Page 11 of Before Now

With the memory tightening around my throat, I slowly bring my phone around to his face, closing the app as I do. Light flares over his face, and my eyes lock with his.

Adams North is staring back at me. Only now I know without a doubt it’s Foster too.

Then it all slips into place—how the voice on the radio made me want to close my eyes and fall, and I could feel it deeper than I should. Because I’d already fallen. It had already been buried as far down as I could get it.

Foster licks his lips, his eyes lowering to my mouth for a second before they return to mine. “Come on,” he says smoothly. “If anyone could figure it out, it should have been you. FosterWest. AdamsNorth. Who do you think inspired me?”

If it felt unreal before, now it’s so real it hurts.

My eyes burn, and I shake my head, but before I can even come close to forming a coherent sentence, Foster straightens.

He smirks, and the last parts of me that were still warm with him touching them cool as he backs away. “You’re hired, by the way.” He turns, walking toward the door. “See you on tour.”

I stare after him even after he disappears around the corner. The lights blink on as the hinges creak, and then the latch clicks and he’s gone. I close my eyes, gasping for air as everything pours in at once.

Everything.

Every second since my phone buzzed with his last message. Every moment I’ve tried to forget. It all surfaces no matter how much I try to push it down.

Foster West just tore out of the ground—back from the dead. And he unearthed the rest of what I’d buried with him on his way out.

4

REMI

Before…

I pauseoutside the front door, my hand on the knob but not turning. The house looks like every other home on the block: the red-brown brick, white columns, perfectly manicured yard. It’s the exact shot you’d show at the start of a movie—letting the audience soak in the picturesque view. That way, when they see something not quite right happen on the other side of the brass-knobbed door, they easily dismiss it so you can shock them later.

Misdirection. Show them something beautiful to obscure the ugliness of reality.

Rather than go inside, I retreat down the steps. I follow the little stone path to the side of the house, and in under a minute, I’ve scaled the decorative trellis to my bedroom window. It easily slides open, and I crawl in, successfully avoiding the rest of the step-house.

I toss my bag by the bed and fall backward onto my mattress.

Unlike the outside, my room is full of reality. My teenage angst has bathed the walls in red, black words scribbled over the paint. Mostly they’re notes from Sage, telling me she loves me and claiming me as her best friend in case any competition might wander in. The rest are words that felt too significant to forget. Quotes I’ve read or realizations I’ve made about life. All the wisdom I hold after eighteen years of existence.

Important shit.

Speaking of the best friend, I reach for the top hem of my school uniform skirt. Navy and green plaid. Another faux reality.

I slide out my buzzing phone and read the three messages, spaced less than thirty seconds apart.

Sage

Are you home? I know you get out early on Fridays.

Bitch?

If you’re off blowing a football player, I’ll be so pissed/proud.

A perfect representation of our friendship in a triple text.

I blow out a breath as I stare up at the coffered ceiling, counting down from ten, and like clockwork—or an overly aggressive teenage girl—my phone starts vibrating.

“You’re certifiable,” I answer, putting her on speaker.

Sage doesn’t miss a beat. “And you’re a prep school slut.” Then she immediately adds, “Unless you’re just in your room on the bed. Then you’re a substantial disappointment.”

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