
That was a game for popcorn, not a candy-coated bullet guaranteed to break teeth.
I wanted to play.
I wouldn’t, of course. But I wanted to.
Mac caught a red one in his mouth and spit it toward Dice, who batted it away. I laughed at the face Dice made when he wiped his red-streaked palm on his jeans. To my shock, he glanced over, winking at me before lobbing two yellows into the air. Mac trotted dutifully underneath them, opening his mouth toward the sky. But as they plummeted toward his face, he seemed to have doubts, swinging one oafish hand up and catching them in the air before they hit his face.
“Yum,” Simone murmured.
I glanced over to find that her gaze had followed mine to the boys.
“I want a Jellybean,” she called out, her voice taking on a breathy quality. She tilted her chin up, opening her mouth suggestively.
I cringed, looking to Dice without meaning to. His mouth curved the slightest bit, like he was vaguely amused but wasn’t taking the bait. Mac, on the other hand, had no such reservations. He flung one of the yellows across the ten-foot gap between us. My eyes widened as the Jellybean descended, visions of future plurals hissing through the inevitable chip in one of Simone’s perfect white teeth. Should I do something?
A sharp snap of two fingers ricocheted through the air, and Simone’s gaze dropped instinctively toward the sound. The Jellybean pinged against her forehead so hard it traveled out and forward at least three feet before falling to the ground. Her hand went to the spot of impact, already turning a purplish red, her eyes widening in confusion. They turned glassy with unshed tears, likely from embarrassment as much as pain.
“Sorry,” Dice said, taking long strides across the grass and stopping in front of her. Up close, he smelled like an intoxicating mix of something smoky and spiced.
“You distracted me!” Simone looked down at his hand like it was evidence of a crime.
“I had to.” He reached for her forehead, brushing a thumb over the mark. Strangely, I felt the gesture deep in my belly. “We couldn’t let anything happen to that gorgeous smile of yours, could we?”
She looked into his eyes uncertainly and seemed to notice the same time as me that they were a dark mesmerizing blue. Beneath them was a sharp cut jaw and the sexiest mouth I’d ever seen. It was disconcerting. Why was he masquerading as an unremarkable college boy when he was packing all of this beneath the hair and the chin scruff? If he hadn’t had such a detached air about him, it would’ve felt dangerous, like seeing a hidden dagger suddenly unsheathed.
“I’m Simone,” she exhaled.
He nodded and, seemingly reassured that she’d survived her candy-coated injury, took a step away from her.
“And you are?” she prompted.
“Lucas Deiss,” he said, waving toward his friend. “And that’s Logan MacKenzie, but you can call him Mac.”
“I can’t believe you thought you were going to throw a Jellybean that far into someone’s mouth,” Phoebe said, shaking her head at Mac. “Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”
“Is it?” Mac asked with a hint of southern twang. He looked genuinely curious, and he wasn’t the only one. We’d gotten the attention of the people around us, which wasn’t surprising; the line was moving at a pace that made snails look speedy. L.A. was one of the most image-obsessed cities in the world, after all. Students were probably setting up their own portable light rings before each photo.
“Yes!” Phoebe’s hands went to her hips. “If it had gone in her mouth, it definitely would’ve choked her.”
“Huh.” Mac seemed to think about this for a moment. “But it’s so small. Her throat tube has to be bigger than that.”
Phoebe squinted.
Mac lifted his shoulders.
“Higher education is going to be good for you,” she pronounced.
Mac ran a hand through his shaggy blond hair, smiling sheepishly at Phoebe. “I know. I do dumb things sometimes. My mom says my enthusiasm carries me away.”
“You probably don’t want to start your college career talking about your mom,” Phoebe said.
“Right.” Mac nodded agreeably. His happy-go-lucky vibe was disarming.
Maybe it was because of that, or maybe Phoebe was simply too nice to continue giving him a hard time, but she smiled and added, “I get carried away sometimes too.”
A wide smile split across his face. “You do?”
Phoebe held out a slender arm, pointing at the scar that sliced through her dark skin from wrist to elbow. Mac ran a finger along it, and I could’ve sworn I felt the air spark between them. Beside me, Deiss had moved away from Simone, but she was still peering at him from beneath lowered lashes. I wondered if I was witnessing the moment I lost my first two prospective college friends to their future boyfriends.
“I got this jumping off the roof with the wings I’d constructed from cardboard and pillow feathers,” Phoebe told him. “I really believed they’d make me fly. Broke it in three places.”
“That’s not stupid,” Mac said. “You have to be really smart to make your own wings.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But it was definitely stupid when I revised the wing design and broke my leg jumping off the roof a second time.”
Mac guffawed, and Phoebe grinned ruefully before slipping into laughter with him.
“We should do something,” Simone announced.
I looked to her, but she was singularly focused on Deiss. He glanced toward me and took another step back.
“All of us,” she added quickly. “I have the key to the rooftop pool at The Aqua. We could go swimming?”
“Let’s do it,” Mac said. He lifted Phoebe’s arm by the wrist and slapped his hand against hers in a high-five.
“I’ll catch you back at the room later,” Deiss said to Mac, his eyes sliding past us. “I’ve got to get something to eat.”
“My family has a tab at the pool.” To her credit, Simone managed to keep the desperation out of her voice. But I could see it in the way she stared at the side of Deiss’s head, like she was trying to tunnel inside his brain and change his response. “And I guarantee The Aqua’s burgers are better than anything you can get on campus.”
Deiss shrugged, but his eyes brightened. “I do like a good burger. You up for it?”
I blinked at the realization that his question seemed to be directed toward me. Was he picking up on the pairing off that seemed to be happening? Was he hoping I’d be his buffer?
Did it matter? He clearly wanted me to go, and who was I to pass up the first college hangout I’d been invited to? At my nod, the line was abandoned and we were on our way to procure swimwear, like we were one big group. Apparently, that’s all it took to make friends in college: free food and the key to a pool.
I followed along, thrilled to be a part of something, not yet realizing how important we’d all become to each other. I had no idea that Phoebe and Mac would end up dating for the next six years. That Deiss, despite having what was rumored to be a very active sex life, would somehow always make his way back to us, every single day, without fail. That Simone’s fear of missing out would lead her to abandon her legacy status in Kappa Delta (or that she’d end up dragging us to all sorts of Greek events after her mother declared this resistance an unforgivable betrayal to the family name).
I was simply grateful to have found friends.
It took a year or two before I realized what I’d actually found was a family.
