I didn’t even know where to start. I wanted to say things to him, but everything in my head was still a hodgepodge of feelings contradicting facts.

I didn’t want to talk, but I wanted to feel him in the house.

Turning around, I followed the wall past Crane, without answering him, and slipped into my bedroom, closing the door.

I’d tried hard not to think about everything he said night before last—keeping busy with choreography and planning—but if I slowed for a second, he was there again, sitting against the wall in my room, and whispering nightmares I’d never seen and confessing secrets he’d tried hard to keep hidden for so long.

Should I forget everything he did? Was it all suddenly okay just because his feelings had been real?

I moved around my room, putting away clothes and cleaning up. Yesterday morning, after Damon’s tantrum, Crane came in and picked up everything his boss shoved onto the floor the night before and replaced my mirror. When I came home later, he’d brought in a contractor who replaced my door. The room was almost back in order. I wished he cleaned up all his messes as quickly.

There is a reason why all things are as they are.

I laid on my bed, hearing the trucks and workers still moving about outside, and closed my eyes, feeling my body relax but not my mind.

The pull of him was everywhere. I remembered so well the feel of teasing each other, laughing through a kiss, the heat of his arms around me, and the way his body craved mine. The way he wanted and the way I’ve always ached for his roughness and danger, his whispers and him.

The way I always saw Damon Torrance’s raven eyes in my head, even before I knew my ghost was Damon Torrance.

“Come on,” he says, pulling me through the maze. “You’ll like it.”

“What is it?”

I breathed hard, stumbling to keep up as he races through the other side of the maze and beyond the hedges.

He wants to show me something, but I really just want to stay in the fountain. It’s fun in there—so secret.

But he’s so happy now, and I’m kind of curious.

I can’t stop smiling. My belly has flutters in it.

We run deep into the backyard, our clothes wet and cold as we near the forest line, and I see it right away. I shoot my eyes up, taking in the long trail of wooden boards nailed to the tree trunk, and at the top sits a treehouse disguised above a line of branches and leaves.

Sort of.

It doesn’t look completed, but there’s a really big floor and a railing around the outside. It sits between a split in the tree, two trunks locking it in and surrounded by green. You aren’t just in a treehouse. You’re in the tree.

I let go of his hand. “Wow. You’re so lucky.”

He stands next to me, looking up at it. “You like it?”

I nod, not taking my eyes off it.

I wonder if he did it himself or if someone helped. It didn’t look all fancy like some others I’ve seen, and his dad doesn’t seem like the type to build treehouses, either.

“You go up first,” he tells me. “In case you slip, I’ll be behind you.”

I dart my eyes over to him, his dark ones looking at me under black eyelashes. A somersault hits my stomach, and I turn away.

Why am I nervous all of a sudden? Am I scared? It’s a tall tree, isn’t it?

“I think my parents might get mad,” I tell him. I’ve never been that high before.

His face falls a little, and after a moment, he just nods, looking disappointed. “Okay.”

I feel bad. I want to go up. I want to do things with him. He’s so fun. He’s not calling me ‘chicken’ or getting mad at me or anything.

I like him.

“You won’t let me fall?” I ask, making sure.

He looks down at me, smiling and excited again. He takes my hand and we run for the ladder, him letting me step up first, the boards still looking new and nailed in tight. My heart starts to pound, because if I slip or lose my grip, I’ll fall.

But I feel him right behind me, and I swallow the lump in my throat and start to climb.

One step after the other, one at a time, I scale the tree, refusing to look down and keeping my eyes above me on the door in the floor of the treehouse that I can spot through the leaves.

My tutu brushes against the trunk, the netting getting stuck on the bark, and I tighten my hands on each board as I pull it off and keep going.

A breeze blows across my legs, chilling my wet clothes even more, and before I can stop myself, I glance down, seeing how high we are. I gasp and wrap my arms around the board in front of me.

“I’m scared,” I tell him. “It’s high.”

He climbs up behind me, setting his feet outside of mine and his hands on the boards around me.

“It’s okay. I have you,” he says. “I promise.”

I squeeze my fists one time and then start to pull away from the tree a little. I look over my shoulder, meeting his eyes, and he’s right there, staring at me, almost nose to nose.

Something fills my chest, and he’s so close, it makes me feel so weird. Like something is pulling me.

I can’t look away, and he holds my eyes, too, and it’s like I can’t stop it. The pull.

His lips touch mine, and I feel like I’m on a roller coaster.

It makes me stop breathing as tickles hit me everywhere, and then I pull away.

I clutch the board tighter, heat rising to my face. “Why did you do that?”

“I didn’t do it. You did it,” he charges.

“I did not.”

God, I’m so embarrassed.

I glance back at him, trying to see if he’s mad, but he looks just as embarrassed as me.

I didn’t kiss him, did I? It was him.

Or both of us. Ughhhh…

He nudges me. “Hurry. Come on.”

And although I’m still mortified, I breathe easier knowing he still wants to go up in the tree.

Cool. Let’s just forget about it then.

I climb to the top and stop, waiting for him to catch up behind me and push open the door. He does, and it flies up and tips over, hitting the floor.

I smile, relieved. I scurry the rest of the way and crawl up onto the floor of the treehouse, pulling myself to a standing position.

I rise, the wind blowing against me and the leaves of the tree rustling all around.

“Whoa,” I breathe out.

It’s like another world.

I turn in a circle, the space kind of an odd-shaped circle but so big, and I can see out over some of the trees, finding the clock tower in town and the roofs of some of the estates in the area.

I point, smiling. “I see the ocean!”

Through the branches, out beyond the forest, lays the silver water spanning all the way to the horizon, and I tip my head back, looking up into the clutter of leaves over our heads and the branches within reach in case we want to climb farther.

He’s so lucky. This is the best. I wish I had this at my house. I’d never leave.

He lets me take it all in as he puts his hands in his pockets and walks around me. I scan the treehouse floor, seeing a lantern, a sleeping bag, some drawings, and empty chip bags, and soda cans.

I look at him. “Why do you hide in the fountain when you have this place?”

“Because they know about this place.”

He’s quick to answer, so he must know from experience. How often does he hide? Is he always alone when he does? He shouldn’t always be alone.

I walk to the railing facing Damon’s house and see some of the party going on, but I’m too far away to recognize anyone or hear any of the music.

He comes up to my side. “Why are you named Winter?”

“It’s a poem by Walter de la Mare,” I tell him, still taking in the vast scenery as I recite part of it. “‘Thick draws the dark, And spark by spark, The frost-fires kindle, and soon, Over that sea of frozen foam, Floats the white moon.’”

I have the whole thing memorized, but he’s probably not interested in hearing it. Any of my classmates who ask aren’t interested, either.

“It describes winter,” I explain. “My mom said the poem made a cold and bitter season seem pretty. She said the beauty in life is what we live for, and it’s everywhere. You just have to look closer.”

He just stares out beyond the railing, looking thoughtful.

“I’m not sure why she named me that, but I like it,” I add.

He sits down, dangling his legs over the sides, and props his arms up over the wooden board nailed across to keep people from falling, and I hesitate for about three seconds before I join. I plant myself down next to him, hang my legs over the side and laugh at the butterflies taking off in my stomach.

I peer over the side, my head feeling a little dizzy, so I draw back.

We sit there, quiet, and observing the view, but I notice my head ache and start to rub at my hair.

“It hurts,” I say out loud, shifting my bun. “My scalp…”

It always happens when my hair is in a tight style all day. It feels so good to let it out.

I pull out a barrette—the only other one in my hair that I didn’t leave in the fountain—and start pulling out the pins in my bun.

“Can you help me?” I ask. “Make sure they’re all out?”

He reaches behind and feels my hair, pulling out a few more pins, and then he helps me unwrap the twist, my hair coming down. I slide my hands underneath it, rubbing my scalp and sighing, because it feels so good.

I look over at him, and he’s just looking at me, his eyes moving over my face.

My skin under my costume starts to get too warm.

He turns away and lets out a breath as he stares ahead. “I might kiss you again when we’re older,” he says. “Just so you know.”

My mouth falls open a little, and I want to make some sound in disgust, just in case he’s kidding or teasing me, but…

Is he telling the truth?

I fold my lips between my teeth to keep from smiling. I don’t know why I want to smile, but I can’t help it.

He puts his hand down next to mine on the floor of the treehouse, and my heart beats so loud.