The days leading up to the debate feel surreal. When Blake and I aren't working on my campaign, we're kissing, and when we're not kissing, we're thinking about kissing – or at least, I am. Blake, as usual, is hard to figure out, but I know he grows frustrated when we near the point of going too far, forcing me to pull the plug. He doesn't show it, just steps back, breathing hard, and switches on the TV, but I know he wants more.

The truth – and the part that I keep denying myself – is that so do I. I'm constantly wondering what it would be like to see parts of Blake I haven't yet seen or have him see parts of me. But in the back of my head, rational Rose softly whispers, you'll only get hurt. For me, sex is a big thing – huge – and I've always wanted to wait until the moment felt right with someone I love. Whenever I'm with Blake, all of that's forgotten.

Occasionally, his friends will come over, and I won't have to worry about taking things too far, but mostly it's Blake and me. Blake and me. It feels weird to even say it, but there's no other way to describe us. Are we friends who kiss? Dating? The old me would have obsessed over labels, but with everything else going on in my life, I'm trying not to think about it.

On the morning of the debate, I wake up early and follow the same routine as for my speech. I spend forever in the shower, washing, preening, and slathering myself in vanilla and rose soap until my skin has that almost raw sheen. I take my time blow-drying and styling my hair to perfection. If there is one thing my mother instilled from an early age, it's that looking prepared is just as important as being prepared.

When I'm ready, I head into my room to change. My phone blows up with a million messages, mainly from Freddie, who posts a million celebration emojis in our Vote Rose Matthews group chat.

I type back:

I'm about to put my phone away when I see Blake typing. My eyes widen. While Liv and the others have messaged a few times, Blake never uses the chat. I sit on my bed, staring at his name for six torturous seconds.

That's it – two words, but they fill me with this blinding warmth that gives me the courage I need to face the day. I put my phone down, working on breathing exercises to calm me. They never quite work, but I like to believe I'm doing something useful.

My mother comes in when I'm staring at my closet, coffee in her hand as she hovers in the doorway. "I just came to see how you're feeling about the debate. Are you prepared?"

"I think so," I say. "As prepared as I can be, anyway."

"I figured," she says, crossing the room. She pushes my hair back, her eyes filled with the tiniest glimmer of pride. "I know I've been busy with work the last few days, but if I haven't said it enough, I'm proud of you, Rose. Not just regarding the campaign but because of your overall approach to life. I wish I had been half as put-together at your age. You're going to do great things in life, Rose."

I hug her. It's a lot of pressure when she says things like this, but I know it comes from a good place. "Thanks, Mom."

As soon as she leaves, I turn to my closet and contemplate what to wear. Since meeting Blake, my campaign book no longer serves as a roadmap but a reminder of how different I am from the girl who made that book: the outfits, the speeches, the step-by-step playbook – I hadn't needed any of it, and I still don't; I made it to debate day without them.

I settle on a simple white shirt and black jeans. As I stand before the mirror, buttoning up my shirt and rehearsing my debate, I start to feel like a fraud. It's not that I've ever bullied anyone unless calling Blake names counts, but I can't pretend that I didn't know how Chase treated people, and what does that say about me? Doesn't that make me a hypocrite? Between that and the cheating scandal, why would anyone want me as their president?

No, there's no use thinking about that. Whether I deserve to be president or not, I'm not prepared to quit. Instead, I finish getting ready, grab a banana from the fruit bowl, and head to my car.

I use the drive to school to gather my thoughts. The debate is first period, so there's no more time to second-guess or prepare; it's show time. After pulling into the parking lot, I head to the bikeshed as usual.

Greeting Blake is always one of those things that worries me the most. I never know whether to go in for a hug or act casual, so I always do some embarrassing side-step that makes him give me that look. It's funny – when we're kissing, it's easy, and I know what to do, but the parts in between? They're the hardest.

By the time I get there, Blake is leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets like he's waiting for me. I say hey and fall into the space beside him, allowing our shoulders to brush.

He turns slightly, lowering his gaze to mine. "Hey."

For a moment, as I stare at him, it's easy to forget about Chase and Libby and the debate that awaits me. Right now, there's just him, me, and the endless stream of fantasies that play in my head.

"Earth to Rose."

I snap back to reality. "Sorry, I'm just nervous. Do you think I should leave my business cards on the table outside of the auditorium?"

His mouth twists. "I thought I tossed them."

"I have more."

"Of course you do." He pulls me closer by my waist until there's no more space between us. "Breathe, princess. It's going to be all right."

Until now, I've done a relatively good job keeping my nerves at bay, but Blake's hands on my waist take me over the edge, past the point of no return. "I can't breathe. I feel like I'm running out of oxygen."

"All right, look." He grabs my face until I'm forced to look at him. "You're prickly, remember? If you act like what they say doesn't bother you, Chase will work himself up to the point he'll probably end up sabotaging Libby's campaign for us."

"What if he doesn't?" I ask. "What if he says something about what happened at the party, or he makes things personal or–"

Blake kisses me – the first time we've kissed at school. I'm terrified that at any moment, someone will catch us, and the equilibrium we've carefully crafted will implode. But as quickly as it started, Blake steps back.

"What was that for?" I breathe.

"You were hyperventilating."

"I still am," I say and kiss him again. It will always surprise me how natural and equally unnatural kissing Blake feels. Since that first kiss, my life has been a series of waiting for the next one – no sense of time in between.

He drops his mouth to the groove near my ear and lowers his voice. "You'll be fine – you're good at being argumentative."

"I'm good at a lot of things."

He looks up briefly. It's clear from the slight, crooked tilt of his mouth that I've surprised him again. In one quick move, he turns us around until I'm pinned to the wall. "What kind of things, princess?"

I swallow hard as his hands fall to my hips. Being debased by Blake in the moments before my debate was not part of the plan, and the last thing I need is to walk into school looking hot and disheveled, but I make no effort to move. Parting my lips, I'm about to make room for his own when the bell rings. I push him away, straightening the top of my blouse, which seems to have popped open.

Blake looks down at me, breathing hard. "You're going to be the death of me."

My legs weaken. Whenever he talks like this, something inside of me awakens. I pull out my lipstick and apply another coat as I try not to think about his mouth. "I have to meet with Mr. Charter before the debate," I say, finally looking at him, "Make sure you take a quick look at the notes I sent over the group chat last night." I go to leave, but Blake grabs my arm and spins me back into him, roughly kissing me. It's a risky move – the bell means any latecomers might pass this way, but I sigh and kiss him back.

When we finally pull apart, his lips are stained with my Pink-Glazed-Donut lipstick. I use my thumb to brush it off his mouth and watch as his eyes grow hooded. "Don't be late," I say and head to Mr. Charter's office.

The way it works at Archbury High is that the three campaigners – me, Angela, and Libby – will square off in front of the rest of our grade, who will then cast their ballots based on which candidate they felt most compelled by. Once that's decided, the last stretch of the race is where the remaining two candidates fight The Hunger Games style for the presidency. Or at least try to sway the final remaining votes through cupcakes and bribery while we wait for the ballot.

When I get there, Libby and Angela are already in Mr. Charter's office. After a pleasant smile from Angela and a brief acknowledgment from Libby, Mr. Charter explains what happens next. I nod, but I've already studied the presidency manual and know every step, so my thoughts are on Chase. As much as I wish I could follow Blake's advice and not care what Chase does, I can't stop obsessing over all the ways he might sabotage me.

It's not long before the campaign captains join us. Chase walks in first, his eyes on mine as he falls into the space beside Libby. It's always the same: this rush of familiarity mixed with longing followed by horror. He's gone all out, his blonde hair perfectly swept to the side like a boy from a different era, but it suits him. I'm guessing he's hoping that sitting beside Libby like the perfect eye candy will help sway the votes.

Angela's campaign captain, Miranda, arrives next, and I turn to the door, impatiently waiting for Blake to walk in. When another minute passes, and there's still no sign of him, I start to think the worst.

"We'll give it a few minutes," Mr. Charter says, glancing at his watch, "and then we'll have to start heading to the auditorium."

"He's probably getting high somewhere," Chase says.

Mr. Charter frowns and lowers his clipboard to shoot Chase a disapproving look. "That's enough, thank you, Mr. Ridgerton. I'm sure he'll be here any moment."

"I just saw him," I say, sounding nervous, "he'll be here," but in the back of my mind, I doubt myself. Doubt him. Just because we've kissed a few times does not mean he cares about this campaign. Sometimes I forget in the midst of it all that this whole thing started because I paid him.

A second later, I turn to the door as Blake walks in, and the moment I see him, my lungs immediately fill with air. "O'Hare," Chase says as Blake stands beside me, "how's it going?"

"Great," Blake says with exceptional coolness. "How's your face?"

Chase's eyes narrow, but the way he stares at Blake makes me think he's got something big up his sleeve. I don't have time to wonder for long – when everyone is ready, Mr. Charter leads us back to the auditorium.

By the time we get backstage, it sounds as if the entire grade has taken their seats on the other side of the curtain. I fiddle with my bracelet, but even though this is possibly more pressure than the speech, I don't feel as nervous with Blake. It's strange to think it would be Chase by my side if spring break hadn't happened. And yet somehow, Blake's cool, easy demeanor is what is calming me right now. Chase is unpredictable, so I never knew what would come out of his mouth next. With Blake, I feel like we're a team.

"In the interest of fairness," Mr. Charter says, "we'll pull the first candidate to speak out of a hat." I hold my breath as his fingers delve inside his hat and pull out a slip. After opening it up, Mr. Charter looks at the three of us and smiles. "Libby, you're up first."

Libby turns to Chase and beams. I tell myself it doesn't matter who speaks first, but inside, I'm disappointed. Still, I can't do anything about it now, so I take a leaf out of Blake's book and try to act casual.

"At the halfway point, I'll allow you all a few minutes to liaise with your campaign captain," Mr. Charter says.

A chorus of murmurs leaks through the curtains and fills the uneasy silence. My heart beats louder, whooshing and crashing like waves in my ears as Blake lowers his head. In a voice only I can hear, he says, "Ready when you are, princess."

I stare up at him, into those rich dark eyes, but it's too late to say anything back. The curtains slide open, and the six of us step out into the murmuring crowd of students.

Show time.

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