Twelve months later…

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Life in a dorm isn’t half as dramatic as the sitcoms on TV make it seem. Not even when you’re the girl with the crazy, famous uncle who offed his wife and drowned in the ocean. The only downside is the fact that your mail gets left in the hallway, for anyone to find.

There’s no return address on the brown package. Just a sticker for a publishing company. Inside it is a glossy novel with a cherry-red cover. I start to throw it away—I bet someone sent it as a joke. The title sure sounds like one: A Million Crossed Lines.

It’s only when the light plays off the cover that something makes me stop. A memory, I think, of a fancy sports car in the same brilliant shade.

My heart constricts even before I flip the book open. I jump as something surprisingly heavy falls from the pages and hits the floor. Shiny. Metal. A key? Frowning, I stoop for it while brushing my eyes along the book’s opening line.

“You’re a liar,” he told me. “No one will believe it, even if I cross the line. You’re a liar.”

My words.

It’s my story, cleverly woven into a simple plot by someone more gifted at storytelling than I could ever hope to be. Once upon a time, there was a man who loved someone he wasn’t supposed to. Even if it was wrong. Even if it made them both cross a million glaring red lines.

Even if it doomed them both in the end.

I’m numb when I finally finish and frantically turn to the very front page. Unsurprisingly, the author—while anonymous—penned a dedication consisting of two simple lines.

To the girl with the golden curls: I’m sorry.

To the woman with the sun-kissed hair: If you can forgive me, come find me.