Lucas’s mom was becoming suspicious, and when his dad caught her checking his phone, he panicked and changed the contact name from NATALIA, to ?MAYBE. His clever ruse sent her searching the wrong rabbit hole, and while the real texts my mother had with Lucas’s dad were short, curt and confined to legal business, the fake ones were dirty and disheartening. That’s because those texts were with Natalia, whom he has been sleeping with for almost three years now.

  Mr. Fuller hooked my mom into his web by taking advantage of her despair. My parents were separated and my father was not going to pay to support me. Of course, he didn’t really want me either. So when the kind neighbor whose name is on the letterhead for a fancy Indianapolis family law firm offered to help her out, pro bono, my mom leapt at the offer. It meant she sometimes had to drive downtown to meet him, and sit through after-hours negotiations with my dad’s lawyer with Todd Fuller at her side. Not wanting to be a complete snake, when he negotiated a settlement of ten grand to cover my mom’s legal expenses, Mr. Fuller gave that money to her. He handed it over in a seedy manila envelope, and he did it like that because he knew his wife was watching—or at least the private investigator she’d hired a month before was.

  A spiraling drinking habit coupled with a prescription overdose led to a complete breakdown, and that’s when Lucas’s mom went into the hospital. My parents’ divorce finalized that same week, and from her hospital bed, Mrs. Fuller begged her husband to end it with my mom. She played right into his hands, telling him she already knew everything. Of course she did. He made sure she knew what he wanted her to, which was nowhere close to the truth.

  His long business trips while his wife struggled to find her mind weren’t really about business. While Mr. Fuller snuck off with his son’s best friend’s mom, Lucas was terrified that his mom would never be the same. He spent every free moment with her in the hospital and then eventually at home when she was released. She didn’t go back to work for three months, the demands of her ad agency job too much to handle. Her son held her together. And he made her promises.

  He did whatever she asked. And when the ask came to cut me out of his life, he did it. I was already deep in my own shattered family crisis, helping my mom angrily pack up my father’s things for donation and acting as the go-between for some of their phone conversations when he refused to pay bills he still owed her for. I didn’t exactly reach out, but only because Lucas didn’t either. The polarizing effect was a widening divide that made it easy for Lucas to buy into his father’s lies. And since I was so used to being tossed away, I assumed Lucas and my dad were alike.

  “Get. Out!”

  Those two punctuated words, screamed by Lucas’s mom, cut off Todd Fuller’s litany of reasons and excuses. He stammers out a few more words, his face red and his arms flailing, fingers pointing. His fingers are always pointing—everywhere but to himself.

  “Babe, you’re not being rational,” he says, belittling her in front of all of us. This time, though, instead of falling apart, she doubles in size and strength.

  “So help me God, Todd, if you do not run upstairs and grab a bag full of your shit and leave this house right now, I will throw your things out the window and advertise free yard sale goods,” Lucas’s mom says.

  Abby chortles over my shoulder, and I turn with my mouth wide. I almost forgot she’s there. I am so rapt by the truth that I haven’t looked around at all throughout the shouting. I’m too focused on inserting my facts where I finally discover they fit. Sometime, though, in the middle of it all, Tory walked up. He stays back to let the chaos roll, but he’s definitely close enough to hear the heartbreaking facts that pertain to him.

  “Tory,” I croak. Lucas turns to see his friend. Abby shoots around on her heels. And the adults behaving like children let their shouting simmer into sudden quiet.

  Tory’s jaw is tense, a brewing anger in his eyes that’s so opposite of the good-humored prankster that usually lives there. His glare is set on Lucas’s dad as he moves forward, parting our small crowd. He stops at his friend’s chest and places his palm flat over Lucas’s heart, patting it kindly but firmly, a gesture that says, “I got this one.”

  It takes him approximately five more steps to square his body with Todd Fuller’s, and even though Lucas’s dad has about four inches on him, the youth and discipline Tory has in the gym make him no match.

  “Leave my family the fuck alone,” he says. “Oh, and your son . . . he’s going to MIT. And you . . . you were a shitty football player.”

  The swing is hard and swift, Tory’s fist landing in the soft cushion that separates Mr. Fuller’s top teeth from his bottom along his cheek. The cracking sound is sharp and timed perfectly with the landing. A broken jaw is probably pretty painful. But even more so is an obliterated ego, which Tory puts the final nail in before walking back to his car and speeding away.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I’ve observed that a strange thing sometimes happens when you’ve gone through a divorce and survived it emotionally. You become a beacon of hope for others looking to do the same.

  My mom hasn’t called my father in a year. As long as his checks come, there really isn’t a reason for them to talk. He sent her a text when he proposed to Jamie. She sent one back saying OK. Other than that small exchange, it has been radio silence between them. But when Lucas’s mom came to mine, ashamed and humble and afraid for her livelihood, in search of a lawyer to go up against the man she was leaving, my mom knew the only worthy opponent was the slimeball who represented my father.

  For two weeks, my mom has been Shannon Fuller’s personal divorce route tour guide. Tonight, she talked Shannon into having a little fun down at her new studio. I guess boudoir photoshoots are an empowering thing for newly single women to do. After a shopping marathon at Victoria’s Secret, my mom took her to have her hair and makeup professionally done. They’ve been at the studio shooting for four hours now, but they also took two bottles of wine. I have a feeling they’ll be spending the night there.

  Fine by me. It means Lucas and I don’t have to talk in hushed whispers. Though I like the hushed whispers too, for entirely other reasons.

  It’s strange how fast time passes when we’re together. He’s climbed through my window almost every night since the episode we have affectionately labeled BFM for Big Fat Mistake. The only night he missed was the one when he helped me climb down so I could sneak out and drive up to Chicago with him and Tory and Hayden and Abby. Tory said he wanted to stand by the lake and look up at the skyline, and Lucas wants to erase his father’s bad deeds and do right by his best friend. We made the three-hour trip in just over two and rolled back into the driveway just before sunrise. I told my mom about it afterward because I didn’t want to start a new collection of secrets. Of course, she doesn’t know about the nights Lucas is in my room. I have to have a few things, and as much as I want our bond to rebuild and grow, I also don’t want to give up the feeling of having Lucas’s arms around me when I fall asleep at night.

  Or the feeling of having his fingertips tease along my midriff, as they are right now.

  “So, about that date,” I say, my eyelids lowered as I look down to where his head rests on my hips. His devilish gaze is focused on the work of his fingers that are slowly inching my shirt up my ribs.

  “Yeah?” he hums without glancing up. His eyes close and he rolls his head to press a cool kiss on the skin next to my belly button. He opens them as his tongue takes a quick taste.

  “Don’t think you can use your typical ploys to distract me,” I say, my hips already fighting to squirm because fuck, his ploys work.

  “Okay,” he hums again, this time dragging his tongue up higher, his bottom lip catching on my skin while his hand pushes my T-shirt up further. When his hand pauses at the spot where he should encounter my bra—but doesn’t—his eyebrows lift.

  “What’s this?” His lip curls on one side, and I match with a smirk of my own.

  “It’s yours if you talk about the date you promised me,” I tease.

  He breathes out a laugh and inches higher still. I arch on instinct and he shifts so his weight is balanced on both elbows, his hands free to pull my shirt up the rest of the way until my breasts are exposed to the air.

  “Ah ah,” I say, barely getting the sound out as my breath hitches. I hold up a finger and waggle it in front of his face. “No dessert before dinner.”

  His lips tighten and curve on the ends, eyes hazing with all kinds of dirty thoughts. He moves his head forward enough to allow his mouth to close around my finger, his teeth gently biting the knuckle as he playfully growls.

  “You are all dessert, June,” he says, letting go of his hold on my finger.

  “One. Date.” I stand my ground, though I know all of this is for play. The play is almost as arousing as the other things. Maybe even more.

  “All right,” he says, tipping his chin and kissing the skin just below my breasts.

  I sharply suck in air and push my tits up, wanting more. Lucas ups the ante and kisses closer to the center of my pebbled peaks, a kiss for each curve of my breasts, all the way around, but never fully where I need his lips most.

  “Homecoming,” he says.

  I laugh out because homecoming is so not either of us.

  “What would I wear?” I question.

  He lifts himself forward and flicks his tongue at the tip of my breast. I quake as he blows dry the cool spot he left behind, a tightly puckered smile playing on his lips.

  “Black dress,” he says, pausing to torture my other breast the same way. “I’ll wear my black jeans, and that dark gray sweater over a shirt and tie.” His cheek dimples with a tempting smile because he knows that look is my favorite. I asked him about that sweater last week.

  “Okay. Black dress, and you . . . sexy as fuck. Got it,” I say, knowing he likes it when I talk to him that way. His eyes flutter closed and he growls against my body, dragging his nose along the center of my chest and pausing with his lips brushing lightly atop my right nipple.

  “Nothing under your dress,” he says, his tongue taking another pass, a longer and harder one this time that bends my back into an arch that opens access for his hands to slide underneath, leaving him in complete control over me.

  “That seems risky, me in a black dress at homecoming with nothing on . . . down . . . there.” I bring one knee up and lift my hips, wanting to push myself into him and ease the building pressure.

  “Those are my demands, June.” He licks again and I bend to his will, my eyes barely able to remain open as I stare into him, calling his bluff. He isn’t bluffing, though, and the thought of being out with him that way has me curious and hungry.

  “I think I can do that,” I say, my answer maybe surprising him a little. His right brow lifts higher than the left.

  “So, it’s a date?” He covers my right breast with his mouth and sucks hard, leaving nothing but the grip of his teeth, and ending with a gentle tug that has me wanting all of him. Now.

  “It’s a date. Now, please, Lucas. For all that is holy, will you fuck me?” I end my plea with a whimper and it amuses him more than normal. His eyes haze even more than they already are as he rolls my shirt up over my head, taking my arms along with it. He twists the fabric together, tethering my hands loosely above my head then sits up on his knees, my legs parted on either side of him. He’s done playing games and teasing me, and his fingers curl around the band of my pink lace panties. I bought them with Abby with this night in mind, and I’m fairly certain they’ve done the job as the top of Lucas’s cock protrudes from the band of his gray joggers. He rarely wears underwear, I’ve learned. A trait I have come to love for moments like this.

  He slides my panties down my lifted hips, and I bend one leg at a time to free them completely. Lucas leans over my body, reaches for his wallet on the night table, and he pulls a condom out, clenching the packet in his teeth. His lips tick up a hint on one side, bringing his dimple back into play. I draw my knees up on either side of him, wanting him to ease the ache I have building desperately.

  “You like it when I do dirty things to you, don’t you, June?” he mumbles from between teeth gripping the wrapped condom.

  I nod because yes, I do.

  Lucas tears the packet open with his teeth and one-handedly pulls himself free from the band of his pants. He rolls the condom on slowly with the other . I lift my hips, begging him to stop the torture as he holds himself a fraction of an inch from where I so desperately need him.

  He doesn’t make me wait long, dragging the tip of his cock down my center twice then pushing inside me in a long, slow thrust. My legs automatically wrap around his waist, and he holds my hips as he works himself in and out of my body. This is the first time we’ve had sex without muffling our sounds against each other since the abandoned drive-in theater. I let go of some of the inhibitions that come with having to be painfully quiet in my room at night.

  Obeying and leaving my hands over my head, I let Lucas drive my body toward climax, my hips holding steady to meet each push of him inside me. I’ve learned that I can give him pleasure with the smallest movement of my hips, so when I can tell he’s starting to lose himself in me, I roll my body to tempt him closer to the fire. I know he’s about to come when he falls forward and rests his forehead against mine, one arm holding his weight at the side of my head while the other hand holds my wrists together where I’ve left them tied in my T-shirt.

  Every rock of his hips pushes me closer, his hips working harder and muscles clenching more. I cry out in pleasure against his bare shoulder, biting him lightly and squeezing my eyes closed as the first wave takes me over the cliff and sends me floating in a sea of satisfying riptides, wave after wave as my body clenches around him and I rock my hips up to meet every drive he makes into me. Finally, his body grows so tight, the feel of him so thick inside, that I know he’s about to come. I pull his mouth to mine and kiss him harder than I ever have, my tongue probing, teeth tugging on his bottom lip, and soft whimpers falling from my mouth as his breath falls away and his body is nothing but sweat and sex and listless bliss.

  He rolls our bodies together so his weight is no longer on me, and I toss my shirt to the side so I can move my fingers through his cool, damp hair, our bodies sticky and moist. I lie like this with him still flexing inside me for several long minutes, content to fall asleep with him there, locked together in a permanence that happens when someone is your first and you give your whole essence to them completely.

  “Did I really just agree to homecoming?” He chuckles, and I love the crackling sound it makes in his chest, the slight tremors and vibration of his body under my touch.

  “You did,” I say, glancing up at him with a tempting smile. “And I agreed to nothing under my dress.”

  His mouth curls to match mine, a lustfulness touching the corners, drawing them up toward excitable eyes.

  “You did,” he says, pleased—and possibly aroused—again.

  “I better get flowers,” I add, knowing that right now, I could get anything I want. But as it stands, I pretty much have it all.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Most seniors endure a lot of impromptu photo sessions with their parents when they reach certain milestones. I’ve never gone to a homecoming dance, or any dance for that matter. Freshmen weren’t allowed, and my Montessori school was too small to hold anything other than a craft fair. As far as milestones go, this is the first one I’ve had warranting photographs.

  Of course, my mother is a professional photographer, so one session with her may make up for five or ten missed occasions.

  The orders were clear, and we all obeyed. Me, Abby, Lola and Naomi arrived early and got dressed and did our hair and makeup upstairs in Lucas’s mom’s room. It was hard not to look around and notice the stark absence of anything masculine. Only Abby brought it up out loud, and only once. “I’m glad she’s divorcing his ass,” she said. That summed it up, and that’s all we needed to clear the room of the bad energy and make way for magic.

  While we dressed upstairs, Lucas, the twins and a few of the other guys from the team get dressed in my house, in my room. I did my best to hide things I thought might be embarrassing, but I feel better knowing Lucas is there. If Tory decides to go rummaging through my drawers, he’ll throat punch him.

  While we all get ready, my mom sets up a ridiculous amount of equipment—two umbrella lights, four different flashes, and a seamless paper backdrop hanging from some contraption she built out of PVC pipe. Nobody questions her, especially not me. The only photos I have of me and Lucas together are from before our bodies matured, when holding hands felt super racy and taboo. Oh, the things we’ve done to each other since then.

  The main photos, of course, could only happen in one place. My mom has always been in love with the staircase inside the Fuller home. While our layouts are the same, our interiors are drastically different. My home would be what one might call the “base model,” while Lucas’s house is filled with the best upgrades. And the best feature, for both my mother and me, is the iron staircase that winds from one end of the house down to the foyer. This is why we had to dress here—to make a grand entrance that my mom could capture on film.

  My mom bought about two dozen packs of fairy lights for her “vision,” and she and Lucas’s mom spent almost the entire day weaving the thin wires around the railing for a glittering effect. At one point, when I came by to drop off some clear tape, I overheard Shannon telling my mom that she wishes they had “done this a lot sooner.” I didn’t pry, and I didn’t linger to eavesdrop, but I’m pretty sure she was talking about coming together and living with the truth.