Well, maybe not every single second—Dylan can act like a stuck-up diva sometimes.

But even if we only have the summer together, I want to spend it exploring the long, warm days with him and his high-class standards that are infuriating and hilarious to me.

I jerk away from James before the song ends.

“I’ve been wondering when you were going to do that,” he admits. “I’m impressed you lasted this long.”

“I feel bad leaving you, but…”

He kisses my forehead. “I know.”

I pull him in for a final fierce hug, and when we break, he pulls out his car keys and offers them to me.

It’s a big deal.

James is so particular about his car, and if this is his final gesture of apology, I’m going to accept it wholeheartedly.

“Just tell me you won't wreck it.”

“I won’t.”

“And that I won’t lose you, H. That you’ll still be my best friend?”

“Always,” I promise, accepting the keys from his outstretched hand.

I speed to Dylan’s house with the windows down and the music up.

I’m back again, on his doorstep, but I don’t bother texting him because I know—or at least I hope—that he’s home alone.

Brandon, Kyle, and almost every other recognizable face are still in the ballroom, and since his father is on the board of the school, both he and Mrs. Archer are there, too, mingling with the other parents and waiting for the event to officially be over.

I ring the doorbell multiple times until Dylan appears.

“Hi,” I say when he opens the door.

His eyes rake over my dress in approval. “Reed, you’re looking better than the last time you showed up on my doorstep unannounced.”

I smooth down my hair. “I have something I wanted to say.”

He leans against the doorframe, and I’m conscious of just how much I want to fall into his chest.

I swallow. “I don’t know why you lied about needing my help, but to be honest, I don’t really care. Because whatever your intentions were in the beginning, I think that the result of whatever this is between us overpowers anything else.”

Dylan doesn’t move a muscle, so I continue.

“I may not fit into your life, with the yacht club and the table manners. I think I’m too messy and bookish and boring for what you're used to, but I’m real, Dylan. I’m the real deal, and when I tell you that I love you, that I’m in love with you, and it’s so stupid because we’re so young and it’s all happened so fast, but it’s the truth.”

“You think you love me?” Dylan says with a strained voice.

I shake my head. “I know it.”

Dylan steps aside, granting me permission into his grand foyer.

It’s no less impressive now than it was the first time I stepped in it, so I give myself a moment to take it all in while I try to stop my hands from shaking and wait to see what he’s going to say back.

I told him I loved him, after all.

Surely that warrants some sort of response—at minimum, an apology I was hoping to hear from him all week.

I turn and catch him staring at my exposed back. “Dylan?” I say so quietly it’s like a whisper.

He shuts the door and grabs my hand. It’s not a rough hold, necessarily, but it’s firm and full of purpose.

We’re heading up toward his bedroom, which makes sense. Even if his parents aren’t home yet, they eventually will be, and he probably wants privacy for what he has to say. But we pass his room, or at least which door I think it is, and we wind to the very end of the hallway on the second floor.

He pauses outside the door, taking a big breath in before he turns the knob.

When he flicks the light switch, I gasp.

The massive room has high, vaulted ceilings with floor to ceiling windows, but that’s not what catches me.

Painted canvases, all in varying degrees of completion, are everywhere. They’re stacked up in the rafters, hanging on the walls, and leaning against one of the glass windows.

I’m awed, but given the fact that Mrs. Archer owns an art gallery, I’m not totally surprised she has such an incredible collection of work here. I wonder if artists come by and work here or something.

Dylan watches me take in the room with heavy expectation in his eyes.

It startles me, as if I’m missing a piece to the puzzle, until I nearly step on a giant canvas that’s taking up a third of the floor.

“Oh,” I say as my eyes are reflected into my own painted ones.

The painting isn’t totally finished, but I recognize myself in it instantly—the wild hair, the eyes, and Audrey’s borrowed lotus earrings.

I’m depicted in black, white, and gray, but I kind of blur out at my neck, fading into the background. The only thing that’s shown and contrasted on the lower half of the painting is a beautifully crafted heart with all shades of red.

Instantly I’m reminded of the Yarra DeLinch painting that hangs in Mrs. Archer’s gallery, and the connecting dots stun me.

“What’s your middle name?” I ask quietly.

“Isaac.”

He steps toward me with his hands loose at his side.

Yarra DeLinch

Dylan I. Archer

The letters rearrange in my head.

“Anagram,” I say, and it’s the only word I can form.

He nods and steps toward me, seeing up close how I’m digesting this information.

His expression is hard and protective, but if there’s anything I’ve learned about what I’ve just seen, how he views me, it’s that he’s just as shattered as the rest of us inside.

Humans are full of complexities, and most of them don’t ever get vocalized. There’s something almost too fragile about admitting the deepest parts of yourself aloud, and both Dylan and I struggle with it in that regard.

We can’t say it aloud, but we can say it with ink.

For me, it’s words on a page, written or typed.

For him, it’s art on canvas.

This beautiful painting is the way he is showing me how he feels.

It’s an incredible gesture, but I just stood on his front porch and vocalized my feelings, told him that I loved him, out loud with my own voice, and I need him to do the same.

“What are you trying to tell me?” I ask, gesturing to the work and the vacant space between him and me.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at the piece as he speaks.

“I didn’t know how to connect with you. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Tell you that even though you hate me, I’ve been watching you since we were kids, and I felt a certain connection to you that you did not reciprocate in any way, shape, or form? That even though we’re both lonely and neurotic, we didn’t have to be so alone? That I’ve spent just as much time being frustrated by your tenacity as I’ve loved every single thought and word that has come from your mouth? That I’ve dreamed of what it would be like to claim you and those curls for my own selfish interest?”

Dylan, once again, turns to me. “I panicked. I realized I was missing my chance with you, Harper. That we had such little time left of school, and I had wasted the years, letting Lawson’s hatred of me ruin everything. I came up with the stupid cover story that I needed help because I thought it was the only way I could approach you, and honestly, it worked, didn’t it? We got to know each other, the real versions of ourselves, even though it was based on a lie.”