Mom stopped me yesterday and I missed breakfast. That one deviation created a snowball effect that ended with me having to read a poem aloud in class. I barely hid the panic overtaking me, and I hated how Ethan’s now-observant eyes noted the way the heat flushed up my neck.

Pulling a sweater over my school uniform, I bolt out of my bathroom, gather my scattered books off my bed and try to stuff them into my backpack as I race down the winding staircase.

Loud voices echoing from my father’s office cause me to skid to a halt halfway down the stairs.

“Again?” my father yells, and my stomach drops. It’s West. Dad only shouts like this at West. “Four fights alone since the school year began. When is it going to end?”

The fights. The chink in my brother’s perfect armor. Honestly, West has gotten into more than four fights at school this year, but those were the ones broken up by some authority figure. God only knows how many he’s been in outside of school walls. West is an easygoing enough guy, but when someone pushes him too far, West always pushes back. Part of me envies him that fearlessness.

“The fight happened last week,” West replies in a low tone. “Did your secretary just now get around to telling you about it or was this the first time you could fit me into your schedule?” Mom must be gone if they’re arguing so openly.

One of the books I had been shoving into my pack slips out of my hand and in slow motion, it bobbles on my fingertips. Instead of falling in the direction of the bag, it inclines away from me, drops and begins its rapid descent down the stairs, one loud thud at a time, until the book announces its grand entrance onto the foyer with a resounding BAM!

My spine straightens with the unusually still silence, and I know I’ve undoubtedly gained my father and West’s attention.

“Rach?” Dad calls from his office at the bottom of the stairs. “Are you okay?”

I suck in a breath to steady myself. He doesn’t even have to look to know it’s me. No one else in this family would ever make such an awkward mistake. I rush down the stairs and pause in the large entryway of his office. “Just clumsy.”

My father’s lips quiver as if he wants to laugh like I’m a clown in a show. How he turns his emotions around so quickly, I’ll never know, and I enviously wish he would share his secret. It’s probably why he’s never understood why I couldn’t control the panic attacks.

When I fidget, the quivering stops. He remembers I hate being laughed at—and I hate that he remembers.

I steal a glance at West, who shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the floor. Mom doesn’t know about the times West’s temper has gotten the best of him. West can fake perfection, where I always fall excruciatingly short.

“Maybe I should try out for the circus,” I say to lighten the mood. “I’d be a whiz at juggling china.”

And it works. Dad laughs...at me. “Good thing Grace isn’t your middle name.”

With a glare between West and Dad, West leaves the room and I watch him go.

Dad pushes away from the massive oak desk, stands to his full six feet and gestures for me to join him. This is what Ethan will look like someday: tall, dark chestnut hair, even darker brown eyes and full of confidence. Mom said she fell in love with Dad the moment she saw him at college orientation.

Dad sits in one of the two chairs in front of his desk and indicates that I should take the other. I rotate the gold bracelet on my wrist one time. I have a routine and he’s ruining it.

“The guy provoked West.” It had to be said. “I heard about it at school and—”

“I don’t want to talk about West.”

One more rotation of the bracelet. West and my impending lateness are warring for attention in my mind. “Mom’s gone?”

“She left early this morning for a breakfast.”

I should be eating breakfast. Why can’t he let me continue with my routine?

“I wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you,” he says.

Despite the tension of the morning, everything inside of me explodes with joy.

“What you did last week at the charity event was mind-blowing. If you had told me two years ago that you would make a speech in public, I wouldn’t have believed you. You surprised me, Rachel, and you made me proud.”

I’ll be wearing this smile for a week. “Thank you.”

Dad leans forward, rests his arms on his knees and combines his hands. “You know how hard it was for your mother and me to lose Colleen.”

My joy drains, leaving me feeling cold. How could I expect anything different? I’m here so he can recite the same January speech. I glance over at the framed pictures on the table behind his desk. There are more of Colleen than of anyone else. I should know. I’ve counted them since I was six. “Yes.”

“And you know how hard this time of year is on your mother.”

I nod. Colleen’s birthday was the twenty-eighth of December. The charity ball and assorted holiday parties keep Mom afloat, but after the Christmas decorations are boxed away and the donations are counted, she spirals into a month-long depression.

“After Colleen passed, I had no idea how your mother was going to continue, but then she found out she was having you—a girl. The day of your ultrasound was the first time I had seen your mother smile in months. You’ve always given your mom that extra push.”

I blink twice so my father won’t see tears. Does he have any idea how much I hate this lecture and the role I play in the family? I’m so sick of being Colleen’s replacement.

Dad flashes a surprise smirk. “You remind me a lot of your mother.”

I tilt my head, shocked by this new twist on the old speech. “Really?” I’d give anything to be like her. She’s beautiful and poised and brave. My heart stalls with a twinge of pain. Isaiah called me brave.

“Yes,” he says as his smile grows. “And Colleen, too.”

I rub my forehead so he doesn’t see the hurt clawing at my face. What will happen if they ever find out I’m nothing like Colleen?

“All girl from head to toe. I couldn’t keep Colleen away from makeup, and your mother enjoys being a woman more than anyone I know.”

And Dad loves treating Mom like a princess. My eyes drift to the picture of Colleen at the age of eight, dressed as Cinderella and posing near the castle in Disney World. When I was eight, I brought tears to Mom’s eyes when I yearned to go with my brothers to Space Mountain instead of pretending to be a stupid princess. To this day, I hate the happiest place on earth.

Dad continues, “Despite it being your sister’s birthday, your mom had a wonderful day last week. She enjoyed spending time with you.”

He’s referring to the hours we spent at the spa in preparation for the charity ball. This isn’t a new twist to the story after all, just a new way of saying the same old thing. To help Mom through her upcoming slump, Dad will excuse me from school, like he’s done every January since I was ten, and send me and Mom on a week-long, all expenses paid shopping and spa spree in New York City.

I’m not a fan of shopping. I’d rather have spikes embedded in my head than have anyone file my toenails. I could care less what designer made what outfit. Faking that I’m having a fabulous time in an environment that feels as foreign to me as living on Mars is exhausting, but our time together always cheers up Mom. That alone is worth the trip and sometimes there’s a perk for me. Last year, I got to touch a Ferrari.

“Okay,” I say, taking the preemptive strike. “When do we leave?”

Dad winks. “Sorry, no trip to the Big Apple this year.”

Yes! “What about Mom?”

“I think I’ve been handling your mother wrong. The charity ball keeps her busy in December, but she needs that feeling year-round. At the New Year’s Eve party, I talked to the head of the Leukemia Foundation and they agreed to offer your mom a fundraising position.”

It’s like someone shoved a hundred-pound weight off my chest. “That’s great.”

“It is.” He points at me. “But your mother will only take the position if you do it with her. You opened a lot of checkbooks with your speech last week. She wants to raise more money to fund research for the illness that took your sister, and she wants you to give the speeches.”

The weight returns with a crushing blow to my head. This is an excellent example of why I should never deviate from routine.

Chapter 19

Isaiah

AS I WAIT IN THE school parking lot, my fingers glide over the pony embossed on the steering wheel and my thoughts return to Rachel. Three hours—the time I spent with her. It wasn’t much, but there was something about her, a spark that made her...unforgettable.

I don’t understand why I still think about her. Three hours with someone isn’t enough to know them, but she didn’t fit into any cliché or box. It’s like she was a mystery I was in the middle of solving and then I was yanked from the case.

The damn sun hasn’t even risen, and school starts soon. Seven hours of torture lie ahead of me. I’d rather be in the garage working on the Chevelle some guy brought in last night. Hell, I’d rather work on a Ford Focus. I’d rather be with Rachel.

My eyes drift to her number, which rests in the drink holder. She writes exactly like I’d expect from a girl like her: feminine with loops and pink ink. I shake my head. Who the fuck keeps a pink pen nearby? Rachel. She did. She would, and I liked that about her.

A muscle in my jaw tics and my left hand grips the steering wheel. Everyone on the street is aware that Eric’s looking for her and those two loser college boys. No one but Abby knows that I left the race with Rachel, and the money I gave Abby bought her silence. As long as I stay clear of Rachel, she’ll never be found.

My car door groans as I open it, and I make a mental note to oil the son of a bitch when I get to work later.

“Isaiah!”

A nervous adrenaline rush flows into my veins when I hear Echo’s voice. Sliding out of the passenger side of Noah’s car, Echo calls to me again. I immediately walk in their direction. Screw school. Echo and Noah—they’re my family.

With her arms wrapped around her stomach and red curls blowing across her face, Echo places one foot in front of the other in a hesitant motion toward me. Noah stays next to his car. I glance at him, hoping for a clue as to what the hell is going on, but he gives me nothing as he leans against the fender. His gaze flickers to Echo and, for a second, concern flashes on his face.

“Echo,” I say as soon as she’s close. “What’s wrong?”

My mind races through the possibilities. She mentioned her baby brother showed some signs of allergies. Is he sick? Is it her fucked-up mom? Did she try to hurt Echo again?

Echo brushes her hair away and exposes bloodshot eyes. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last night. Why didn’t you go home?”

I look at Noah again. My staying out all night has never been an issue. Noah’s my best friend, not my babysitter. “I worked late then crashed at the garage.” All in a vain effort to drain Rachel from my mind.