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Chapter One

I didn't have my first kiss until I was 15. Some people will tell you that that's a young age—normal, even. But it didn't feel that way to me. It was something I'd wanted for years, so desperately that sometimes I wondered if it would ever happen at all. But then it did happen, and I found myself feeling so incredibly stupid for wasting my entire early teens longing for it. It wasn't a bad kiss, necessarily, but it was everything that it stood for.

Rhys Bateman had asked me out a month after my 15th birthday. I'd been crushing on him like mad for as long as I could remember. He had these bright blue eyes that looked like they could see straight through me, right to my quickly beating heart. And his hair was a mess of tousled blonde curls that seemed so soft I had to resist the urge to run my hands through them every time I saw him. He'd marched up to me, asked me out with a twinkle in his eye, and then kissed me.

And then two months later he broke my heart.

...

Pain.

That's the first thing I feel. A sharpness of breath. A stiffness in my legs. An ache in my arms.

My eyes flicker open. Blurry, before sharpening into clarity. The ceiling tiles in my bedroom are different somehow. Different than I remember.

Blink.

But that's not my ceiling. There's no water stain in the corner of the room from the wicked hail storm we got two years ago, that my father insists he'll eventually replace. The ceiling here is white and smooth, not speckled and bumpy.

I turn my head and suck in a breath as pain radiates throughout me, shooting from my neck down to my feet. Everything in my body feels stiff and unused. The two windows on the right side of the room have their curtains drawn, allowing light to cascade through the room. It lights up the television across from me, the cacophony of machines to my left, and the sleeping body of my mother to my right.

My eyes flash back to the television. It's muted, but the news is on. I spot a familiar face—Nick Oswald. He's the local reporter that I've grown up watching. Everything about him is familiar. His pale, wide face, dark brown hair, and eyes that seem caring and distant all in one. I think that's what makes him so relatable, so likable, as a reporter. A remote is laying discarded on my covers. I grab it and turn on the volume, vaguely aware of the pinching feeling of the IV in my arm. A picture suddenly pops up behind him as he shuffles the papers in his hand.

"And now we'll discuss a story that has rocked Linden County this past week. Two days ago, two 17-year-old seniors from Glen Ridge are believed to have fallen into the Willow Creek off of Highway 29."

His words sound fuzzy to my ears as I focus on the photo behind him of two girls clutching each other, laughing as they look towards the camera. That picture was taken in July at Nellie's parents' barbeque. They invited me and for the first time in my life it felt like I was a part of an actual family that loved me. I felt whole. Nellie's arm was slung around my shoulder and I remember the scent of her strawberry shampoo that overpowered my senses.

Now, all I feel is a hole in my chest. Why is our picture on the news? How did they get it? What's going on?

"Merritt Blake, daughter of Virginia Congressional candidate Myron Blake was recovered from the waters and now remains in serious but stable condition at St. John's Hospital. It is believed that Nellie Winters was with Blake at the time. She is described as a 5 foot 6 African American female, with brown hair and dark brown eyes. Anyone with any information is urged to come forward. Search efforts have been in place both on land and in the water near the river, and will continue on through the rest of the week. We will keep you updated. Now, here's Perry with the weather."