“It’s not a fucking list.”

“Well it’s not exactly a song either, Pink.”

Suppressing the urge to kick the door when he leaves, I decide to go cool down and take a bath.

“I hate you,” I mumble, just to get it out of my system as I undress.

But the worst part of it all is that I’m starting to wonder whether I truly mean it.

♥ ♥ ♥

AFTER A BATH, I’m calmer when I drop on the bed. The covers are rumpled. The room smells a little bit like him. I let him . . . hold me? Why’d I go and do that? I felt him slip in behind me. I felt the mattress give in to his weight and then I felt all his warm muscles surrounding me. I pretended not to notice because I didn’t want him to go.

I groan and bury my face in my hands.

God. What have I done?

I’m not letting him get through my walls—protective layers it took me years to mend. But I’m wandering right into the most painful moments of my life, and I already feel a little bit too rumpled. Like the bed he slept in with me. The rumpled feelings crawl their way into my chest, and I try to perk up and think of the future Magnolia can have with all the money.

I sit down and check the clock, then mentally go through Magnolia’s schedule. Since it’s summer, she must be home.

I dial from my cell, and all my pain and confusion ease when I hear her little voice answer.

“I miss you, Panny, I have thirty-eight things we’re going to do when you get back!” she proclaims.

“Wow, you’re going to keep me busy, huh?”

“Yessss! Guess which is number thirty-three?”

“Hmmm. Let’s see now . . .” I pretend to think until I hear her practically panting. “We’re going to lay around in pajamas all day and play board games.”

“No! We’re going to make a lemonade stand and sell orange juice.”

“What? Whoa, wait. You can’t sell orange juice at a lemonade stand—it needs to be an orange juice stand.”

“Yes you can! Why not?”

I’m so exhausted by last night, I can’t even think right this morning. So I backpedal. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s break the rules. Everyone who sells lemonade at a lemonade stand has no creativity like we do.”

“And we’re gonna add water so we get more orange juice to sell.”

“What? No, oooh no no. I’m drawing the line there, Mags. We are not watering down the orange juice. That’s for complete delinquents.”

“Delinquents! I wanna be a delinquent with you!” she squeals, and I grin like a dope and stare at my bracelet as she starts telling me about what she’s done. The bracelet has little gem charms, colorful and rugged in texture. They’re supposed to protect all my loved ones from wrong. I don’t ever wake up in the mornings without rubbing it.

I don’t like that Mackenna made me forget until now. So I brush my thumb over the rocks, letting that simple movement ease me like Magnolia does.

Little did I know I’d especially need as much calm as I could muster this morning.

♥ ♥ ♥

SO, THERE’S BAD news. Not surprising. I expected this trip to be a disaster from start to end, so I shouldn’t be in full panic mode. I already woke up with Mackenna in my bed, so now? Now, the interstate highway is closed due to construction, and the ever-efficient Lionel has chartered a plane to fly us all to the next location. But then again, that isn’t just bad news.

That is a disaster.

I am not a tactile person, but I desperately need to hold someone’s hand when I fly—desperate as in I’m-afraid-I’m-going-to-yank-off-an-armrest-or-something-now-that-Melanie-Brooke-Kyle-my-mother-or-Magnolia-aren’t-here.

But . . . sigh . . . I’ve got meds, right?

And meds make the world go round, so . . .

And at least I wasn’t forced to ride alone with Mackenna to the airport. I took the same coach as the dancers, and Lionel didn’t have time to protest before we were on our way. True, they all gave me enough evil eyes to give me a lifetime of bad luck—but it’s not like I’ve enjoyed much great luck in the first place, so I might not even notice the difference.

Once we shuffle into the airport, the Viking twins keep staring at me. Their expressions are curious more than antagonistic, and I briefly wonder what Mackenna has told them about me.

This girl not only throws a good tomato, but I popped her cherry when she was seventeen too . . .

“Hey,” one finally says.

“Hey,” the other follows.

They’re both smirking now, big and blond, and worst of all is that, like Mackenna, they reportedly have brains too. From the clothes they wear, to the carefully calculated appearances for the paparazzi, Crack Bikini is a meticulously plotted piece of merchandise. Mackenna’s wigs, the Vikings’ chains, tats, and nipple rings are all part of “the look,” though today, Mackenna wears a black T-shirt and jeans and a cap on his buzz cut, plus aviators. The twins are dressing the part of rockstars to a T. Chains hang around Jax’s neck, while Lex wears a spiked choker.

“ID?” Lionel asks, and I hand it over as he checks me in.

Mackenna joins his two boys and the guys stare in my direction. All three of them.

I hate how his energy pulls on mine. He’s the only person in this world I can actually feel spiking my adrenaline. He has a way of making me feel supercharged—as if my own body pumps extra hormones when he’s near.