In the evenings up in our room Rowan entertains me with a few tidbits about her video chats with Charlie, whose full name is Charles Broderick Banks, and who isn’t really homeschooled—he has a tutor and a house in the Hamptons and has never made a pizza in his life. Rowan’s going to keep her secret from Mom and Dad for a while longer. Hopefully they’ll calm down enough to be reasonable about it, but I have a feeling Rowan won’t be going to New York anytime soon. And that’s really sad, because Charlie seems like a good guy.

And thank dog for Trey, who is acting as a secret liaison between Sawyer and me. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without him right now. On the last Friday of my confinement, Trey comes home with a note for me in a sealed envelope. When I am alone, I open it, and in Sawyer’s old familiar handwriting, I read:

I don’t want to risk you getting caught, but I really have to see you as soon as possible. I’ll be by your back door tonight at 2 a.m. If you can’t come down, I understand.

Miss you so much. Want to hold you . . .

SA

I die a little.

No, a lot.

• • •

I take a nap in the late afternoon to prepare, and wait impatiently for everyone to come back up to the apartment and go to bed. I fake sleeping, and finally everyone else is sleeping too. I hope.

At 1:45 a.m. I slip out of bed and put my clothes on. I’m starting to get the hang of dressing with my cast on my arm, but it still takes me a while. I peek out my bedroom window, and there’s a car out there with no fresh snow on it. I think it’s his car. I ease my way out of the bedroom, careful not to make any noise with doors, grab my coat, and sneak down the stairs, taking each step gingerly. All I know is that if I get caught, I sure as hell can’t run very fast right now.

When I open the door, a figure gets out of the car and closes the door softly, and then he lopes over a snowdrift and comes to me. I bite my lip and close the door behind me.

The grin I expect isn’t there, only an anxious, hungry look. He reaches for me, slips his fingers gently into my hair, and looks at me like I’m water and he’s the desert. Gently he pushes me back a step so I can lean against the wall, and then, without a word, he traces his finger over my lips and I’m mesmerized. He leans in and his lips brush mine, and I’m surprised and thrilled and trying to make sure I’ll never forget my first kiss, but soon he’s pressing harder and I’m reaching for him and I can’t be bothered to think or remember anything at all. I just need to be in it and try to breathe without hurting anything.

I slide my arm inside his jacket and run my hand around his waist, feeling the warmth of his back and holding him like he’s the first human I’ve ever touched before. As we learn how to kiss, I feel him touching me, caressing my hair, being careful around my sore spots, and I never want him to let go.

When our lips part and his tongue finds mine, we are warm and breathing hard into the cold February night. And when we stop for air, I think about all we’ve been through with the vision and the crash, and nine years of family rivalry. I feel like if I can overcome that, I can overcome anything. And while it won’t be fun to fight my dad, I will do what is necessary to allow myself to have this moment again, and soon. I won’t let him take this from me. Not now. Not ever again. As long as Sawyer is with me, we can do this.

I look up at him, touch his cheek. “Hey,” I say softly, my voice stuck somewhere south of my throat. “That was totally worth a trip down the stairs.”

But he doesn’t smile. He just looks at me with this fear in his eyes, and my heart drops into my gut. “What’s wrong?” I whisper.

He opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it again. “Jules,” he says, like it’s agony to say it. It’s all he can say.

I stand up straight, grip his jacket. “What’s going on?” And then I suck in a breath. “Is this a good-bye? Sawyer, say something. Don’t scare me.”

He shifts his glance away to the side, biting his lip, and then he takes a step back and his hand finds mine. He turns, and with his other hand he points toward Chicago, far off in the distance. “You know that billboard?” he says, his voice a shaky mess.

I grip his hand and fall back against the wall as the question bounces around in my head. Pain sears through me. I can’t breathe. “What? What did you say?”

He swallows hard. I can see his Adam’s apple bob in the light of the neon Demarco’s sign. “That billboard. Jose Cuervo,” he says, his voice dull.

I can’t breathe. “Yes.”

He turns to look at me. “There’s something else on it now.”

“Oh, God. No.” I grip his arm and murmur what I know has to be true. “And only you can see it.”

He nods slowly and, in a whisper, echoes my words. “Only I can see it.”

We hold each other, staring off toward a billboard that displays a hint of the future only Sawyer can see. And as we stand there, thinking about the incredible heartache of the visions and the burden of it all, I hear the heavy footfalls of a bitter, pissed-off man coming down the stairwell of my home. I grip Sawyer’s arm tighter in front of me, ready to stand my ground or run if I have to, and all I can think about is that this crazy drama in our messed-up lives isn’t even close to being over. And before it ends, one or both of us could wind up in a body bag.

Again.