Page 4

And while the bed is made, Katie’s old quilt tucked in tight like a bed in a hotel room, the rest looks like a storage compartment. Blank purple walls from Katie’s childhood and cardboard boxes marked with my name.

I turn to Ben, unable to hide the disappointment on my face.

He peeks his head inside and looks the room over. “Homey,” he says, clearly not seeing what I see.

I drop my bags and open one of the boxes to see my speech trophies. I sigh and fold the box closed, then walk right out of the room. “This way,” I say, my heart aching. I open Grayson’s bedroom door; it’s exactly as he left it. I swallow, my brows knitting as I turn to stare at the door to my real room across the hall. My room, with its built-in bookshelves and pretty green paint. Those shelves had been filled with my dearest love—my books. Dozens of authors and titles that are now crammed into boxes, hidden away from the sun. A trembling sigh falls from my chest as I realize my bookshelves will now be covered in things like pom-poms, makeup, and dance shoes.

How awful.

And yet I need to see it. I leave Ben to unpack and start across the hall. I rest my hand on the doorknob and fill my lungs. I can do this. I turn the knob and⁠—

“Gah!” Nope, can’t do this. I pull the door shut with a bang.

It’s like doing a double take when there’s an accident. I have to look again. This time, I step one foot inside. Ugh.

My soft green has been covered with a bright pink. It looks like Barbie committed some kind of crime in here. My gaze roves over and— “No!” Tears well in my eyes. No pom-poms assault my built-in bookshelves. No, they’ve been ripped out. They don’t exist anymore. I gape at my own reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in their place.

“Wow, bright.” Ben pushes the door open and pokes his head in, blinking like the sun is blinding him. “I didn’t think you liked pink.”

I knock the door with my fist, bumping it into his forehead. “You don’t remember my room? This isn’t how it looked at all. It was green, and there was a—” I choke on my words. “Bookshelf built into the back wall.”

“That’s right, it looked like a library.” He shrugs. “I forgot.”

“Prrph!” I stomp past him, down the hall, and into my storage-compartment bedroom, where I throw a little twenty-two-year-old tantrum.

Ben grabs my arm before I can throw myself onto the bed. “Sweetie, it’s just a room. I’m sorry I didn’t remember it. Besides, why do you care? Isn’t your real room back in Los Angeles?” His thin lips turn out in a pout.

Sometimes Benjamin makes complete sense. I am a grown-up girl. I have my own apartment. He’s right—he’s good at being right.

“Yes. Yes, it is,” I say, my tone even while my insides sob for shelves that I will never see again.

Two

“Olivia,” Ben whispers. “Livy, wake up.”

I ignore the whisper of my name over and over. I’m home, in my bed, and the comfort of it isn’t worth disturbing. That is, until my shoulders began to shake.

I open my eyes, adjusting my sight to the darkness. I am home. I am in my bed, in my room, but something doesn’t feel right.

Pink illuminates in the darkness. Aww. That’s right. It isn’t my room anymore. Bright pink walls—Katie’s walls—have murdered my soft green paint and pretty bookshelves.

Beside me, Katie lies beneath her new pink comforter, her auburn hair strewn across her pillow as she sleeps soundly. We talked and giggled until late—until we both fell asleep in my old bed and Katie’s new room.

I yawn. “What time is it?”

Ben pulls at my arms, standing me up. “Nearly two a.m.”

“Two a.m.?” And he’s still awake? Benjamin normally sticks to his early-to-bed, early-to-rise mantra. “What have you been doing?”

His fine blond hair is giving him a rooster tail in the back. He grins like a goofball. “Dad and I were talking. You never said goodnight, so I came looking for you.”

Ugh. I hate when he refers to my father as Dad, but I’m too tired to make a fuss. “I must have fallen asleep while talking to Katie.”

Folding his hand in mine, Ben leads me down the hall and into my room. Pulling back the blankets on my bed, he guides me until I’m seated.

“Thank you, Benjamin.” He can be so good to me. And sometimes, I am so hard on him.

Sitting next to me, Ben’s hand cups the back of my head. “Liv,” he says, like there’s more he needs to tell me. But instead of talking, he leans close, pressing his lips to mine. Ben’s free hand falls to my waist, and I move my hands up to his face, holding him there. The shrill ring of an old phone blares, startling us. My hands fall from Ben and he pulls back, smiling at me.