Page 66 of Five Stolen Rings

“Little icicle,” he mutters. “Don’t you have to be smart to be an architect?”

“Just about as smart as a doctor who broke into someone’s house,” I say, pushing him away. “Friends don’t touch each other like this.”

For a second he just glares at me, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Fine,” he finally says. Then he turns around and disappears down the hallway by the kitchen—the hallway I now know leads to his bedroom. He returns one minute later holding a hoodie.

“Here,” he says, tossing it to me.

I slip it over my head gratefully. It falls to my mid-thighs, just covering my pajama shorts; Jack stares for a second, a muscle jumping in his jaw, before he shakes his head.

“Nope,” he says under his breath as he eyes my bare legs. “No good.” He storms back down the hall and comes back once again, this time throwing a pair of sweats at me.

I’m not going to complain. I pull them on and tie them tight.

These clothes smell like him, spearmint and something sharp; it’s a smell that’s always felt like home to me. I pull up the neck of the sweatshirt and inhale deeply. Then I let go and nod.

“All right,” I begin, but I fall silent at the look on Jack’s face. It’s a soft expression, one he rarely displays—a private little smile, eyes full of humor, like he’s enjoying a joke only he understands.

It’s the same expression he wore when he told me I was delightful after I removed myself from his stupid bedroomwindow, and it does things to the butterflies in my chest. They flutter madly, swoop and dive and soar?—

And Ilikehim. I really, genuinely like this man. I think I could even love him, in time.

So I inhale deeply and then speak. “You are not looking at me like a friend looks at another friend,” I say, dropping the words into the space between us.

That soft expression vanishes, replaced by a furrow in his brow. “I know,” he says, his voice musing, unsettled, as he eyes me. He folds his arms, still taking me in, and he almost seems to be thinking out loud as he goes on, “I can’t quite seem to help it.”

“Try harder,” I say. I fold my arms too, leaning back against the front door. “Or admit that while we might not be lovers, we’re not just friends, either.” I raise one brow at him, challenging. “Am I wrong? Are your feelings for me purely platonic?”

His shoulders fall, and he runs one hand down his face. “No,” he says, exhaling the word. “They’re not.”

I let my gaze flit over him—the sag of his body, the circles under his eyes. Rather than pressing the issue, I change the subject. It’s enough for now that he’s acknowledged this truth. “You look tired,” I say softly.

He huffs a laugh and runs one hand through his hair. “I’m always tired, Princess.”

My answering nod is slow. Then I tilt my head. “Tell me what happened.”

His eyes jump to mine, and I know that he understands—that while to anyone else this might appear out of the blue, it’s not at all. He senses, like I do, that we’ve reached a rare moment when the time is right for this conversation. We’re alone, we’re quiet, we’re stripped down to our deepest selves.We’re not flirting or joking or bantering or arguing. We’re simply two people who used to be close, existing in the same place at the same time.

“Tell me,” I say again, straightening up now. I force the words out even though I know the answer will hurt. “I know I said something or did something, so tell me. Tell me where we went wrong back then.”

JACK || SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

I’m too old to be hanging out in a treehouse.

Not only am I too old, I’m too big. I have to make myself physically smaller to get through the entrance, and I sneeze at all the dust that puffs up when I shuffle my way in on my hands and knees.

There’s something eerie about the air in here; it gives off the feeling of having been stagnant for years, and I swear I could see shadows of my younger self if I looked closely enough.

I can’t believe both Stella and I used to fit up here together. I can’t even stretch my legs out all the way while sitting with my back against the wall. This felt like the best place, though.

Because Stella’s birthday is soon, and I actually have a present for her. We came here when we were kids and promised to be friends forever over a failed blood pact. I have something better for her now—a friendship bracelet.

It’s probably stupid, and I’ll never tell anyone but her that I sat down and learned how to braid so I could give her something. But I like the idea of her wearing my bracelet; I like being connected to her. And I figure since this was where we promised to be best friends when we were little, this should be the place we promise now.

I just needed to check what it was like up here first—make sure there aren’t any spiders or squirrels or anything—but it looks good enough for our use.

I half-scoot, half-crawl to the opening that leads to the ladder, but I pause with one foot out when I hear Stella’s voice. It’s distant enough that I can tell she’s just passing by—the treehouse is in my backyard, but my house is on a corner—and I’m about to call out to her when I hear another voice, one I don’t recognize.

My mouth snaps shut as I frown, listening. It’s another girl, probably one of her new friends?—

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