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Chapter 1

Cara was clutching the latest edition of Peopleas if it were the Holy Bible.

“If I didn’t have you to bring me magazines,” she said, “I’d go stir crazy locked up in this place.”

“I had to fight off some soccer mom for the last copy,” I told her. And I was serious. Fresh reading material was a hot commodity among inpatients and their families at the hospital.

Cara didn’t hear me. She was already tearing through the magazine, eager to consume her daily dose of celebrity gossip. Beside her, Drew was camped out in the room’s only armchair, staring down at his phone. From the scowl on his face, I knew he was either reading about last night’s baseball game or discovering that the spotty Wi-Fi was being particularly fussy.

Unlike a typical day at the hospital, today I actually had something to keep me occupied during visiting hours. After pulling a chair up to Cara’s bed, I started scrolling through the pictures I had taken with my new Canon. My parents had bought me the camera as an early birthday gift, and I had tested it out at the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden this morning.

“God, could he be any more perfect?”

I looked over, and Cara had the magazine open to an interview with one of the guys from the Heartbreakers, her favorite band. The headline read “Bad Boy Still Breaking Hearts.” Underneath it was an abstract with a quote: “I’m not looking for a girlfriend. Being single is too much fun.” When I glanced back up, there was a look on Cara’s face—eyes avid, mouth partially open—that made me wonder if she was about to lick the page. I waited a moment to see if she would, but all she did was heave a sigh, the kind that implied she wanted me to give her a reason to gush over her favorite celebrity.

“Owen something?” I asked to be polite, but my attention was already focused back on my camera.

“Oliver Perry,” she said, correcting my mistake. I didn’t need to look at Cara to know she was rolling her eyes at me even though I had made my dislike of the band clear on multiple occasions, like every time she blasted their music through the house. I didn’t care enough about the Heartbreakers to learn their names; they were just another boy band whose popularity would sputter out as fast as it had shot up. “I swear you’re like a forty-year-old stuck in a teenager’s body or something.”

“Why?” I asked. “Because I don’t know the name of some boy-band member?”

She crossed her arms and glared. Apparently I had crossed the line. “They’re not a boy band. They’re punk.”

There were two reasons I didn’t like the Heartbreakers. First and foremost, I thought their music sucked, which should be explanation enough, but I had another reason: the Heartbreakers tried so hard to be something they weren’t, parading around as rockers when really, they were just a boy band. Sure, they played instruments, but no amount of vintage band tees and ripped jeans could mask the watered-down lyrics and catchy beats of songs that were undoubtedly pop. The fact that their fans had to constantly remind the world that the Heartbreakers were a “real” band only proved otherwise.

I pressed my lips together to keep myself from laughing. “Just because they site the Misfits and the Ramones as their inspiration doesn’t make them punk.”

Cara tilted her head to the side, eyebrows scrunched together. “The who?”

“See?” I reached over and grabbed the magazine. “You don’t know what real punk is. And this,” I said, gesturing down at the page, “is not it.”

“Just because I don’t listen to all your underground weird stuff doesn’t make you more musically cultured than me,” she responded.

“Cara,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Whatever, Stella.” Cara slid the magazine back into her lap. She looked away from me, shoulders slumping. “Honestly, I don’t care if you don’t like them. I’m just in a bad mood because I wanted to go to their concert.”

The Heartbreakers had performed in Minneapolis this past month, and even though Cara had desperately wanted to go, she had decided not to purchase any tickets. It had been a tough decision, especially since she had been saving up for months, but in my opinion, it was the right one. Because, when it came down to it, it didn’t matter how much she wanted to go. Her body was giving her all the signs that she couldn’t—nausea, vomiting, and fatigue just to name a few—and she knew it. One important lesson that Cara’s cancer taught us was that there’s a time to be hopeful and a time to be realistic.

Two weeks had passed since Cara started her first round of chemotherapy. The treatment worked in cycles—three weeks where countless drugs were pumped into her body, followed by a rest period before the whole process started over again. Then, after the regular chemotherapy killed off all the bad stuff in her body, Cara would be zapped with a single round of high-dose chemo just to make sure the bad stuff stayed dead.

I was never really good at science, but Cara’s trips to the hospital taught me a lot. Ordinarily, chemo doses are restricted to small amounts due to the threatening side effects. A higher dose might kill the cancer, but it also destroys bone marrow, which I’ve learned is kind of essential to life. But sometimes, regular chemo isn’t enough.

That’s how it was for Cara. After two recurrences, her doctors thought it was time for a more serious treatment, so once she received the high-dose chemo she would need to have an autologous stem cell transplant. An autologous transplant was where Cara’s own stem cells were removed from her bone marrow prior to her treatment. The cells were frozen and kept safe during her chemo, and they would be given back by a blood infusion. Without it, she wouldn’t be able to recover.

A small sigh escaped me, and I was careful with my words. “I’m sure there’ll be more concerts in the future,” I said and offered her a weak smile. “I’ll even go to one with you if you want.”

At this, Cara giggled. “Drew’s more likely to join a cheerleading squad.” At the sound of his name, our brother looked up and raised an eyebrow at Cara before returning to his phone.

“It was just a suggestion,” I added, but I was glad she found it amusing.

“You, at a Heartbreakers concert?” she said, more to herself than to me. “Yeah, right.”

At this, we both went silent. A thick kind of quiet settled around us; I could feel its weight bearing down on my chest, and I knew we were both thinking of stuff that was unhappy. Long days at the hospital tended to do that, and after a while, bad thoughts came more easily than the good ones.

A knock on the door pulled me back into my surroundings, and Jillian, Cara’s favorite nurse, stepped inside. When I saw her, I glanced up at the clock and was surprised to see how fast the day had disappeared.

“Stella, Drew,” she said, greeting the both of us. “How are you both?”

“Same as usual,” Drew said as he stood up and stretched. “You?”

“I’m doing well, thanks. Just here to check up on Cara.” To her she said, “You need anything, dear?” but Cara shook her head.

“Are you kicking us out?” I asked. Visiting hours would be over soon and that meant it was time for Cara’s nightly meds, which included penicillin and a long list of other stuff I couldn’t pronounce.

“No,” Jillian said. “You still have time, but I figured you’d want to run down to the cafeteria before it closes.”

The thought of food made my stomach rumble. I’d gone straight to the hospital from the sculpture garden, so I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. “That’s probably a good idea.” I wrapped my camera strap around my neck and stood up. “See you tomorrow, punk.”

I wanted to lean over and give her a kiss, but I couldn’t.

Cara had non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. It was a type of cancer that originates in lymphocytes—white blood cells—which are part of the body’s immune system. Normally, people with non-Hodgkin’s were treated as outpatients. They would come to the hospital on a daily basis to receive treatment before going home, and during her first two bouts of cancer, Cara was an outpatient too. Every day my mom would drive her to the hospital and her drugs were administered through an IV. It normally took about an hour, and sometimes Drew and I would tag along and do homework in the waiting room.

But Cara recently had complications with her appendix and it had to be removed. Since her white blood cell count was so low, her doctors were concerned she was at risk of infection, and she had to stay at the hospital for a few weeks. When we visited, we were required to wear masks over our mouths, and we couldn’t touch Cara because there was a chance we could get her sick.

I knew being away from home was hard for her, and it was frustrating that I couldn’t even comfort her with a hug.

“You know where to find me,” she said and rolled her eyes.

“Get some rest for me, okay?” Drew said in parting. Then he turned to me. “Ready? I’m hungry.”

“Yup,” I responded. “Me too.” We said one last quick good-bye, and then we were out the door, heading in the direction of the cafeteria.

“Think they’ll have those caramel pudding cups today?” Drew asked as we made our way down the familiar hospital halls.

“Man, I love those things,” I said, “but I doubt it. Haven’t seen any in a while.”

“Lame.”

“Yeah,” I said, thinking about our day. “Pretty lame is right.”

***

Every day, Drew and I would mention one positive thing that had happened during the time we spent with Cara. The thing about hospitals is that they’re breeding grounds for fear. If you don’t constantly remind yourself about the good, the bad will seep in and take over. Because when one of your family members gets cancer, you all get cancer. It might not be the same kind, but it will still eat at you until there’s nothing left inside.

The tradition started when Cara was diagnosed the first time, back when we were freshmen in high school. It hadn’t really hit me that my sister was sick, that I could actually lose her, until she had a diagnostic treatment and stayed in the hospital while her doctors identified the location, extent, and stage of her cancer. Our mom brought Drew and me in to see her, and all around us were children in various stages of decline, some further along than others.

That was the first time I felt the fear. It buried its nails in my chest, lifted me clear off the ground, and said, “See those kids? Those kids are actually dying.” And that made me wonder—if my sister was here, did that make her one of those kids too?

“What’s your positive?” I asked Drew when we reached his old Honda Civic on the far side of the hospital parking lot. He was fiddling with his keys, and even though I knew my door was still locked, I yanked on the handle.

“The caramel pudding cup,” he said. The locks popped up with a click when he found the right key. “That shit was delicious.”

“A pudding cup?” I repeated as we both climbed into the car. “That’s your positive?”

“It’s that or the fact that the Wi-Fi was in an obliging mood today.”

I was battling with my seat belt, trying to untangle it and pull it forward, but Drew was being so odd that I let it fly back into place. “Are you being serious?” I asked as I stared at him. “Because I honestly can’t tell right now.”

“What does that mean?” he said. “Pudding cups are serious business.”

I blinked slowly and deliberately. Up until today, our positives had always been meaningful, something to keep us going. If pudding became the only redeeming part of our day, then we were in trouble.

Drew started laughing, and I smacked him on the shoulder. “Not funny,” I grumbled.

“I was only teasing, Stella. Lighten up.”

“Sorry,” I said, reaching for my seat belt a second time. “I only narrowly avoided making Cara cry today.”

“You know why she’s upset, right?” Drew asked me then. “She thinks she’s never going to go to one of their concerts.”

“Why does she have to be all negative like that?”

I didn’t expect Cara to be sunshine and roses all the time. In fact, she deserved the right to be angry with God or the universe or whoever had dealt her the shittiest hand of all. But I hated when she spoke in definites—I’m never getting out of here, I’m never going to college, I’m never going to see the Heartbreakers perform—like her death was already a done deal. It made me feel like I had no control over my life, like it really was all left up to fate.

“No, not like that,” Drew said. “Apparently there’s a rumor going around that the Heartbreakers are breaking up. Some kind of rift between the members.”

“Oh! Well, no surprise there,” I said, but I silently hoped that the rumors weren’t true. Shocker considering I wasn’t much of a fan, but I wanted to prove Cara and her definites wrong. She would see the Heartbreakers perform because she was going to get better.

Placing his hand on my headrest, Drew craned his neck to see if there was anyone behind us before whipping out of the parking spot at full speed. Visiting hours were officially over, and some of the hospital staff had already left for the night, so the lot was relatively empty. When we reached the exit, Drew swung the car into the left-turn lane and flicked on his blinker. We both just sat there for a second, neither of us talking, as we waited for a gap in traffic.

I remembered that Drew had yet to answer my question, and I was the first to break the silence. “So what is it then?” I asked.

“What’s what?”

“Your positive.”

“Oh, right,” he said, his head twisting back and forth as he checked to make sure there were no more oncoming cars. There weren’t, so he slammed his foot on the pedal and shot out onto the road. “I came up with an idea for Cara’s birthday present.”

“Really?” I asked. I turned my full attention to Drew. “What is it? Tell me.”

Not only was next Friday the Fourth of July, but it was also Cara’s eighteenth birthday. It was mine and Drew’s as well; we were triplets. Every year, we had a competition to see who could get each other the best present, and Cara normally out-gifted us. This year, Drew and I decided to team up and beat her, but so far, we had yet to come up with anything worthy of winning.

“Okay, you know how you’ve been going on and on about that photographer’s art gallery?” Drew asked, glancing at me. “The one that’s opening in Chicago?”

“You mean Bianca Bridge?” I edged forward in my seat. I had no clue what Cara’s birthday gift had to do with my all-time favorite photographer, but wherever Drew was going with this, I had a feeling it would be good.

Bianca was my inspiration and everything I wanted to be in life. As one of the most famous photojournalists of the modern world, she was known for eye-opening street photography that featured people from all walks of life. I had painted a quote from her on my bedroom wall, and all my best pictures were tacked up around it: “The world moves fast, changing everything around us with each new day. Photography is a gift that can keep us in a moment forever, blissfully eternal.”

Whenever someone asked me why I enjoyed photography so much, I would recite Bianca’s quote as if it were my own personal mantra. I was enthralled with the idea that, with one click of a button, I could somehow beat time.

“Yeah, her,” Drew said as he sped up to make a yellow light. “It just so happens that her gallery is only a few blocks away.”

“A few blocks away from what?” Drew was purposely dragging out his explanation to build suspense, which was nothing short of annoying. “Come on!” I was bouncing up and down in my seat. “Tell me!”

“No patience whatsoever.” He shook his head, but there was a glimpse of a smile on his face. “It’s a few blocks from a radio station where the Heartbreakers will be doing an autograph signing this weekend.”

“Are you for real?”

Drew lifted his chin, and a smirk flashed across his face. “Well, Cara was really disappointed about not being able to go to the concert, and that got me thinking. There has to be something else Heartbreakers-related that would make her happy. So I googled a list of their public events. We could drive down and get one of their CDs signed or something.”

“And?”

“And visit your art thing.”

“Yes!” I exclaimed and pumped my fist in the air. “Cara won’t stand a chance of beating us this year.”

“I know,” he said and brushed off his shoulder. “No need to thank me.”

I rolled my eyes but smiled inwardly. Something inside my chest was shifting.

When Cara’s cancer came back again, I knew it was different than the first two times. The knot in my gut told me that if this treatment didn’t work, Cara would never get better. It was a heavy feeling to carry around, almost as if a hundred weights had been tied to my heart.

Even now, I knew there was nothing I could do that would make Cara’s cancer disappear. But for the first time since the recurrence, I felt like those weights were slowly being cut loose. It was silly, because what would an autographed CD do? But if it could lift Cara’s spirits, then maybe she stood a chance.

“Do you think Mom and Dad will let us go?” I wondered, chewing on the inside of my cheek. If they didn’t, my surge of hope would dissolve and bring me lower than before.

Drew shrugged. “We’ll be together,” he said, “so I don’t see why not.”

“Okay, good,” I said, nodding at his answer. “Are we really doing this? Road trip to Chicago?”

“Yeah,” Drew said. “Road trip to Chicago.”

Chapter 2

I pressed my forehead against the passenger-side window and let my eyes drift over the buildings slipping past me. Drew and I had been driving all night, and thankfully we arrived in Chicago well before the morning rush hour. It was still dark, but a faint purple light on the horizon hinted at the coming sun. Even though it was too early to check in, we were making our way through downtown to find our hotel. Drew wanted a place to park the car and leave our luggage.

I stayed awake during the drive to keep my brother company, and now I was too tired to focus much on anything. If I didn’t get caffeine soon, I would never make it through the day. Just as my eyelids began to flutter closed, a green sign caught my attention. I shot straight up in my seat.

“Drew, stop! It’s a Starbucks!”

He jumped, accidentally jerking the wheel to the left, and the car swerved a foot into the next lane. There wasn’t much traffic to crowd the five o’clock streets, but I could see the alarm on his face.

“Jesus, Stella, you could have gotten us killed,” he said and let out a shaky breath when he successfully pulled our car back into the right lane. “That scared the crap out of me.”

“Sorry,” I said as he found a parking spot on the side of the street. “Coffee’s on me. What do you want?”

“Just a regular cup of joe. None of that creamer crap.”

I wrinkled my nose. “That’s disgusting,” I told him as I unbuckled my seat belt.

“That’s how you’re supposed to drink it,” he told me as he settled back into his seat to wait.

Grinning to myself, I climbed out of the car and headed toward the shop. When I stepped inside, a bell rang above me and the smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted me. There was one employee behind the counter, a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair, and she was taking the order of the only other customer in the shop.

As I waited for my turn, I studied the boy in front of me. He was tall and lean and must have been around my age, but I couldn’t get a good look at his face. Light-brown, wavy hair poked out from underneath a beanie, and he was wearing a fitted white T-shirt, designer jeans, and a pair of gray Vans: simple but stylish. I couldn’t help but look him up and down a second time. Normally I was into guys with big muscles and facial hair, but something about this boy was interesting. His whole look screamed artsy, and I liked it.

“That will be two ninety-five.” I watched as the boy retrieved a wallet from his pocket, pulled out a five, and handed it over. After giving back his change, the woman said, “I’ll be right back. Gotta grab the soy milk out of the other fridge.”

“That’s chill,” he answered and tucked his money away.

The barista disappeared through an employees-only door, leaving me alone with the boy. As he waited for her to return, he beat his hands against the counter, re-creating the rhythm to a song. I cleared my throat to let him know he wasn’t alone, and he turned, finally noticing I was standing behind him.

He offered me a smile. It was one of those full-face smiles accompanied by an adorable set of dimples, and all I could do was stare like an idiot. Something about him struck me, almost as if I knew him from somewhere, which was ridiculous since we had never met. I touched my camera out of habit, and his smile faltered. Neither of us moved for a moment, but then the boy forced another grin onto his face and waited, like he expected me to say something.

Unable to stand his gaze any longer, I glanced up at the huge chalkboard menu hanging above us. Even though I already knew what I was ordering, I deliberately studied each item. They really should have another employee working. He was still watching me, and I tried my best to ignore him.

“So,” he said, finally ending the silence. “That’s a nice camera. I take it you’re into photography?”

I jumped at the sound of his voice. The boy was leaning back against the counter, his arms crossed casually over his chest. “Um, thanks,” I responded. “It’s an early birthday gift. And yeah, I’m into it.”

“What kind?”

“Portraits are my favorite,” I told him, as I fiddled with my lens cap, popping it off and on. “But I’ll take a picture of just about anything.”

“Why portraits?”

“Have you ever heard of Bianca Bridge?” I could feel a smile growing on my face, and I didn’t wait for the boy to answer. “She’s, like, the best photographer ever, and she does these amazing shots of people from all over the world. I’m actually in Chicago to visit her photo gallery.”

“Hmm,” he said, tilting his head to the side. “Never heard of her.” Pushing away from the counter, he took a step toward me. The dog tag around his neck caught a beam of light from above, and it shimmered back and forth. “Mind if I have a look?” he asked and pointed at my camera.

My fingers tightened around it, and I hesitated. “Umm,” I responded, not knowing what to say. The Starbucks employee trotted back into the room clutching a carton of soy milk, and when I glanced back at the boy, he lifted an eyebrow at me as if to say, “Well?” Slowly, I nodded my head. In any other instance I would have said no, but something about the boy was confident and charming. Plus, I wanted to see that smile again. I lifted the strap from around my neck, and he moved in to take the camera. As he did, his arm brushed against mine, making my skin prickle.

“Like this?” he asked and snapped a close-up of me. I found it hard not to grin. He was holding the camera all wrong and clearly had no idea what he was doing.

“No,” I said, reaching over to help. “You probably have to adjust the focus. Here, I’ll show you.” I put my hand on top of his and demonstrated how to move the lens. The boy looked up at me for a moment, my hand still over his. This close to him, I could see the thick lashes that surrounded his dark blue eyes, and my stomach flipped in circles.

He moved the camera up to his face. “Smile,” he said, but I looked away and let my hair cascade in front of my face. “What? The photographer doesn’t like having her picture taken?” he asked as he snapped another one.

“Not really,” I answered and took back my camera. Dropping the strap back around my neck, I held it in my hands and let out a huge breath. “I much prefer looking through the lens,” I told him. I focused it on his face for a moment before swinging around to my right and capturing the barista at work. I held the camera up so he could look at the image on the screen. “It’s best when they don’t know you’re looking at them. That way you get the real stuff. Real is when it’s the most beautiful.”

“What if they know you’re looking?” He was closer now, and even though he had spoken in a barely-there voice, I heard every word.

Taking a deep breath, I counted to three in my head to work up some courage. Then I stepped back and focused the lens on him. He leaned in with an unwavering gaze, but with the camera between the boy and myself, he was less intimidating. I only saw a subject. My finger hit the button three times before I pulled away to study the portraits. They were easily the best pictures I’d taken in a long time.

Finally, I answered him. “Those can be beautiful too.”

His lips quirked up in a smile, but before he could respond, the barista finished his order. “All right, one caffe latte with soy,” the woman said, handing the boy his drink. “Sugar’s around the corner if you need it.”

“Thank you,” he told the woman, but he never glanced in her direction. He kept his eyes on me as he reached over and grabbed his drink. Finally, after three long seconds, he turned and made his way over to the sweeteners and stir sticks.

“Sorry about the wait,” the woman continued. “What can I get for you?” I gazed at her with parted lips. I had completely forgotten why I was even standing in Starbucks. “Hon?” she prompted me.

“Right,” I said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Um, can I have a grande of your regular brew and a tall hazelnut macchiato?”

“Anything else for you today?”

“No thank you.”

She pressed a few buttons on the register. “Okay, that will be eight ninety-eight.”

I pulled my wallet out of my purse and searched for a ten. “I know I have some cash in here somewhere…” I muttered to myself. I didn’t want to have to run back out to the car—that would be totally embarrassing—but all I could find was my plastic, and I was only allowed to use that in emergencies.

“I got it.” The boy slapped a twenty down on the counter and winked. My fingers fumbled as I looked between him and the money, and my credit card slipped out of my hand.

“Crap.” I rushed to pick it up, but he was already there, bending down and plucking it off the floor. He turned it over in his hand as he straightened back up, his eyes glancing down at my name.

“Here you go,” he said, holding it out for me to take.

“Um, thanks.”

“It was nice to meet you, Stella Samuel.” A half grin yanked on the corner of his mouth as he said my name. “Have fun at the gallery today.” Then he turned and exited the coffee shop. I stood in place and watched the door swing closed behind him.

“Here you go, darling. One grande coffee and a tall hazelnut macchiato.” The barista pushed the drinks across the counter to me. “Your friend left his change behind. Do you want it?”

“Keep it,” I told her, not bothering to look back. I grabbed the cups and rushed out the door to ask the boy his name, but when I reached the sidewalk, there was nobody in sight.

“What took you so long?” Drew complained when I finally slid back into my seat.

“Oh, you know. Soy milk, camera,” I rattled off. My mind was on that boy.

Drew choked on a sip of coffee. “You spilled soy milk on your new camera?”

“Huh?” I focused my attention back on him and then realized what he was asking. “Oh, no. Never mind, it was nothing.”

My brother watched me for a moment before shaking his head. “Drink that caffeine up. I think you need it.”

***

“That was awesome!” I exclaimed as Drew and I stepped out of Bianca’s gallery.

Unlike this morning, I felt energy streaming through my body, enough for me to skip the five blocks to the radio station where the signing was taking place.

“Maybe not the word I would use,” Drew responded.

“Oh, come on,” I said, bumping my shoulder into his. “Don’t you feel inspired?”

“Not overly,” he replied. “We just spent all morning looking at a bunch of pictures on a wall.”

This conversation was familiar. I’d had similar experiences with every member of my family in the past, times when I’d shown them new Bianca pieces that I was obsessing over. Nobody ever appreciated the photos, and I’d learn to shrug off their lack of interest. Mom liked to blame her sister, my aunt Dawn, for what she referred to as my “artistic arrogance,” which was when I got all snobby about a certain photograph and tried explain the vision behind it.

My aunt Dawn was one of those posh, East Coast ladies who drank martinis like water and only bought art if the price tag had enough zeros. One time, when I was twelve, she took me to an art auction in New York. We spent three hours meandering through rows of artwork, and Dawn taught me which paintings were quality and which were not, a skill no twelve-year-old should be caught without. Of course, her definition of quality was vastly different than mine. Dawn’s choice of favorites hinged on who the artist was, not the subject, while I preferred the black-and-white photographs tucked away in the back of the gallery. There were different people in each image, which made me wonder who they were and what they were thinking.

“But they were pictures that mean something,” I said, turning to look at Drew. I knew he wouldn’t understand, but that didn’t stop me from hoping he would. I wasn’t snobby about art the way Dawn was or the way my mom thought I was; I was just passionate about photography. And my mom could only blame that on one thing—my not-so-typical high-school experience.

When Cara first got sick, our mom made an effort to try to keep my and Drew’s lives as normal as possible. But Cara’s treatment was long and grueling, so she started homeschooling. The three of us didn’t like being apart, not when things were so serious, so Drew and I begged our mom to let us be homeschooled too. That way, we could be with Cara and still receive an education. She finally agreed, and we never went back.

Until freshman year, I’d loved being a triplet. It set us apart and made the other kids our age think we were cool. It was like we were exotic animals at the zoo that everyone wanted to see, and we always got asked questions like whether we could read each other’s thoughts or feel when one another got hurt. We always responded by putting on a show. Drew would pinch himself, and Cara and I would grab our sides and grimace as if we had felt his fingers too.

It wasn’t until high school that I realized people only knew me as one of the Samuel triplets. During English class on my first day, the girl sitting next to me asked, “Are you Cara or the other girl?” as if I could only be defined by the fact that I was one of three. That was when I decided I needed to stand out from my siblings, to declare who I was and all that independent stuff. The problem was that I didn’t really know how to go about doing it.

I thought about the girl from my English class. She had one of those scary nose rings that made her look like a bull, and her dreadlocks were dyed purple. I was willing to bet that nobody forgot who she was—not when she looked like that. But I wasn’t as daring as her.

Although my ears were already pierced, getting a nose ring scared me. On top of that, I was nervous that the maintenance required to keep all of my chestnut hair a solid blue—my favorite color—would be too much work. In the end, I settled for a single streak of aqua in my bangs and a small, sparkly stud in my left nostril to start my metamorphosis from Stella the triplet to Stella the individual.

High school was going to be my chance to break away and discover who I was, and during those first few months of freshman year, I started to. Drew, who was built like our dad, tall and thick, easily made the football team. Cara had always been the most outgoing of the three of us, so it made sense when she joined the cheerleading squad and yearbook committee. But even though we normally did everything together, I decided not to try out for the squad.

Instead, I signed up for as many clubs as I had time for—from student council, which I hated, to academic decathlon, which I also hated. Art club became my fast favorite. Not only did I love the quirky cast of kids, but there was something about imagining and shaping and creating that I found intriguing.

I packed my schedule so tightly that, during those two months, it was as if I didn’t have siblings anymore because I saw so little of them.

But when Cara got sick, all of our individual growth folded in on itself, and we just became the triplets again. Sometimes I would catch a glimpse of who we could’ve been from those few high-school fragments that stayed with us. Cara never went anywhere without at least three different lip-gloss options, and Drew always tried to make a competition out of things, whether it was beating me in a game of Scrabble or seeing who could get a better test score.

That’s why I held on to photography so tightly. It was my only takeaway from a time that was supposed to be mine but never really was. One of my art friends introduced me to it, and even though I wasn’t a natural, I enjoyed it enough to make an effort to improve. So while every other teenager was blundering their way through high school, experimenting and making mistakes, I was at home staying how I always had been, whatever that was—but at least I had one thing that was all my own.

Before I could dive into the details of why Bianca’s work was so meaningful, I spotted a great shot farther up the sidewalk. “Oooh, look!” I said, and rushed ahead to snap a picture.

“Stella,” Drew said when he caught up to me. “That’s a fire hydrant. We have those back in Minnesota.”

“Yeah, but look at the way the sunlight is hitting it,” I said and adjusted my lens.

Drew scoffed. “Please don’t tell me there’s some symbolic meaning in the contrast between the light and the shadows or some artsy bull like that.”

“No,” I said and crouched down to get a closer picture. “I just think it’s pretty.”

“But it’s a fire hydrant,” Drew repeated, and crease lines—something my mom always warned us would become permanent if we frowned too much—formed on his forehead.

Knowing there had to be at least one good picture out of the ten I took, I straightened up and poked Drew in the side. “Sure, but it’s a very symbolic fire hydrant.”

At this, Drew opened his mouth to argue, but then decided against it and shook his head. “Come on, expert photographer,” he said. “We’re going to be late for the signing.” He turned and continued up the sidewalk, expecting me to follow.

“All right, all right,” I said, laughing before jogging to catch up with him. “I’m coming.”

***

It only took us ten minutes to walk to the radio station, but Drew was right. We were late.

“I don’t get it,” I said as we took a spot at the end of a long line. “The signing isn’t supposed to start for another hour.”

Crossing his arms, Drew shot me a look. “Really, Stella? You’re surprised that a ton of people are waiting to see a world-famous band?”

“Okay, maybe not,” I admitted. “We probably should have gotten here earlier, but I didn’t want to leave the gallery.”

“I know,” Drew said, his tone lighter. “Hopefully this won’t take too long.”

“Hopefully,” I responded, but as I gauged the line in front of us, I had serious doubts.

Ninety-nine percent of the crowd was female—a few moms with little girls, but mainly teenagers dressed up in floral sundresses or cute tops. They made kissy faces as they posed with friends for Instagram pictures and squealed over each other’s Heartbreaker merchandise.

Eyeing the girls around me, I felt like an impostor in my plain T-shirt and Converses. I patted my hair and regretted not brushing through it this morning. Instead, I had pulled it back in a sharp ponytail that showed off my bright aqua strand. A few girls glanced at us in curiosity, and I couldn’t tell if they were looking at me because I stood out like a sore thumb or if they were checking out Drew. While being distinct from my siblings was important to me, I didn’t like feeling out of place. I skimmed the crowd to make sure nobody was looking before yanking out my hair band and tugging my fingers through my bangs. Nobody else had a stud in their nose or multiple ear piercings like me, but I wasn’t going to take those out too.

Finally the mob of estrogen rushed forward as the doors to the station were opened. I briefly bowed my head in thanks, but my relief didn’t last long. Once inside, I saw the long, roped-off line that twisted through the huge lobby. We were at the end of it.

“Are you kidding me?” I exclaimed.

Drew started to say something, but he was cut off as an uproar rippled through the crowd. Clasping my hands over my ears, I tried to block out the sudden screams of hundreds of fans.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” a man announced with a megaphone. “Please put your hands together for the Heartbreakers!”

Even standing on my tiptoes, I couldn’t see the group of boys that had caused the commotion. Too many girls were jumping up and down in front of me for me to get a good view.

Another round of screaming made the room shake when a song started blasting through the building’s sound system. Drew pulled his iPod out of his back pocket and put his headphones on. I groaned out loud, knowing that if I checked my backpack, mine wouldn’t be there. I had left my iPod in the car, and Drew chuckled when he saw the panicked look on my face.

“Rock, paper, scissors for it?” I asked with my best puppy-dog face.

“Can’t hear you, Stella,” he said with a smirk. “My music’s too loud.”

He turned the volume up and started to head bob to whatever he was listening to. I closed my eyes in frustration. The rest of today was going to suck.

***

My head was pounding. Between two hours’ worth of cheesy lyrics, screaming, and a stuffy room, my brain felt like it was exploding inside my skull.

Cara and I were scary similar in so many ways. We both could quote every line from every episode of Friends like we had written and produced the show ourselves. We hated peanut butter because of the way it made your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth, and neither of us had ever had a boyfriend.

But if there was one startling difference between us, it was our choice in music. As Drew and I stood in line waiting for an autograph, I couldn’t for the life of me understand how Cara enjoyed the Heartbreakers. From the look on Drew’s face, he couldn’t either. His iPod had died about an hour ago, so now we were both suffering.

“She’s totally adopted,” I muttered, which made Drew snicker.

“You’re identical.”

“Irrelevant,” I said and shook my head. “I mean, honestly? Where did she go so wrong?”

“I think it was that girl at the hospital Cara’s friends with.”

“The one with leukemia?”

“Yeah, her. She made mixed CDs for all the pediatric patients.”

“We should sue.”

Drew laughed and rubbed his temples. “Seriously, though. I think this prolonged exposure to musical garbage is wearing on me. You’d think they’d move the line along a little faster.”

“Seriously,” I agreed.

The Heartbreakers’ new CD was playing on a loop, but every time the song changed, another round of screams ensued. By now I could sing along with every song if I wanted.

A girl in front of me turned around. “Oh my God! This is their best song!” she exclaimed, as if we hadn’t heard it a million times already today. “I love the Heartbreakers!”

I restrained myself from rolling my eyes. Every song must be their best song. Closing my eyes, I inhaled a deep breath. “How close are we?” I asked Drew for the tenth time. I still couldn’t see the front of the line, but we had to be close. If we weren’t…well, I didn’t know how much longer I could stand this torture. Drew, who was a good foot and a half taller than Cara and me, craned his neck over the crowd and looked in the direction I assumed the band was sitting.

He smiled down at me. “Looks like it will only be ten minutes.”

“Oh thank God!” Reaching into my backpack, I pulled out a few of my sister’s belongings—a Heartbreakers CD, a poster, and a tour shirt. If she didn’t go crazy over this present…

As the minutes passed, we moved slowly up the line. The closer we got, the more often I could catch a small glimpse of the band through the crowd. Cameras flashed as people took pictures. Soon we were only a few people away from the front of the line. A group of girls huddled around the table moved away, and—

I could finally see the Heartbreakers. I scanned the table and my heart stopped.

There were four boys. On the far right sat a broad boy in a muscle shirt and with close-cropped dark hair. On his upper left bicep was an armband tattoo with black spirals that twisted together. Next to him was a tall, lanky guy with messy strawberry-blond hair and thick glasses. The third boy was blond as well, but his hair was styled to a T and drenched with gel to keep every strand in place. A pair of headphones hung around his neck, and he kept fiddling with the earbuds.

The final boy was the one that made my eyes pop. He had a familiar mop of wavy hair and a killer smile: the boy from Starbucks. I felt my face go red as I stared at him. He was talking with a fan as he signed a poster, and then he reached across the table to give her a hug. When she walked away, I could see the tears streaming down her face. My mind was on hyperdrive. I had been flirting with one of the boys from my sister’s favorite boy band? Someone famous?

The line moved forward, and I realized I would have to talk to him again. What would he do when he saw me? Would he remember? Of course he would, I told myself. We’d flirted for a good five minutes and he paid for my drink! But then again, he’d probably flirted with a million girls. My palms were sweaty, and I quickly wiped them on the back of my shirt.

I didn’t want him to remember me, I realized. I’d told him that I was in Chicago to see an art gallery, not to meet the Heartbreakers. When he saw me standing in front of him asking for an autograph, he would probably laugh and think I was just another crazy fan.

“They look like little kids,” Drew said, startling me from my thoughts. I tore my eyes from the boy.

“What?” I responded, my heart thumping.

“The band.” Drew looked at me funny. “You okay, Stella? You’re kinda pale.”

“What?” I said, forcing a laugh. “I’m totally fine. And yeah, you’re right—little boys.” My brother was still staring at me like he knew something wasn’t quite right, so I continued the joke. “I mean look at the scrawny guy on the left. Can’t be older than twelve.”

Drew looked up at the boy I’d met this morning and cracked a smile. “I don’t know, looks thirteen to me.”

The girl from before turned back around again, but this time she had a sneer on her face. “Oliver is eighteen. Stop making fun of him. It’s not nice.”

Oliver, I thought, churning the name over in my mind. Suddenly I knew why he had seemed so familiar. He was the guy from the magazine article Cara had been reading, the one that called him a heartbreaker.

“You’re kidding, right?” Drew responded, his mouth hanging slack.

She put a hand on her hip. “Does it look like I’m kidding?” When my brother didn’t answer, she continued. “The Heartbreakers are the most talented band ever, and Oliver is amazing. Keep your stupid thoughts to yourself.”

After a few moments of staring with his mouth open, Drew finally recovered and surprised me by apologizing to the girl. “Well, Mrs. Perry,” he started, looking down at her shirt. It read: Future Mrs. Oliver Perry. “I profusely apologize for insulting you. It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” she snapped and pointed at Oliver. “Apologize to him.”

“Next!” one of the bodyguards called. The girl spun around, and her sneer transformed into a smile that must have bordered on painful. I blinked in surprise. During the argument, I hadn’t noticed how close we had gotten to the front of the line. My empty stomach flipped over.

“Drew, I think you were right,” I told him, shoving my sister’s stuff into his arms. “I feel sick. I need to go to the bathroom.”

“No way, Stella.” My brother reached out and grabbed my shirt as I tried to run away. “You’re not getting out of this one. You can puke on the band for all I care, but I refuse to go up there by myself.”

I felt my arms start to shake, dread setting in. There was no way I could face Oliver. “But, Drew…” I whined.

He looked at me with hard eyes. “We are doing this for Cara.”

I bit my lip. Drew was right. My sister was a billion times more important than my pride. Sighing, I hung my head. The bratty girl and her group of friends moved away from the table, and I held my breath. Hopefully the lack of oxygen would calm my nerves.

Suddenly the band stood up and headed off the stage. “Wait, where are they going?” Drew demanded.

“Sorry,” a husky security guard answered. “The boys are done for today. They have to rest for their concert tomorrow.”

Forgetting my embarrassment, I snapped at the man. “We’ve been waiting in line for hours.”

“Yes, and so has everyone behind you,” he pointed out. “The boys can’t get to everyone. There are just too many fans. Better luck next time.”

“But I’m not here for me. This is for my sister’s birthday present. She—” But it didn’t matter what I had to say. The Heartbreakers were already gone.

Chapter 3

I was spread out on my bed in the hotel, staring up at the ceiling. It was sweltering in our room, and the heat was tiresome in a way that made it impossible to move. If I did, I could feel sweat drops trickling down my neck, and every time I took a breath, my skin stuck to the fabric of my shirt. I let my head roll to the side to look at my brother, who was on his own bed.

“Could it get any hotter?” I asked.

After a silent walk back to our hotel, Drew and I had been glad to finally check in and crash for the night. Our luck, however, was still in a downward spiral, and we ended up receiving a room with a broken air-conditioning unit. Lying on the bed, I couldn’t help but think that this trip hadn’t been worth it. It had been fun to see Bianca’s gallery, but at the moment, all I could think about was how frustrating the rest of the day had been. More than anything, I had wanted to see Cara’s eyes light up when we presented her with an autograph from the Heartbreakers, and now that wouldn’t happen.

My brother glanced up from the book in his hands. “Please don’t jinx it,” he said before returning to reading.

“We should find somewhere with air-conditioning. Wanna grab dinner?”

This time, Drew didn’t bother to look up from the page. “Maybe in a little bit,” he said. “I want to finish this chapter.”

For the past month, Drew had been consumed with completing his summer reading list. When summer was over, he was leaving to attend school in Minneapolis. Freshman registration wasn’t for another two weeks, but Drew wanted to major in English and had already picked a literature course he hoped to take. He was so excited about starting college that he’d decided to read the course material before the semester even began.

I turned away from my brother when my throat grew thick. Freshman year, before Cara was diagnosed, I’d set my heart on NYU. I’d decided that New York would the perfect place for me to discover who I was, independent of my siblings. At the start of senior year when Cara went into remission and I received my acceptance letter, things finally started to feel real. I was going to college.

By the time summer rolled around, I wasn’t so excited anymore. New York was calling out to me and I wanted to answer, but at the same time, the thought of leaving was terrifying. My mom told me the flutters I felt were normal. Leaving home for the first time was a big step, and it was good to be nervous. But what I felt inside my stomach didn’t feel like butterflies. It was more like killer bees.

Before I could make sense of anything, the cancer came back.

And just like that, the bees were gone. I knew I couldn’t leave while Cara was undergoing treatment, so I decided to defer for a semester. It was different for Drew. Minneapolis was only an hour and a half drive from Rochester, so he could come home on the weekends to visit Cara whenever he wanted. I would be states away, completely and utterly alone. I wasn’t bitter about having to put off school, but part of me wished I’d followed Drew’s example and applied to a university close to home.

A drop of sweat started to trickle down my forehead. “That’s it,” I said and sat up.

I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself. Yes, it was disappointing that I wasn’t going off to school like my brother, and yeah, I hadn’t been able to get the perfect birthday present for my sister, but there was no way I could deal with this discomfort any longer. Pulling my hair onto the top of my head in a bird’s-nest fashion, I decided to do something about our room.

“I’m going down to the front desk to complain. Don’t have a heatstroke while I’m gone.”

“You’re going down like that?” Drew questioned me.

I glanced in the mirror. Okay, so I looked like hell with my sweaty bangs plastered to the side of my face, but I was way past caring. “Yes, I am, so shut up. It’s not like I’m going to run into anyone important.”

“Just saying,” Drew said. His gaze dove back down to his book, and I watched for a moment as his eyes tore across the page. Suddenly he gasped at something unexpected. “No way,” he whispered to himself.

Rolling my eyes, I left my brother to his reading and headed out of the room.

***

“What do you mean, there are no more rooms left?” I complained to the concierge. He’d already informed me that the hotel maintenance man had left for the night, so no one could fix the AC.

“Sorry, miss, but everything is booked up.” The man’s eyes shifted around the lobby as he answered my question, almost as if he was expecting something bad to happen. I followed his gaze and noticed quite a few girls waiting around.

I placed both my hands flat on the counter. “Well, is there a manager I can talk to? I didn’t pay to melt to death.”

But the man wasn’t listening. His face went pale and he stared past me. “Oh crap…”

“Oh my God!” someone squealed. “They’re really here!”

The muscles in my shoulders went rigid, and I grabbed the edge of the counter with a grip tight enough to turn the tips of my fingers white. I’d heard a sufficient number of screaming girls for one day, and I sucked in a deep breath before turning around. Just as I was about to tell off whatever idiot had screamed, all of the girls lingering around the lobby rushed to the front doors.

“It’s the Heartbreakers!”

Four boys stepped into the lobby, bodyguards swarming around them on both sides. Outside, police were manning the door so a stampede wouldn’t rush into the hotel. I caught a glimpse of familiar wavy hair and my stomach dropped.

“You have got to be shitting me.”

This wasn’t seriously happening, was it? I mean, how was it even possible to run into the same celebrity so many times in one day? These kinds of things happened in movies, not real life.

“Ladies, ladies,” the concerned concierge called out. “Please give our guests some room.” His request went unnoticed.

“Xander, I love you!”

“Alec, marry me!”

“JJ, over here!”

“Oh my God, Oliver!”

The band paused to greet a few of their fans, and as I looked on, I decided that this would go down as one of my craziest days ever. Cara was never going to believe me when I told her. I continued to watch the Heartbreakers until Oliver glanced at the counter where I was standing. I quickly spun around before he spotted me.

I knew it was irrational, but I almost felt as if he’d lied to me by not telling me who he was. Or maybe I just felt stupid for not knowing. Either way, it would be awkward to talk to him again.

After a minute of negotiation with the desk clerk, I managed to get our room for free, but it wasn’t much of a comfort. Just thinking about spending a whole night feeling hot and sticky made me want to yank my hair out. But there was nothing else I could do, so I headed for the elevator.

“Stupid boy band,” I grumbled as I stepped inside and hit the button for the fifth floor. It was childish, but it helped to have someone to be angry with.

“Hold the door!” Glancing up, I spotted a bodyguard pointing at me. The Heartbreakers were being led across the lobby, their guards trying to hold back the growing group of girls. I jabbed the “door close” button multiple times, hoping I could escape, but no such luck. The group slipped into the elevator, the doors almost shutting on the last guy.

“Thanks so much,” the boy with glasses said. “That would have been a nightmare.”

“I didn’t know appreciating your fans was such a chore.” The words tumbled out of my mouth before my mind even registered what I had said.

Oliver’s head popped up at the sound of my voice. He stared at me for a moment before breaking out into a huge grin. “Stella!”

Heremembersme!My heart leaped, but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to respond, and I watched as the smile slipped off his face.

Nobody seemed to hear Oliver’s comment, and the boy with glasses readjusted his frames as he tried to get a better look at me. “Say what?” he asked.

“What do you mean, not appreciating our fans?” The boy with the big muscles crossed his arms in an intimidating sort of way, and the tattoo around his bicep stretched. “We had an autograph signing today.”

“Yeah, I know that,” I snapped. “I waited for three hours only to get right to the front of the line and watch you all leave.”

“Oh, an unhappy fan?” he asked. His expression did a one-eighty as a grin spread across his face.

“We can definitely fix that,” Glasses Boy added. He pulled a Sharpie out of his pocket. “Do you have a camera?”

I let out an unattractive snort. “You think I’m a fan?” Pausing, I shot him a glare. “Not a chance in the world.”

The boys glanced at each other, not sure how to respond. “I think she might be crazy,” Muscles whispered to the boy with the perfect hair, who still had a pair of headphones draped around his neck. He had yet to speak, and he only gave his friend a quick nod of agreement.

“The only thing that’s crazy is that people actually listen to your music.” I could feel my pulse fluttering with each word I spoke. “I was at the signing today—which was torture, considering I was forced to listen to same CD until my ears bled—for one reason only: to get my sister an autograph. And if she weren’t my sister, I’d probably disown her for listening to crap.”

The band stared at me, mouths gaping.

“Anything else?” Glasses asked.

“Yeah,” I added with one final burst of irritation. “You guys suck.”

The elevator stopped and the door slid open.

“I think I kind of like this girl. She’s got sass,” Muscles said with a smirk. “Can we keep her?”

“Screw off,” I told him, and then, without looking at Oliver, I shoved past the Heartbreakers onto the fifth floor.

***

“Why do you look like someone just killed our dog?” Drew asked as I stormed into the room.

“Hotel’s completely booked,” I said, slamming the door behind me. “All I got was a refund.”

“Hey!” Drew said, holding his hand out for a high five. “That’s awesome.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that it’s still stifling in here,” I complained, ignoring his waiting hand. I pulled a clean set of clothes out of my backpack and stepped into the bathroom. “I’m taking a shower.”

Locking the door behind me, I stripped off my dirty clothes. My whole body felt like it was on fire, and a sick feeling was gathering inside my chest. I shouldn’t have yelled at them like that, I thought as I turned on the water. It wasn’t the Heartbreakers’ fault that my day sucked. Without waiting for the water to warm up, I stepped into the cold blast and closed my eyes. I stood there, hand against the tile for support, and held my breath as I waited to feel better. But the frigid water only numbed my body. It didn’t do anything to ease my guilt.

Oliver probably hates you now. The incident in the elevator kept flickering through my head, replaying the moment when Oliver’s smile fell. I was a jerk and he would never want to see me again. A bitter tang overwhelmed my mouth, and for a brief moment, I felt ill.

Whattheheckiswrongwithyou, Stella?I shouted at myself. Getagrip.Grabbing the bar of soap, I scrubbed myself with enough vigor to remove a layer of skin. There was no reason for me to be upset that Oliver Perry didn’t like me. Sure, he was cute, but I didn’t know him at all. From what I’d seen of Cara’s magazine article, Oliver was a total player, not someone I’d want to get involved with.

Drew knocked on the door, interrupting my thoughts. “Stella, I ordered room service,” he called over the noise of the shower. “Is pizza okay?”

“Sure,” I answered and turned off the water. I didn’t feel completely better—I was still embarrassed that I had blamed the band for my bad luck—but I refused to be upset over a boy I’d never see again.

After drying off, I pulled on a pair of shorts and a camisole before heading out to the main room. As we waited for our food, I turned on CSI and braided my hair. During a particularly bloody scene, there was a knock on the door and I jumped up, happy for an excuse to avoid the gore.

“Thanks so much,” I said, pulling the door open. “We’re starve…” I trailed off. In the hall stood Oliver Perry.

“Stella,” he said. His tone was curt.

I was staring like an idiot again, but I couldn’t help it. What was he doing here?

Then I noticed his pursed lips. He looked pissed, and I realized that he probably wanted an apology. The thought made my cheeks turn pink, but I knew he deserved it. I had been pretty harsh.

I opened my mouth to apologize but choked on the words. Something entirely different came out. “How’d you get my roomnumber?”

“Um, I gave the front desk your name,” he said. My question obviously caught him off guard, but Oliver quickly recovered and narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you bipolar or something?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Well, this morning I met a girl at Starbucks,” he explained. “She was completely sweet and adorable, but she seems to be MIA at the moment.”

Oh right. He wanted an explanation for my mood swing. “You should have told me the truth,” I responded, trying to defendmyself.

“About what exactly?” he asked, his chin jutting forward as he spoke. He sounded irritated, but there was something about his eyes that made me think he was more hurt than anything. My throat was thickening, and I couldn’t bring myself to apologize. That would be too humiliating.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” I said, splaying my hand across my chest, trying to hide my guilt with sarcasm. It wouldn’t help fix anything, but words were flying out of my mouth again, just like they had in the elevator. “You could have mentioned who you are.”

“Are you saying that you really didn’t recognize me?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Yes, I am,” I said. Oliver shot me a disbelieving look, so I added, “Look, I’ve heard my sister talk about Oliver Perry a million times, but I didn’t realize that was you when we met.”

He stared at me, brows raised, as if I had just offered the answer to my own question. “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you.”

His response made me blink. “Okay, well, I guess I understand,” I said, even though I didn’t. Why wouldn’t he want me to know who he was? “Now I know who you are. Thanks for stopping by.” I started to shut the door.

“Hey, wait!” Oliver stuck his foot out to stop me.

“Is that the food?” Drew called out. The bed squeaked as he got up to see what was going on.

“Hey,” Oliver said, poking his head into the room to greet my brother.

“Ah, hi.” Drew scratched the back of his head. “Don’t I know you?” After staring at Oliver for a second longer, I watched the realization wash over his face. “You’re that guy from the band. Stella, what are you doing? Let him in!”

Closing my eyes, I let a sigh hiss out of my mouth. When I released my grasp on the doorknob, Oliver stepped in beside me. His arm brushed against mine just like this morning, and the contact made me suck in a sharp breath. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as everyone stared at each other.

Finally my brother spoke up. “So no offense or anything, but what exactly are you doing here? Wrong room number or something?”

“No,” Oliver said. He glanced at me before continuing. “I came to talk to your…girlfriend?”

“Sister,” Drew corrected and shot me a curious look.

I watched for Oliver’s reaction, but his face stayed composed. “Right, sister. Anyway, she mentioned in the elevator that you guys wanted an autograph so I thought—”

Before Oliver could finish his sentence, Drew cut him off. “Wait, you two met in the elevator?”

Dang it. Now I would have to explain everything. If Drew found out from Oliver that we actually met while I was getting coffee, he’d be beyond ticked. “Actually,” I began, already regretting my words. “It was this morning.”

Drew still looked lost, so Oliver clarified. “At Starbucks.”

“Wait, so we stood in line all day for an autograph when you had already met him?” Drew asked, gaping at us like we were insane.

I threw my hands up in the air. “I’m not Cara, Drew. I don’t have posters of the Heartbreakers hanging on my wall. I didn’t realize it was him. If I’m going to listen to a band, I’ll listen to a good one like the Sensible Grenade or Bionic Bones.”

Okay, so Cara was right about the weird underground music stuff—of course, that didn’t make her ignorance of punk-rock legends excusable—but the bands I listened to were much more talented than the Heartbreakers.

Oliver cleared his throat. “Um, okay. Low blow.”

My brother looked like he was going to explode, but he took a deep breath, put a hand on my shoulder, and turned to Oliver. “Could you excuse us for a moment? I need to talk to my sister.”

“Sure,” Oliver said as he shrugged his shoulders. “I just came to invite you up to our room.” He handed me a spare room card. “Just give this to the man in the elevator. He’ll let you up.”

When the door shut and Oliver was gone, Drew spun around to face me. “What the heck is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Why did you keep insulting him?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, unable to meet his gaze. “I didn’t mean to, but he was getting on my nerves.” Well, that was somewhat true. Oliver didn’t do anything that was irritating, but the sudden feelings I was experiencing around him were. He made me giddy in a school-crush sort of way, and that was mortifying.

Drew’s mouth formed a thin, straight line. “We drove down here for Cara. Not you, not me, but our sister.” Ashamed, I looked away from his intense glare. “Rocket…” he said, lifting my chin to face him.

It was Drew’s nickname for me, short for “bottle rocket.” He said it was because when I got agitated, my temper flared without warning, but the explosion was never very large, and my anger fizzled as quickly as it had been ignited. Whenever I got worked up, he used the nickname as a gentle reminder for me to cool down.

“Okay, okay!” I said, twisting away from him. He was right—I had gone all Fourth of July on Oliver and wasn’t thinking clearly. “What do you want me to do?”

“Apologize,” Drew said sternly.

“I’m super sorry?”

“Nice try, Stella. We’re going up there to get an autograph, and you are going to apologize to Oliver.”

Just the mention of his name made butterflies pulse through my stomach. I was going to have to talk to Oliver Perry. Again.

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