"You." I push his hand away and ignore the look of hurt that washes over him. "You kissing other girls."

He shakes his head slowly. "Lucy, I'm not kissing other girls."

"But you want to, right?"

He fights to contain his smirk. "What the hell is going on in that head of yours?"

"You! You're in my head," I whine. "You used to make out with girls all the time. I know I wasn't your first kiss, and you told my dad that you've never had a girlfriend before so I know that they didn't mean anything to you and now you're sitting on my porch steps and you want to break up—"

"Whoa." He covers my mouth with his hand. All signs of his previous smirk completely gone. "Stop." His breaths are heavier now, matching mine. He slowly removes his hand, cautious of whether I plan to keep talking. "Babe," he sighs. And I start crying again. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into him. Then he starts laughing.

He's laughing at me crying.

I try to stand so I can kick him in the head and run inside, but he holds on to me tighter. "You're crazy," he states.

I pull away; using strength I didn't know existed. "I hate you!"

He laughs harder, wrapping both arms around me this time.

I should have stood up when I had the chance and kicked him twice. "Stop it, Luce. How the hell could you possibly think I'd be with anyone else but you?" He grasps my shoulders and holds me away from him so he can look me in the eyes. "I'm crazy about you. How can you not see that? How can anybody that sees me with you not see that? Yes, there have been other girls. And yes, they didn't mean anything to me. But you do, Luce. You mean the world to me."

Breathe.

He leans in carefully, as if hesitating. And then he kisses me. Slowly. Softly. And with each second his mouth is on mine, he repairs my broken heart. When he pulls back, his eyes penetrate mine. "Better?" he whispers.

"Yes."

"Good." He smiles and kisses me again, quicker this time. "Are you going to let me speak now?"

I can't help the laugh that escapes. "Yes."

"Okay." He pauses a moment, preparing his next words. "That night you thought Lachlan was sick... and I walked in—"

"No," I interrupt. I look away from him, too embarrassed by what he saw. "If you're asking if I'm still doing it, the answer is no."

"Good. That's good."

Moments of silence pass, neither knowing what to say next.

"Can I ask you something else?"

I can hear the wariness in his voice and it makes me nervous, but I suck it up because he's earned the right to all the answers. "You can ask me anything."

"Why did you do it?"

"Do what?" I say, even though I know exactly what he's asking.

"Make yourself throw up like that? Is it because you think you're fat—because I can tell you now—"

"No." I turn to him so we're face to face. He likes that—likes to be able to see my face. He says it's because he likes to read me. "When Mom started to get sick, things got hard for me."

"It's okay," he says quickly, "you don't need to talk about it. I'm sorry for asking."

Inhaling a shaky breath, I move closer and let him hold me. "Things got hard. It's like every day passed and I was barely living through it. The sun rose and all I felt was emptiness. It was the same. Every single day she was dying. And every day I was watching. Waiting. And it never seemed to end. I felt like it was happening to me. Her death felt like it was mine. And sometimes I'd cry for hours. Sometimes it would be silent, and other times I cried so hard it made me throw up. The first time I did it, it wasn't intentional. And then it started to happen more, and I started to feel something. Looking back, I don't even know what it was. But it made me feel... alive? And I needed that. At that time, I needed to feel something different. Something that didn't make me feel like I was living in an eternal loop surrounded by death."

"I'm so sorry, Luce." His voice breaks, and I know without having to look at him that he's holding back tears. I know because regardless of what I thought was happening only minutes ago, I know how he feels about me. I know the fierce protectiveness he has for me. "What changed?"

I look up at him now, his eyes are glazed, watching me with an intensity that makes my heart hammer against my chest. The ache is still there, but it's not heartbreak. It's something else. Something that kids at fifteen shouldn't be feeling. "What made you stop?" he asks.

I don't hesitate. I don't skip a beat. "You, Cameron. You changed. You came into my life and you healed me. You made me feel alive again."

I tell him the truth, and with that, I give him my heart. Forever.

CHAPTER TEN

-CAMERON-

She stands in front of her locker and chews the last of her apple, making sure that I see it. She's been doing that a lot since the conversation we had on her porch a few weeks ago. It's kind of cute—the way she wants to assure me that I have nothing to worry about. She could be two hundred and fifty pounds and I'd still worry about her.

She hands me the core to put in the trash, then reaches into her locker and picks up a note. She unfolds it and reads it slowly, about as slow as the smile that pulls on her lips.

"What is it?" I ask, trying to keep my curiosity in check. There's a note in her locker... and whatever it says is making her smile. Someone else is making her smile.