CHAPTER

1

There’s no sound more recognizable than bacon sizzling in a pan. That staticky crackle. The pop and hiss. It’s a delicious symphony.

There’s a loud crack and I’m suddenly dodging flying molten droplets of oil.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move that fast, Jules,” Natalie says, laughing.

I point my tongs at her while I creep closer to the stove to turn the heat down. “That sounds like someone who doesn’t want her spaghetti carbonara,” I say.

I glance over my shoulder at Carter. He’s laughing too.

“You want pasta?” I ask him, wielding the tongs again. He nods. “Then stop laughing.”

His smile slips for a second, but then he wraps his arms around my waist.

“I would,” he says, pulling back to look at me, “but you love feeding us too much to follow through on that threat.”

I refuse to back down, even if he’s right. I twist in his grip, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you so strong?” I say as I slap my free hand against his forearms. But my smile gives me away.

Carter blows a raspberry against my neck. “That’s just one of the things you love about me,” he says.

I freeze. We haven’t said the L-word yet. But he’s right. I do love him. I just don’t want to say it for the first time with Nat here.

I glance up at her. She’s looking at her phone, trying to ignore us. I don’t want to make it awkward, so I kiss Carter quickly, and this time he loosens his grip so I can step away. Then I turn my back on them both and give the bacon a stir. The pasta water is boiling now, so I slowly lower in the spaghetti that Nat and I spent the afternoon making. There’s still flour in her dark hair.

Nat’s dad sticks his head through the kitchen door while I’m stirring. “You almost done? The smell of bacon is wafting down the hallway and I’m drooling so much, I almost shorted out my keyboard.”

“Ten minutes,” I say. “Have you met Carter?”

Carter puts his hand out for Nick to shake. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Nagler,” he says.

Carter hasn’t even met my parents yet, but it’s way less intimidating to meet Nat’s dad. Partly because unlike my mom, Nick doesn’t write a monthly parenting column in one of the largest newspapers in the country detailing my biggest flaws and struggles. He doesn’t have a blog that’s essentially a diary of my entire childhood and that tells the world about how difficult I was to raise. And he doesn’t have an Instagram account with half a million followers where he shares every intimate detail of his life with people who dissect and comment on every post.

At least my mom doesn’t post pictures of me anymore, but it took a scandal to make that happen.

Once the pasta is ready, Nat’s sister, Cordelia, and her dad join us at the kitchen table to eat. It is their house, after all—I just cook here. That’s sort of our deal. We all get something out of it: the Nagler family gets a meal and I get to cook without my mom telling me how carbohydrates are like glue and that’s why I haven’t lost any weight. She doesn’t seem to understand that I haven’t actually tried to lose weight; I’ve only tried to eat more carbohydrates.

“Jules, this is incredible,” Carter says after his first bite. The rest of the table agrees. And I can’t argue. Spaghetti carbonara is hard to beat. But I just shrug and duck my head to stick another forkful in my mouth.

“Don’t expect her to say ‘thanks’ to a compliment,” Nat says. “But if you want to criticize her, she’ll get out her phone and take notes.”

I don’t like the way Carter keeps laughing with Nat at my expense. I poke him in the ribs.

“Don’t you dare,” I say.

He squeezes my knee under the table. “What could I possibly criticize?” he says.

My cheeks get hot as I glance across the table at Nat. Her smile is forced. I know her well enough to recognize it.

“Wait until you try her chicken Provençal,” Nick says, doing a chef’s kiss.

“What’s that?” Carter asks.

“It’s this incredible dish with olives and tomatoes and white wine,” Nick answers. “And Jules makes the best version I’ve ever tasted.”

Nick and I share a love of olives, and really all things salty. He’s my most appreciative audience. Which is good since I’m usually making a mess in his kitchen.

“I’m not a big fan of olives,” Carter says.

There is a beat of uncomfortable silence as the Naglers exchange worried glances.

“Guys, it’s okay if he doesn’t like olives,” I say. And I mean it. I think our relationship will survive.

Nick gives me a gentle smile and says, “Of course it is.”

Carter looks more curious than nervous, but I pat his arm reassuringly. “I can forgive this one flaw.”

He smiles and the dimple in his cheek makes me melt a little.

“So how did you guys meet?” Cordie asks me and Carter, changing the subject.

He and I look at each other, and I don’t say anything. I want him to tell the story because I’ve never heard it from his point of view.

He clears his throat, then says, “We have Spanish together.”

I raise my eyebrows when he doesn’t elaborate. “That’s it?”

Nat’s smile is real this time, but she rolls her eyes in sympathy.

“What?” Carter says. He seems genuinely mystified.

The first time I saw Carter, I didn’t notice his muscles or the soccer ball stuffed into his bag. I saw his hazel eyes behind his glasses, and the adorable curl to his dark blond hair, and the dimple in his cheek when he smiled at me. And then he stood and I saw that he was taller than me. I basically swooned.

But I can’t tell him that.

“You’re such a boy,” I say with a sigh. Then I turn to Cordie. “Carter and his family moved here over the summer, so Spanish class was the first time we ever saw each other. He didn’t talk to me for like a month, and then it was only because Señora paired us up to do a conversation exercise.”

Carter gives me a smile that makes my stomach flip. “Yeah, but I’d been waiting for that opportunity to talk to you. And you didn’t talk to me either.”

That’s because there are like five other girls in that class who are ten times prettier and skinnier than me who had no problem talking to him. I didn’t think I could compete. I didn’t think he’d be interested in me. But I don’t say that either.

“Well, I won him over with my knowledge of Spanish curse words,” I say, brushing imaginary dust off my shoulder.

Carter snorts. “You did not! You said you’d write out our conversation, and when I read my response, Señora almost had a heart attack.”

Nat, Nick, and Cordie burst out laughing. I can’t help joining in when Carter’s cheeks flush and his ears turn red.

“Jules! What did you make him say?” Cordie asks.

“Well, I asked him, ‘What do you like to eat for dinner?’ ” I pause for effect. “And he said, ‘Shit sandwiches and penis salad.’ ”

Everyone starts laughing, including Carter. He wasn’t even mad back then, even though he got detention for it. I waited for him in the hall until detention was over and, after he threatened to give me a shit sandwich, he asked if I’d ever seen Office Space. When I said I hadn’t, he asked me to come over and watch it with him that weekend.

We’ve been together ever since.

After dinner, Cordie retreats to her room and Nick goes to watch TV in the living room, so Carter, Nat, and I take over the kitchen again. Carter volunteers to do the dishes. For some reason, the dishwasher is across the room instead of next to the sink, so he and Nat work together to pass the dishes across the kitchen. He rinses, she loads. Because I cooked, I get to just sit and watch.

“So how did you and Nat meet?” he asks me. His dark-framed glasses are sliding down his nose. He pushes them up with a muscular forearm.

Nat raises her eyebrows. “Have you really not heard this story yet?”

I shake my head. “Carter doesn’t know about my past as a field hockey player.”

The plate in Carter’s hand slips into the sink with a crash that sets my teeth on edge. He checks to make sure nothing is broken before he turns to look at me.

“You played field hockey?” he says. His eyes are wide with surprise. “But you hate anything that even resembles a sport!”

I can’t blame him for being shocked. It’s even hard for me to believe.

So I nod. “It was a dark time.”

“But it resulted in meeting me, so it had its benefits,” Nat says.

I roll my eyes. She’s actually good at field hockey. Good enough to make varsity as a sophomore last year.

Carter turns his gaze back to the water, but I can tell he’s listening. He just knows that I’m better at talking when I don’t have to look anyone in the eye.

“So when I was twelve, the summer before eighth grade, my mom decided I needed to take up a sport so that I might get good enough to play in high school,” I explain.

I give Carter credit for keeping a straight face. Because the idea of me being even average at a sport is laughable.

“It was mostly an attempt to get me to exercise, but no matter how hard I pushed back, she wouldn’t give it up.” I sigh. The sting of her total inability to understand who I am still feels fresh. “I finally agreed to go to field hockey camp if she would also let me take some pastry-making classes.”

Nat cackles. “That’s still my favorite part of this story.”

“Maybe she thought that once I fell in love with field hockey, I’d lose interest in cooking and baking?” I shrug. My mom is always wildly optimistic when it comes to her dream of turning me into a completely different person. It might be cute if it didn’t make me question the necessity of my existence. “Either way, I learned how to make an incredible sfogliatella. And éclairs, and tarts, and so many other things.”

That was a good summer. At first.

Nat clears her throat. “You’re getting off track. You were telling Carter how we met.”

Oh, right.

“I chose field hockey camp,” I continue, “mostly because I felt better about my chances if I was hitting a ball with a stick rather than trying to throw it or kick it.” I slump a little in my seat. “I should have realized that I would also be running and that’s not really my strength.”

“You also had no idea how to actually play field hockey though,” Nat points out.

I grimace. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“Which is where I come in,” Nat says.

“So I get to camp on the first day, and there are a few girls from my class there, but there are also a bunch of people I don’t know. And I’m excited because I’m thinking, ‘Hey! Maybe not everyone here knows me and my whole life story!’ ”

I feel Carter’s gaze on my face, but I don’t look at him.

“And they didn’t,” Nat says. “At least not at first.”

My jaw aches when I clench my teeth together. I wake up to that ache every morning.

“But as I was checking in, I said my name to the woman at the registration desk, and when she looked up at me, I knew instantly that she was a fan. Then she realized my mom was standing there with me and she literally screamed.”

“Everyone turned to look,” Nat says. “And then a whole line formed so that Britt could take selfies with all the other moms. Jules looked like she wanted to disappear. So I pulled her out a side door and down the stairs to the teachers’ lounge where the snack machines were.”

“She bought me Reese’s Pieces, which instantly won my heart,” I add. “And then she taught me the rules of field hockey so I wouldn’t feel so lost. But she didn’t ask about my mom once.”

Nat just smiles as she dries her hands on a dish towel, then sits on the stool next to me at the counter.

“I didn’t have to. I knew who Jules was,” Nat says with a sympathetic glance in my direction. “And everyone else was going to learn soon anyway. She was one of the most well-known kids on Instagram.”

I try to look smug instead of annoyed. “Not every kid gets the new American Girl doll the day it comes out.”

Nat snorts. “At the cost of merely exploiting every moment of your life.”

“A tiny price to pay for global fame, right?” I say. We’ve clearly had this conversation a few times.

Carter knows about the issues I have with my mom. He knows about my mom’s Instagram notoriety, of course, and about the blog and the parenting column, both of which she still writes. But he doesn’t know much of the background. When we first started dating, I asked him not to Google me, and so far, he says he’s been true to his word that he wouldn’t.

“Do you know why Britt doesn’t post pictures of Jules anymore?” Nat says.

Carter shakes his head.

She glances at me to see if I want to tell this story, but we both know that I don’t. I nod at her so she knows she can tell it.

“Well, it was that same summer, but it was after camp, and Britt was invited to a five-star resort outside of Austin,” Nat begins. “She decided to make a family vacation out of it, but mostly spent the week posting photos and videos.”

I haven’t looked at the pictures in years, but I remember them. Among all the selfies Mom posted was a photo of me next to a campfire with a cotton candy sunset behind me. There was also one of her, me, and Dad riding horseback. The photo she took of me with my forehead pressed against a horse’s nose ran alongside Mom’s review of the resort in Texan Traveler magazine.

“And then she posted one of Jules in her bathing suit,” Nat says ominously.

“You don’t know this about me,” I say, “but I used to love to swim.”

“Used to?” Carter asks.

“Well, once your mom has shown the world a picture that outlines every single part of your body, it’s hard to ever want to get into a bathing suit again.”

Carter’s eyes have widened. His eyebrows are raised above the frames of his glasses.

“She was jumping into the resort pool,” Natalie explains. “You know the jackknife pose, where you have one leg tucked against your chest and the other pointed toward the water?”

Carter nods.

“I grew a couple inches that summer,” I say, defending myself. “And I didn’t know my bathing suit was that tight.” It was a one-piece, but it lost a lot of modesty once I was in that pose.

I guess Mom didn’t notice how much was actually visible in the photo. At least, I hope she hadn’t noticed how much was visible.

But it took, like, ten seconds for someone else to point it out.

She removed the picture almost immediately, but the damage had already been done.

After we finish the dishes, Carter asks me to walk him to his car to say goodnight even though it’s below freezing.

“So field hockey, eh?” he says. He brings our entwined fingers to his lips and kisses my hand. “I bet you looked cute in that little uniform skirt.”

I laugh, but there’s a sharp stab in my gut at the memory. “They didn’t even have one in my size at the camp, so I just wore shorts. Everyone else looked cute though.”

A crease appears between Carter’s eyebrows. “I don’t get it. How could they not have your size?”

And he means it. Because he’s probably never had this happen in his life. He’s probably never walked into a store and been afraid to even look at the clothes because of the fear of disappointment when nothing fit. He’s probably never had to order something online instead of buying it in the store because he needed an “extended size.” Carter isn’t skinny, but no one would ever call him fat.

My own mother calls me fat.

“Let’s not talk about it,” I say.

“That’s fine, because there was something else I wanted to tell you,” he says.

I look up at him. I love that I can do that. “What?”

“I love you,” he says. He twists our entwined hands behind his back, drawing me closer.

I think I might be floating as I say, “I love you too.”

He kisses me, and I’m definitely hovering slightly in my sneakers.

When my teeth start to chatter, he kisses me one last time and gives me a gentle push toward the front door. “Get inside before you freeze,” he says.

I draw in close to him for another last kiss before hustling back into the warmth.

I could really get used to this feeling.

I close Nat’s bedroom door behind me and lean against it with a smile. Nat rolls her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “I know we’re gross.”

She purses her lips. “Don’t get me wrong, I love that you found Carter,” she says. “But I think maybe you guys should hang out without me?”

Nat isn’t making eye contact, so I know she’s not joking. Natalie doesn’t talk about feelings. The whole Nagler family avoids emotions, in fact. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that her mom died when she was five.

Although, terrible as this sounds, I can’t help being a little jealous of her sometimes. The Naglers are such a tight family unit. They eat dinner together every night. They play board games on rainy days. They poke fun at each other, but they also hug regularly. They may not discuss their feelings, but there’s no mistaking that they love each other.

But I have practice in hiding my feelings too. So I don’t let on that it hurts that she doesn’t want to hang out with me and Carter.

I sit at the foot of Nat’s single bed while she unwinds her dark, wavy hair from its messy bun and starts brushing it. I motion for her to sit in front of me on the floor so I can braid it for her.

She tucks her legs under her and I have to stifle my jealousy that there’s no cellulite on her thighs. No one would ever say anything mean about a picture of Natalie in a bathing suit.

I don’t have any social media profiles, but Nat does and the only comments she gets on her photos and videos are full of praise about how pretty and athletic she looks. Must be nice.

“What if I give each of you one weekend night? Like, you get Fridays and he gets Saturdays?” I say. “Or we can alternate the nights.”

I can’t see her face, but I do see her shrug.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” she says. “And that’ll give me a night to work on my podcast every weekend.”

I have to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret as I wrap a rubber band around the end of her braid.

Nat is super into true crime stories, and she has this dream of starting a podcast about cold cases and I just don’t see the appeal. Who would want to listen to a depressing story that has no ending?

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. Trying to sound like my feelings aren’t hurt that she’d rather do research about unsolved murders than hang out with me. “That sounds like a good plan.”

Apparently I fail in my attempt, because I can feel the tension in the air. But the tension isn’t just about Carter.

“Do you want to hear about the episode I’m researching?” Nat asks as she sits on the bed next to me.

I feel her scrutiny even though I’m not looking at her. She knows how I feel about true crime, but she’s watched hundreds of hours of food TV with me. And also listened to hours of me talking about food. The least I can do is listen to her talk about her passion. Even if it is super creepy.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. “What’s the case this time?”

She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. She just watches my face.

“Never mind,” she says finally. “It won’t interest you.”

Nat and I don’t fight often, despite how different we are. But this feels like it’s been brewing for a while.

I try to hold in my sigh. “Look, I’m sorry that I don’t want to hear about women being raped and murdered, or little kids being snatched out of their beds, or whatever. Especially when they haven’t even found the person who did it. It’s just going to give me nightmares.”

She purses her lips, her eyes narrowed. “Better just to live in ignorance instead? You want to just pretend that bad things don’t happen to innocent people?”

“Don’t do that,” I say. “You know that’s not what I’m saying.”

“True crime podcasts have helped solve cold cases,” she says. “Did you know that?”

I did not. “But for the families in the cases that don’t get solved, it’s just salt in the wound,” I say. “Their loved one’s murder becomes entertainment for bored hipsters on their commute to work.”

Nat scoffs. “Your disdain for the human race is exhausting sometimes.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. I do hate people a lot of the time; she’s not wrong. I have good reason to. People have been making judgments about me literally my whole life. And most of them aren’t kind.

“Can you really blame me?” I say.

I watch Nat’s expression soften and the boulder in my gut starts to dissolve.

“No,” she says. “I just . . . ​I really wish your mom hadn’t done such a thorough job at screwing you up.” And then she looks at me with a hint of a smile on her lips.

I can’t help smiling back. “You’re telling me,” I say.

I plug in the pump for the air mattress and start blowing up the bed that will soon take up the entirety of Nat’s bedroom floor. The noise gives us a couple of minutes to let our anger dissipate, and by the time the mattress is blown up, the tension between us seems to have lifted.

We wash our faces and brush our teeth and climb into our respective beds. I put in my earbuds and open Netflix, picking a show to watch until I fall asleep. It usually takes about an hour. Nat is asleep before I’ve even pressed play.

I write a text message for Carter to read when he wakes up tomorrow morning.

Did you know that in Switzerland, it’s illegal to have fewer than two guinea pigs? Being social is so important to their happiness, there’s actually a law about it.

I may not like most people, but I do like you. Kind of a lot. So thanks for coming to hang out tonight. Your presence was as welcome as a second guinea pig.

I’m pretty sure he’ll think that’s cute and not creepy.