It's hard not to spend the whole of my piano lesson fixating on the party. I mess up several times, to which my piano teacher slash neighbor from three doors down, Mrs. Lewensky, scolds me for my form. I apologize and try again, but the notes before me pulsate and twist as the party looms closer. It's bad enough sitting around Blake's basement at the best of times, but a party is a whole other level.

Still, Blake expects me to back out, which is why I'm not going to. Instead, I get through my piano lesson and head to my bedroom to raid my closet. It's not like me to find putting an outfit together hard, but something tells me my usual clothes will not fit well with Blake's friends. Unfortunately, I don't have any moth-eaten band tees lying around.

When I'm down to three outfits, Mom appears in the doorway with a coffee in her hand and leans against the frame. Her eyes roam over the several outfits on the bed. "Are you going out tonight?"

The lines on her forehead are a dead giveaway to the nervousness behind her calm expression. It's why, despite hating having to lie to my parents, I find myself lying yet again. "Nowhere too exciting," I say. "I'm just going for food and to the movies with my campaign team." Breath held, I wait to see whether or not she buys my story, but her face gives nothing away.

Finally, she smiles. "That sounds nice," and my shoulders sink with relief. "Make sure you're not home too late." She turns around, about to walk out, before looking over her shoulder. "I'm really proud of you for still campaigning, Rose. It takes courage to put yourself out there after a setback. I know all of this hard work will pay off eventually."

As soon as she's gone, I get back to deciding what outfit to wear. I finally settle on a top and leather skirt, the only things in my closet that feel Blakesque, and finish my makeup before tiptoeing out of the house. The last thing I need is for my parents to catch me wearing this.

The drive to Blake's house feels longer than usual. I turn on the radio, tapping my foot in time with the music, but it does little to calm my nerves. I have this pressing feeling that if something goes wrong tonight, no one will know where I am. I can't rely on Blake to consider my well-being– he hates my guts – which means I'm truly on my own.

My chest squeezes, the crashing of my heartbeat like cymbals in my ears. I circle into the driveway and park outside before killing the engine. It's suddenly harder to breathe than it was a few moments ago, but once again, my desire to with this campaign wins out.

I make it to the porch before stopping. Whether on purpose or through lack of care, Blake has left the garden shears where I'd left them last night. I pick them up, snipping away at a few wild thorns before stepping back to examine them. They're a little more lively now that I've gotten most of the thorns off but need a good watering. I remind myself to do it tomorrow and head around the side of the house, down the concrete steps toward the basement's side door.

Through the half-covered glass, I catch Blake watching tv with a beer in his hand. I hate to admit it, but he looks good right now. More than good. He's wearing a fitted gray t-shirt that shows off his arms and dark, faded jeans. Like a guilty pleasure, I allow myself a moment to stare at his form, feeling the heat as it rises up my torso.

His eyes flit over. I jump like I've been caught doing something naughty and open the door, trying to play it cool. He looks at my outfit, and the muscles in his jaw contract. "No way."

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

His gaze rakes over my legs and back up. "I don't know what your frat parties are like, but this is a jeans and a t-shirt kind of thing. Come on." He gets to his feet, moving past me to get through the door before looking over his shoulder. "You're driving."

I follow him up the steps and over to my car. "You really don't need to come," I say because the last thing I want is for Blake O'Hare to see where I live, but he's already getting into my car. I've just had it cleaned, so the car looks brand new, but you never know when a mislaid spare tampon might reappear. When everything looks normal, I turn to the front and kickstart the engine.

Blake reclines the seat so his ridiculously long legs can have a little more room, but he still looks squashed. I reverse out of the driveway, a little more nervous now we're sitting in my car. At least in his basement, there's room for me to put some space between us. Here, our arms are practically touching. I turn on the radio to fill the awkward silence before risking a glance over. "You can choose a song," I say, "if you want."

His eyebrow arches. He reaches over, offering another glimpse of his sleeve as he changes the radio station. I spot a few more inkings I'd missed the first time, like the cancer zodiac sign and a roman numeral clock face. I'm desperate to know what some of them mean, but something tells me he won't be very forthcoming.

"You have a lot of tattoos," I say instead.

"Good work, Nancy Drew."

Ignoring him, I reach for the stereo, about to change stations, when his hand shoots out to stop me. I freeze beneath his solid grip. His fingers feel firm and hot to the touch as they send mini shockwaves through my skin.

"What happened to letting me choose?" he asks.

"I didn't think you'd turn to something that could potentially deafen me."

He drops his hand like he never meant to touch me. "Rose Matthews, everybody – the drama queen."

"I'll add it to my resume."

"It's probably already on there."

"I wonder what's on yours," I muse, looking over. It's annoying how perfect he looks from the side and the front. Straight nose, strong jaw, high cheeks – he doesn't deserve his good looks. "Drug addict, drug dealer–"

"Eyes on the road."

I turn back to the road and slow for the next stop light, acutely aware that his eyes are burning holes in my profile. My skin prickles as I fight the urge to look over. For the rest of the drive, we listen to some rock band blasting profanities as I try to concentrate on the road.

"Okay," I say when as pull up, "I'm going to try and sneak you past my parents, but you need to be quiet and stay close."

"Not the type of guy you usually bring home, I take it."

"Surprisingly, no." I climb out and make my way over to the door when I realize Blake's not following. He's standing a little behind me and staring at the house in disbelief. "What's wrong?"

"You really live here?" he asks.

"No, I'm breaking and entering."

A hint of a smile meets his lips. "My kind of girl."

Something strange passes through me, but in seconds, it's gone. I open the door and step into the hallway, listening for any sound of movement. When I'm certain my parents are busy in the kitchen, I close the door and hurry Blake upstairs.

"Rose?" Mom calls from the kitchen, "Did you forget something?"

"Yeah, I just need to charge my phone a little," I call back. "It's nearly dead." Pushing Blake's back, I urge him faster up the stairs and into my bedroom, closing the door behind us. Only now that we're standing here, hidden away in my pink wonderland, does it finally dawn on me.

Blake O'Hare is in my bedroom.

❤️