This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Text copyright © 2020, L.A. Fiore All rights reserved This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. Cover design, File Creation, Typset, and Graphics by Melissa Stevens, The Illustrated Author Design Services Proofreading by Rebecca Barney, Fairest Reviews Editing Services For Caitlin… Not how you saw your senior year coming to a close, but we’re so damn proud of you. We love you, dragon rider. Time to find your hidden world. Table of Contents COPYRIGHT PLAYLIST PART ONE Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven PART TWO Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Epilogue OTHER TITLES ABOUT THE AUTHOR STAY IN TOUCH Playlist Skinny Love…Birdy Holding on and Letting Go…Ross Copperman I’ll Stay…Isabela Merced Lost Without You…Freya Ridings Again…Janet Jackson How Did You Love…Shinedown Always Remember Us This Way…Lady Gaga I Think It’s Going to Rain Today…Tom Odell Father Figure…George Michael Hallelujah…Jeff Buckley Flagpole Sitta…Harvey Danger Moon River…JJ Heller Castles…Freya Ridings We Are in Love…Harry Connick, Jr. Foolish Games…Jewel Capital Letters…Hailee Steinfeld Praying for Time…George Michael Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word…Elton John Wishbone…Freya Ridings No One Is to Blame…Howard Jones Someone to Love…George Michael In the Air Tonight…Phil Collins Move Together…James Bay Part One Sometimes to love is to let go Chapter One Cedar 1998 I first saw Brock Callahan on the day after my eleventh birthday. I was finally allowed to go into the woods on my own, not too far from the house, but it was a benefit of being eleven. While exploring, I’d discovered the fort. It looked old, beaten from the elements, and I wondered who had built it. Not that exploring the inside was going to happen because there could be crickets. Unlike most people, spiders didn’t bother me but crickets…nope. Why I went against instinct and popped my head inside was beyond me. The scream caught in my throat, seeing that the fort wasn’t empty. He was in the corner, his back to the opening. It was how he was huddled there that I knew he was scared or in pain. Again, instinct was to leave him alone, but instead, I moved closer. He turned before words could be spoken; gray eyes stared at me through brown hair that was too long, hanging over his eyebrows and brushing his shoulders. Sadness hit me first because he looked kind of lost. Recognition followed. There were so many questions running through my head, but I didn’t ask any of them. Dropping down on the ground, I opened my backpack and pulled out the cake wrapped on a paper plate. The pink icing was all over the plastic, and the vanilla cake was squashed, but it still tasted good. After taking a forkful, I handed the fork to him. He said nothing, just stared at me for a little bit. I stared back like I had all the time in the world. He reached for the fork, took a mouthful of cake. He tried to hide it, but he was hungry. He held the fork out to me, but I waved it off. “I’ve already had a slice. Why don’t you finish that?” He did, drank the three juice boxes I’d brought, too. The following day, I woke, grabbed some food from the kitchen and hurried into the woods. He wasn’t there and disappointment hit. I left the food, though. The following morning, the plates were empty. I wasn’t sure if it was the boy who ate it or the critters in the forest until I saw the single bluebell. Wild ones grew in the woods around here. He’d left one on the plate. For the next week, the routine continued. I’d bring him food, and he’d leave me a bluebell. A week to the day from our first meeting, when I arrived at the fort, he was there. Standing by the fort, his back to me. He turned when he heard me approach. He had the prettiest gray eyes I’d ever seen, and though I suspected he was thinking a lot, I couldn’t read him. Silence hung heavy for a few minutes as we both studied the other. He broke the silence when he said, “I’m Brock.” “Cedar.” That was how it started. Perched in the tree across the street from Mrs. Astor’s house, my binoculars were trained on her yard. It was five in the morning, and even for summer, there was a chill in the air. Brock was next to me, munching down on a bag of chips. His favorite part of surveillance work, the eating. We were playing detective. Mrs. Astor had complained at the neighborhood watch meetings that someone was cutting the flowers from her rose bushes. Of course, no one confessed, and no one saw a thing. It was possible Mrs. Astor was cutting her own roses, looking for attention. She did live alone, but for her three cats, so she was likely lonely. Brock and I were determined to solve the mystery, hence why we were sitting in a tree at the crack of dawn. “I’m almost out of chips,” he announced. “I’ll make you pancakes when we’re done.” “Chocolate chip?” I glanced over at him. “Is there any other kind?” He flashed me a grin. “Nope.” He then looked past me and jerked his head. “Look.” My head whipped around so fast I nailed myself in the face with my binoculars. “Nice eye hand coordination you got there, Slick.” I flicked Brock the finger. “It’s Mr. Bennett,” I whispered. I felt Brock’s breath on my neck when he whispered back, “Yep.” “Why is he cutting her roses?” I asked. “He likes her.” I looked at Brock like he’d just sprouted horns and fangs. “He likes her, so he’s cutting her roses?” “Yeah.” “That makes no sense.” “He doesn’t have an in, so
×