DENAVIA
By the time I got home, the sun was already halfway asleep and the clouds were blushing pink. Isha's house was like ten minutes away by foot, so instead of pulling off a U-turn, I parked in front of my own house, got out, and tossed the car keys at her like I was in an action movie.
"Drive it home. Pick me up tomorrow," I said, channeling my inner boss lady.
"Roger that, Captain Chaotic," she said with a salute, already climbing into the driver's seat like she'd been waiting for this moment her whole life. The moment Denavia finally cracked and gave her the keys.
I waved her off, turned toward my house, and braced myself for the weird energy that always hung in the air around my family—part sitcom, part low-budget horror film. I shoved open the door, and—
Thunk.
There were noises in the kitchen. Like actual human movement. Heavy steps. Something metal clattered.
Intruder? Ghost? Serial killer who couldn't cook and was now angrily looking for a recipe?
I wasn't taking any chances. I grabbed the closest weapon I could find: my dad's muddy-ass gardening boots. They smelled like regret and earthworms, but they were heavy. Solid. Fatal, maybe, if swung right.
I crept toward the kitchen, boot held high like a shield in some ancient war movie. "Whoever's in there, I have a weapon!"
And then—
"Navia?"
My mom popped out of the kitchen doorway in her office clothes, holding a plate of something that smelled aggressively healthy. Quinoa, maybe. Kale? Trauma?
She looked at me. I looked at her. Boot still raised.
"What are you doing with your dad's boots?" she asked with a single mom-eyebrow raise.
I cleared my throat. "Uh… thought someone broke in. Was gonna go all medieval on them if they attacked. Y'know. Self-defense."
"Have you taken your pills?"
I blinked. "What pills?"
She waved me off. "Never mind. I just stopped by to pick up a file. Be safe. Don't eat anything from the back of the fridge. Pretty sure it's sentient now. Bye, sweetie!"
And just like that, she vanished out the front door again like some suburban ninja. I hadn't even gotten a chance to ask her how her day was. Not that I would've. But still.
I sent her a quick text:
Me: Going to a classmate's place to work on a project. Will be home late.
Mom: Be safe, sweetie. Don't stab anyone unless absolutely necessary. Love you.
Charming woman.
*************
Cameron St. Laurent's house was surprisingly close to mine. Because of course it was. Because the universe has a personal vendetta against me.
I walked. Every step toward that rich-boy mansion felt like I was dragging myself into a bad romantic comedy where the protagonist ends up marrying the guy she hated in high school. Ew. No thanks.
When I got to the gate, I found a sleek silver intercom on a marble column that probably cost more than our entire plumbing system.
I pressed the button.
BZZZ.
A woman's voice came through, elegant and suspicious. "Who is it?"
"Um. Denavia Summers. I'm Cameron's project partner. He told me to come by at six?"
There was a pause. And then—
Click. Whrrrr.
The iron gates swung open automatically. I stood there for a moment, stunned. I mean, I'd seen this stuff in movies. But in real life? These people were living in another tax bracket.
I tiptoed in like a confused house elf.
There were flowers everywhere. Literal rows of hydrangeas and lilies lined up like they were auditioning for The Bachelor. A massive fountain sparkled in the center of the garden, spraying crystalline water into the air like it had a personal vendetta against drought.
And right in front of me, among the many gorgeous blooms… was the flower. One perfectly pink, glowing orchid that looked like it had been photoshopped into reality.
Naturally, I reached out to pluck it.
Because why not add "flower thief" to my list of crimes today?
Just as my fingers grazed the delicate stem, I lost my balance and—BAM—face-planted directly into a flower bed. My mouth filled with dirt. My soul left my body. I think I ate a worm.
I spit. I coughed. I panicked.
"OH NO. OH GOD. I'VE KILLED THEM."
I looked down. The crushed flowers looked like a scene from a crime show. "I'm so sorry, babies," I whispered. "You didn't deserve this. You were innocent."
"Are you… talking to the flowers?" a deep, bored voice asked from behind me.
I froze.
No. No, no, no. Please tell me it's not who I think it is.
I turned.
It was exactly who I thought it was.
Cameron St. Laurent. School royalty. Eyebrows carved by angels. Face of a fallen god. And he just caught me talking to dead plants.
I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
"I could at least use some help, y'know," I said, dripping sarcasm and soil. He reached out, mildly amused, and helped me up.
"You fall a lot," he noted, looking at the dirt smeared across my shirt like it personally offended him. "You're covered in soil."
"My life is a tragedy. Can we just go in and do the project before I accidentally die again?"
He narrowed his eyes. "You just destroyed my mom's favorite flowers. Do you really think I'm letting you off the hook that easily?"
Oops.
I straightened. "Is she home? I'll apologize."
"She's out of the country. But I'm telling her."
"Cool, cool, that's… that's totally fair."
He turned. "Follow me."
I followed. Obviously.
His mansion was ridiculous. Like something out of an architectural magazine for people who own oil companies. There was a fish wall in the lounge. I'm not even joking. A literal, wall-length aquarium filled with shimmering fish that looked like they had trust funds.
And the staircase? Curved, with a crystal banister that sparkled in the light. I walked up it in silence, trying not to touch anything or breathe too loudly.
"This is my room," he said, opening a door.
Of course it was gray. The walls. The bedspread. The curtains. Even the vibe of the room was gray. It looked like a moody Instagram influencer's wet dream.
"Bathroom's in there," he said. "Go wash up. You look like you wrestled a mole rat."
"Wait, you're serious? You want me to shower in your house?"
He looked me dead in the eye. "You're stained with dirt. I can't concentrate around filth."
"Wow. That was personal."
"Shower. When you're done, wear this." He tossed a neatly folded gray shirt onto the bed. Of course it was gray.
He left before I could protest. Rude.
The shower was glorious, like bathing in angel tears. I lathered up with his unnecessarily expensive soap and tried not to inhale too much cologne-scented masculinity.
I put on the shirt, which was huge on me. Looked like I stole it from a rich boyfriend I didn't have. The scent? Dangerously intoxicating.
I walked downstairs and found him already working on the project at a ridiculously sleek glass table.
Three hours later, we were finally done. My brain was fried. My dignity was in shambles. My stomach was growling.
"You hungry?" he asked, scrolling through something on his tablet.
"Starving," I admitted. "But I should head home before my parents start thinking I eloped."
"I'll drive you."
"…Are you sure? I can walk."
"It's dark. You'll trip again and die. Then I'll have to write this whole project alone."
Fair point.
When we pulled up to my house, both my parents were waiting at the door like Mafia bosses.
My mom squinted. "Who is that?"
My dad's eyes zeroed in on the shirt. "Whose clothes are you wearing?"
Oh. Right. That.
"Uh… about that…"
My mom raised a brow. "Navia, did you go to a boy's house? In someone else's clothes?"
"It's not what it looks like!"
My dad crossed his arms. "Looks like 20 bucks in the swear jar if you lie."
"Okay, first of all, I didn't swear—"
"You're thinking about swearing. I can sense it."
I grumbled and started for the stairs.
And then—of course—I tripped. Again.
"FUCK!" I screamed, clutching my ankle.
My mom didn't miss a beat. "Twenty bucks!"
"The hell, Mom?! I almost died!"
"Forty bucks now."
"WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?"
My dad just laughed and went back inside.
Upstairs in my room, I collapsed on my bed, pulled Cameron's gray shirt tighter around me, and screamed into my pillow.
This was the beginning of something horrible, wasn't it?
I could feel it in my soul.
Something dramatic. Something romantic. Something chaotic.
And knowing my life?
Probably all three.