“He was. He's always loved you, Bernadette. I'm sure you've noticed that?” I say nothing, because it's true. I've noticed. There's proof of it enough on that paper. Victor Channing punched me in the face between first and second period for saying Bernadette Blackbird was hot. “Sometimes I hate him so much it hurts. Sometimes, I even want to kill him for what he made me do.” Aaron leans back against the trunk of a tree edging the neighbor's yard. I wonder how long it'll take them to come outside and yell at us? “But then I remember that he let us have each other, once upon a time. Freshman year was ours. I didn't know my dad was going to die, and my mom was going to leave. I thought we had forever, Bernie, that we could be normal together.”

Aaron shrugs his big shoulders and sighs again, kicking one boot up to rest the sole against the tree trunk. He doesn't look at me as he continues.

“If I was stronger, we could've been. But I wasn't. And neither were you.” He turns back to me, but I can't deny it. That memory of his father's funeral plays fresh in my mind. I can hear my own thoughts echoing back at me. I don’t know how to help. That happens sometimes, when one broken person tries to lean on another. We’re too rickety to keep the other standing. “So I let you go. It killed a part of me I wasn't sure I could ever get back.” Aaron taps two inked fingers—interestingly enough, the two with the A and V on them—against the Bernadette tattoo on his right arm.

“Wasn’t sure,” I say, my heart beating like a live thing inside my chest. I feel lightheaded and dizzy, like I might need to reach out and hold onto something to stay standing upright. Unfortunately, the only thing to grab onto right here is Aaron himself. I’ll admit: part of me is afraid to touch him. I don’t know what’ll happen between us if I do. “Past tense. But you feel differently now?”

Aaron’s mouth curves up into a smile. There’s enough good boy hidden underneath that cocky smirk that I feel a bite of nostalgia, but not too much that I don’t think he could curb stomp someone for me.

Fuck if Aaron Fadler doesn’t make me feel safe. Even after everything. Even with everything we’re dealing with now.

“You didn’t just say it to me,” Aaron says, pushing off the tree and stepping forward. He doesn’t touch me, but I wish he would. I grit my teeth against the emotion and curl my hands into fists by my sides.

“Say what?” I ask, but I already know. “You’re right. I do love him.”

“You told Vic you loved me.” Aaron’s smile gets a little wider, but I don’t know what he expects will come of this. We can’t just go back to the way we were … but then, I don’t see why we can’t start something new? That rose and sandalwood scent of his wafts over me, and I close my eyes. “I didn’t think you’d be able to feel for me ever again. And then to say it to Vic’s face?” Aaron chuckles and shakes his head, reaching up to run his fingers through his chestnut hair. “That, I really didn’t expect.” He pauses again, his smile softening into something deeper, more melancholic. “You love Vic though, too, don’t you?”

I can’t deny that—it would be a lie—but I also can’t force my mouth to say the words either.

“Does it matter?” I ask instead, my voice much softer than I want it to be. “Love isn’t logical, and it doesn’t have limits.” I look back up at Aaron to find him watching me like I’m something precious, like dandelion fluff that might blow away in the wind if he breathes wrong. See, Aaron doesn’t know the new Bernadette very well. He might’ve been an expert on the old one, but he has a lot to learn. “What are you proposing?” I ask, and he shrugs.

“Well, to start off, I’d like to take you out for a milkshake.” His smile gets a little saucier, ratcheting up into a grin. “And then maybe we can talk about not hating each other?”

“I’ve hated you in a way I’ve never hated anyone else,” I say, giving a small shake of my head. “I can’t explain it, but I think there’s a special sort of hate that blooms from love.”

“Yeah, it’s called love-hate, and I hear the sex is off the charts.” Aaron cups the side of my face, running his thumb along my bottom lip. When he leans in close, I get butterflies. Fucking butterflies. Like I’m fifteen all over again. “But we can take it slow.”

“Why?” I ask, tilting my head to look at him. He really is gorgeous, always has been, but even more so now that he’s filled out and dripping with ink. “The sex is the easy part. It’s the feelings I struggle with.”

I turn and start down the sidewalk, listening for the easy fall of his footsteps as he hesitates and then follows after me.

“Sex isn’t easy, Bernadette. Don’t start telling yourself that.” Aaron walks a bit faster, overtaking me with his long strides. I catch up to him at the next crosswalk, but neither of us says anything. Instead, he reaches down and takes my hand in his, curving his HAVOC stamped fingers around mine.

That gets me right in the heart, an arrow that I can’t pull out for risk of bleeding to death.

We walk the last few blocks together like that, like a fairy-tale couple who lives in a tower, safe and solid against the wicked of the world. I notice as we go that Aaron’s eyes track side alleys, thick foliage, empty houses with For Sale signs in the yards. Occasionally, he nods, and I get chills down my spine.

We’re being watched, by Havoc’s crew.

“How many people do you have working for you?” I ask, thinking of Halloween and the dozens of skeleton-masked boys—and interestingly enough, girls—that appeared from the crowd. Aaron smirks slightly, eyes focused on the old-fashioned soda fountain down the block. It was built in 1915 and used to be a popular Fuller High hangout before Havoc kicked their asses across the railroad tracks. They still serve malts and Shirley Temples and all that old-timey shit in there.

“Even I don’t know the answer to that.” Aaron pushes the door open, bells tinkling in our wake, and I swear to fuck, every face in that room turns to watch us with wary eyes. Where Havoc goes, trouble follows. “Only Vic and Oscar do,” he adds as we head up to the counter and several students clear the red-leather stools to make room for us. “I could ask if I wanted, but I don’t.”

Aaron orders two chocolate shakes for us and then parks his chin in his hand, elbow resting against the cracked old countertops.

“I can’t believe they fire-bombed my van today,” he says absently, tapping his fingers against the side of his face. The car is trashed, by the way, a burnt shell of its former self, and yet another flame-washed memory of his mother. We told the cops it seemed like a random act of violence; they didn’t believe us for shit. I’m sure the news of today’s incident has already made its way back to the Thing.

“Are you going to get another car?” I ask, thinking of the two grand I buried in the backyard. That’s enough for a shitty clunker. Maybe I should buy one? I don’t have a license, but frankly I need to get on that shit. Having a car and being able to drive it, that’s a tool I need in my arsenal.

“Havoc will get me another car,” Aaron replies smoothly, sitting up as our milkshakes are slid across the counter to us. He stirs his with a metal straw as I cock a brow in question.