Fuck me.

I yelled until my throat gave out, running to her and pulling her out of the water and into my arms. Craziness hit me, making me forget every first aid class I’d ever taken.

“Please don’t leave me,” I choked out, my adrenaline finally kicking in. I grabbed towels from the nearby shelving and pressed them to her wrists, applying pressure.

“Mary-Carmen,” I shouted in her face, using her given name, praying her eyes opened. My fingers found a faint pulse on her neck.

“Thank God,” I whispered, sitting her on the marble tiled floor so I could pull out my phone.

I called 911.

Sixteen agonizing minutes later, I watched the paramedics wrap her wrists and then strap her in a gurney they’d put in her bedroom. One of them had an oxygen mask on her.

“Is she going to be okay?” I asked, clutching my stomach, holding in the nausea that I couldn’t let out, because I had to keep my shit together. For her.

No one answered me.

My nerves broke, and I rushed for the bathroom, puking my guts out in the red-smeared bathroom. I closed my eyes, wishing Dad was here and not out of town. I’d called him while they worked on her, and he’d left immediately on the private jet the Mavericks owned.

Later in the hospital as I sat by her bed, I gazed into her face, self-loathing eating me inside, tearing me down. Her destruction had begun with me. I lay my head by hers and … shit … I fucking cried, hating myself.

A WEEK LATER, my mom agreed to check into a treatment facility for depression. Thankfully, she’d cut herself horizontally and not vertically, missing her vital arties. From her hospital bed, she’d promised us it was a mistake. That she hadn’t meant to go so far. Dad got her another new therapist. I just felt numb.

And perhaps that is why on the day I went back to school, my feet automatically went to the one place I’d been denying them: straight to the desk behind Dovey in history class.

I sat down, my eyes entranced by the way her hair fell down from her high ponytail. I wanted to wrap my hand in it and tug on it until she turned around. I wanted her to face me so I could—

Well, shit, I didn’t know why I wanted her to face me.

She moved, getting a book out of her backpack, the simple motion causing the air to stir and giving me my first scent of Dovey. She smelled sweet with a hint of spice about her, like the wild flowers that grew at our lake house in White Rock.

I stared at her so long and hard, I wondered if she could feel my gaze. Could she feel my intensity? Did she sense that her lightness was the perfect foil for my darkness?

When the bell rang and she stood, I did too. I opened my mouth to say … hell, I have no idea what I was going to say … but I didn’t. I was nervous and jittery, my confidence shot.

She flicked her eyes at me, seemingly not interested.

“I’m Cuba,” I said to her in a rush. She’d been turning to go, but paused and looked back at me.

She blinked up at me, blushed, and then smiled. “Dovey,” she said, hitching her book bag up on her shoulder.

We stood there and she gave me an expectant look, and I fidgeted, realizing it was my turn to talk.

But I had nothing. The guy who’d been with so many girls I’d lost count; the guy who didn’t care about love or relationships or all that mushy stuff. I just stood there like a total idiot. And because I felt panic rising, I ducked my head and walked around her. Pretty much snubbing her. God, I’m an ass. I had no clue how to treat a nice girl.

“Dream bigger than your fears.”

–Cuba

THE NEXT DAY, I walked in the cafeteria for lunch, and Dovey was the first thing I saw, sitting alone at one of round tables in the back.

I stopped and stared, remembering a sickeningly sweet dream I’d had the night before about her. How could I get this girl out of my head?

Maybe I just needed to go for it with her.

I mean, it was obvious I had a thing for her. And fuck it—I was tired of running from my feelings. Maybe, just maybe this one time, I could be responsible and really just … put someone else first.

With clammy hands and sweat popping out, I walked to her. She didn’t even notice me as I stood right in front of her. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. I’d only screw it up in the end.

Yet …

Did I want to wonder about what might have been? Life doesn’t give you do-overs. Luke Skywalker didn’t get one when he blew up the Death Star. He’d had one shot, and he’d nailed it.

Yeah.

I took a deep breath and sat down directly across from her.

“I had a dream about you. A good one,” I said, right as she took a giant bite from what I think was a peanut butter sandwich. A glob of strawberry jam slid out of the corner of her mouth, and she wiped it off and looked up. To be honest, she kinda glared at me.

“Yeah? Is that so?” she said, arching a brow.

I nodded.

She talked around her chews. “What’s the joke? Did Spider put you up to this?”

What? Why would Spider put me up to something? I didn’t even like that asshole.

I shrugged. “No joke. I dreamed about you.”

“Do tell,” she said, eyeing my black knit shirt, her gaze lingering over my chest. Some of my confidence came back. Thank God. I was starting to wonder where the hell my balls were.

I leaned in. “You may not know this, but my mother’s a gypsy. She tells me what my dreams mean.”

“Really?” she said. “I thought your mother was Brazilian. Aren’t gypsies Romanian?”