Cherry Pie

“No,” she whispers hoarsely, her face white. “Oh my fucking God, I…” she blinks, she turns, and she runs.

“Amy!!” I roar her name, bolting to chase her, when Kendall’s hand grabs mine tight and yanks me back.

“Kendall—”

“Let me,” she says, her voice broken and quiet, her face drawn. “Let me do this.”

I swallow, and when I nod curtly, she turns and bolts after Amy, leaving me alone with my heart somewhere at my feet and my whole fucking world upside down.

Chapter 12

Kendall

My heart races as I charge through the huge house, running after my friend as fast as I can.

…Not like this.

I’ve found something that I know is truly rare with Marshall—something incredible that just makes me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt before. And I meant everything I said to him. I only want him. And really, I know I’ll only ever want him. I know there’s a learning experience to be had going to college, and partying, and dating, and meeting guys my age. But honestly?

Screw that.

I don’t want or need that learning experience. Not after I’ve found the man who just fits with me. And I might be young, but I’m not naïve. Yes, I understand a lot of that “he’s my everything” feeling stems from having just given him my virginity. And if this was just any much older guy, then yes, maybe that would be a concern. Maybe it would worry me that I’m jumping into something more serious than I should at eighteen because sex has complicated my emotions.

But Marshall isn’t just “some older guy.” He’s not stranger, or someone new in my life. I’ve known him for almost my entire life. Not the way I do now, but he’s always been there as a part of every milestone of growing up.

And now, he’s been there for one of the biggest ones, and I can’t imagine having done it with anyone else. And along with that, nor do I ever want to.

But as hard and as madly as I’ve fallen for him, it can’t be if it’s at the expense of Amy. Not if us being together hurts her.

I run out of the house, following my instincts. Her car is still in the driveway, which makes me think I’m right, so I keep going. I run past the pool, past the pool house, and through the rose gardens on the Bane estate. Past those, there’s a stand of old-growth trees up on a small hill, and that’s where I run, my lungs burning, arms pumping.

Because as much as I’m in love with Marshall, this is my very best friend in the world we’re talking about, and there’s no way I’m going to let her get hurt by any of this.

At the base of the tree, I spot Amy’s flip-flops, and I grin.

Knew it.

The wooden ladder nailed into the tree looks as old as the tree itself, but I know it’s more like ten years old. I know this because it, like the treehouse it leads to up in the branches, were built by Marshall himself when Amy and I were eight. And ever since then, it’s been our go-to place to get away from things or to escape. Sleepovers, dishing secrets, talking about boys. When Mike Little told me I was his girlfriend in seventh grade, and then I caught him holding hands with Lizzy Planter the next day at recess, this is where I came to cry—with Amy there to hold me of course. When she let Travis Itta go to second base sophomore year and then he dumped her because she wouldn’t go all the way? Yup, the treehouse.

I look up at the big old wooden platform above me, the trapdoor closed, and I take a deep breath as I kick my shoes off.

…It’s time to face this head on, come what may.

I climb slowly, and when I come to the trap door, I knock.

“Amy?”

There’s silence, and I take a deep breath.

“Amy, your flip-flops are here, I know you’re—”

“Go away!” She barks. “Homewrecker!”

I cringe, my brow crumpling before I take another shaky breath and push the trap door open.

“Amy—”

She glares at me, fire in her eyes before she turns, hugging her knees as she faces the wall away from me.

“I told you to go away.”

“Yeah, you did. But I’m not going to.”

“Why not? I’m up here, now you’ve got the whole fucking house free to go make out with my fucking dad.”

I climb quietly into the treehouse and close the trapdoor, pulling my knees up to my chest and hugging them.

“Amy, I want to talk about this with you.”

She barks out a brittle laugh.

“Well, I don’t.”

I look away, glancing out the pane-less window at the leaves, and through them, the house past the rose gardens.

Fuck it.

“I love him, Ames.”

The words just hang in the air, and I can almost feel the tension rippling from her back. But the silence just hangs, and hangs, and hangs, until I feel like I’m going to explode.