Just One Bed, Prologue

Julia Kent's newsletter serial

I surveyed y’all a while ago, and got a resounding “YES!” response, so here we go: 1 chapter per week for my all-new “Just One Bed” book.

I confess that when I began publishing romance 13 (THIRTEEN!!!) years ago, I didn’t think about tropes. Or craft. Or beats. Or dark moments, high stakes - none of that.

Stories were what my writing was all about. I had an idea. Characters revealed themselves to me. I wrote what I thought, saw, felt, and imagined.

Yes - it really was, and typically still is, that simple for me.

In recent years, though, there’s been far more marketing focus in the romance industry on tropes. You see it, even if you don’t know what it’s called:

• “Your new ‘best friend’s little brother’ story!”

• “An all-new ‘rivals to lovers’ tale!”

• “Need some ‘reverse harem/bully romance’ reads this weekend?”

• “He’s a ‘cinnamon roll’ hero!”

• “A hilarious ‘grumpy/sunshine’ romantic comedy!”

Half the time, I don’t know what some of that means (I had to look up “cinnamon roll hero” before writing this), but I do know that tropes aren’t just there because people like to categorize.

(Okay, maybe on some level they are…)

Tropes are situations that create - or inherently contain - conflict.

I tend to be a “low conflict” author (I didn’t know this until recently). My stakes aren’t high. Or, if they are, it’s emotional stakes, not situational stakes. I have books that are exceptions (One Night (Hand) Stand has some high stakes, especially financially/career-wise; Meli Raine books are high stakes; Diana Seere, too), but generally speaking my characters have to get out of their own way to find love.

They are their own worst enemies.

Lately, I’ve been playing with tropes. I have a persistent, demanding, and exceptionally high need for autonomy, which is a fancy grown-up way of saying if I don’t wanna, I.do.not.want.to.

Or - don’t tell me what to do. :P

Tropes feel like I’m being told what to write, and until the last 2-3 years, I had a very oppositional reaction to that, even if I was accidentally writing tropes all along!

(Random Acts of Love, for instance, is the biggest freaking second-chance romance ever).

Some of my newer trope books include:

• One Night (Hand) Stand - one-night stand trope

• Never Plan a Billionaire’s Wedding - mistaken identity and second chance tropes

• Love You Right - enemies to lovers and city girl/country boy tropes

• Never Fall For the Bride’s Father - age gap romance trope

• Love You Again - single dad and second chance/high school sweethearts tropes

• Shopping for a Highlander’s Elopement - grumpy/sunshine (or, for this series, golden retriever/black cat energy) tropes

• Never Marry the Best Man (coming September) “reverse” age gap (she’s 50something, he’s 38 woot woot) trope

You get the picture.

I’ve never written a “Just One Bed” book, so for this serial project, it made sense to start with a trope I’ve never touched before.

Without further ado, meet Lanie and Theo.

I don’t have a title for this book, so for now, it’s literally just called “Just One Bed.”

Have fun. You get the Prologue this week, and every Monday, a new chapter until the book is done.

I consider this a “living” book, so I will take comments and email replies into consideration as I write the book.

Give me ideas. Hit “reply” and send me an email.

I might not use them all, but the input is always appreciated.

Happy reading:

Just One Bed

by Julia Kent

She's a professional avoider. He's a professional adventurer. She plans escape routes. He plans grand gestures. She's been running for eight years. He's about to cut off all her exits.

One double-booked hotel room.

One ridiculously undersized bed.

One giant panic attack.

This is the reunion Lanie Bennett has been avoiding for exactly eight years, two months, and seventeen tequila-free days.

Lanie's life was going perfectly according to plan: invisible girl becomes tech wunderkind, former ugly duckling morphs into moderately put-together adult, and her cat Skunk only shows his butthole to important investors on Zoom calls 38 percent of the time.

The one glitch in her success algorithm? Walking into her hotel room at the most important work conference of her life to find Theo Lane all moved in, toothbrush in hand, staring at her with more charm than he has a right to possess.

Her brother's best friend.

The guy next door.

Her teenage crush.

And the recipient of her most mortifying tipsy-fueled confession.

Her past has caught up to her, and he's wearing nothing but a towel and eight years' worth of unsaid words.

Theo Lane has spent his post-skating career globetrotting to 33 countries as a travel influencer, collecting passport stamps, dimple-inducing stories, and elaborate strategies to forget the night Lanie Bennett slurred the words "I've been in love with you since you lent me your sweater to wrap around my waist when I got my period at the football game" before promptly passing out and pretending amnesia the next morning.

It's been a long eight years.

He's the guy who remembers how she takes her coffee, who helped her rescue a stray kitten from a Port-o-Potty, the one who once baked her birthday cupcakes when everyone else forgot, and the man who's been silently breaking the Best Friend's Little Sister Code since she was sixteen.

Okay, technically, she's breaking the code, but whatever.

And now? There's just one problem.

Because there's just one bed.

Prologue: Theo (18) and Lanie (16)

Lanie

It's not even that I expected a parade or anything.

Just... maybe a "happy birthday" at breakfast. Maybe a card. A candle.

Something.

Instead, Jack ran out the door at eight-thirty with his skateboard under one arm and Theo shouting something about "golden hour footage" behind him. Mom was on a work call. Dad asked if I needed lunch money, and then Mom, Jack, and Dad left for the airport, shouting for Jack to get in the damn car now - no, not in five minutes, not when the YouTube algorithm gods finally smiled upon your latest kickflip compilation - NOW.

No one said anything about my birthday.

Not a word.

Not even a glance.

It's stupid that I thought this year would be different. Sixteen feels like it should matter. It's a milestone. The kind they write teen movie montages about, where the unpopular girl gets a magical makeover and suddenly the quarterback notices her existence.

Except in my case, the montage would just be seventeen awkward shots of me checking my phone, each time with the same number of birthday messages: a spectacular, confidence-boosting zero.

But I guess in real life, sometimes you get a montage of silence with a soundtrack by Nobody Cares and the Forgotten Child Experience.

So I end up here. Sitting on the kitchen floor with my back against the fridge, half a spoonful into a single-serve birthday cake ice cream cup I bought for myself last night when I had a weird feeling this might happen. The foil top is curled next to me on the tile. I peel at the edges like I'm trying to distract myself from the fact that my phone has zero notifications.

No "HBD!"

No birthday emojis.

Not even a group chat message from Jack's friends who normally text me just to ask if he's ignoring them (answer: always yes).

I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my forehead there. I feel small today. Too small to matter. Like if scientists discovered a particle smaller than a quark, they'd name it a Lanie and define it as "so insignificant it's forgotten on its own birthday."

The kitchen smells faintly like lemon cleaner and last night's pizza. The tile is cold through my leggings. The cabinets are old, oak-stained and scuffed, and the wallpaper is peeling in the corner near the stove, some old floral print Mom never replaced because apparently decorating a house and remembering your daughter's birthday fall into the same category of Things That Aren't Jack's Skateboarding Career.

Our house isn't fancy, but it's warm. Lived-in. Like a sock with a hole that nobody throws away because it still feels good to wear.

The back door bangs open and I freeze, ice cream spoon hovering midair like I've been caught stealing nuclear codes instead of having a pity party with dairy products.

Theo's voice carries in before his body does. "Dude, I'm telling you—one more try and I nail that wall ride. The algorithm will lose its collective mind!"

He steps into the kitchen in all his golden glory. Messy blonde hair swept back like a wave, green eyes still lit with whatever wild thing he just pulled off, the sleeves of his gray knit shirt torn off like that was easier than using scissors or, you know, buying a tank top like a normal human. His whole energy is summer-boy reckless: skin kissed by sun, smile made of trouble, sweat drying across muscles that say I live on wheels and adrenaline and protein bars that taste like cardboard but look cool in Instagram posts.

He moves like he never doubts gravity will catch him. Gravity probably apologizes when it does.

Then he sees me.

Everything about him halts. Like someone hit pause on a Greek god documentary.

"Gotta go," he says into his phone. Then he hangs up and looms over me, face worried. "Hey." His voice drops into something softer. "What are you doing on the floor?"

I lift my head and offer the most casual shrug I can manage. "Living my best life. This is actually the hot new YouTube trend—Sad Floor Girl. I'm hoping to go viral by dinner."

His eyes flick down to the ice cream in my hand. "Did you fall? Do you need a doctor? Should I get my dad? Are you okay? Is this some weird new yoga position called Melting Ice Cream Pose?"

I force a smirk. "Sure. I had a tragic accident involving a container of birthday cake ice cream. Oops! Slipped with a spoon and a pint in hand and here I am. The doctors say I might never stand upright again, but at least I'll die with vanilla and sprinkles in my system."

But he doesn't smile back. He looks around like someone might appear with an answer, eyebrows twitchy, confusion clouding his normally chill and happy expression. If confusion were a sport, he'd be winning gold in the Bewildered Olympics right now.

Then his eyes go a little wide. "Wait. Wait a minute. Today's the 14th, isn't it?"

I dig the spoon into the ice cream and pop it in my mouth. Then I point my spoon at him like a tiny, cold scepter. "You get a gold star. And a Ph.D. in Basic Calendar Awareness, a subject in which the rest of my family is clearly failing miserably."

He stares at me. And in the stillness between us, something shifts. He sees it. He really sees it.

Really sees me.

Theo turns without another word and crosses the kitchen, throwing open the pantry. He pulls out a box of vanilla cupcake mix and slaps it on the counter.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Making cupcakes."

"You don't bake."

"I also don't forget people's birthdays," he says, then glances over his shoulder. "Man, nothing? Not a word from your parents or Jack? Did they all collectively fall into a birthday amnesia portal?"

"Nope. They're too busy in Ann Arbor looking at Jack's first pick." Theo and Jack are seniors. I'm a sophomore. Mom and Dad have taken my older brother on the Jack Bennett World Success Tour this year, as he has been offered no fewer than five full rides. Colleges don't have skateboarding teams. If they did, Jack and Theo would be drowning in offers and I'd probably be drowning in a pool of my own invisibility.

But Jack's academic record is stellar, and what university wouldn't want a YouTube star in its freshman class, too? He's practically a celebrity in our town. People stop him for selfies at Dairy Queen. Meanwhile, the only time anyone stops me is to ask if I'm Jack Bennett's sister, at which point I'm tempted to hand out business cards that just say "Yes, and I have a name."

Theo's face goes tight. It's a look I've never seen on him. A cord of emotion, deep in my belly, pulls a bit, like yanking on a fish that bit your worm. The tiniest pull. Like maybe someone cares that I exist. It's a dangerous feeling.

"They shouldn't have forgotten your birthday, Lanes."

I shrug, but tingling rips along my skin. "Yeah, well, I'm not a viral sensation like you guys. I don't do gravity-defying tricks on a wooden plank with wheels. I'll probably just go to the local community college or something. Major in Being Forgotten Studies with a minor in Perpetual Disappointment."

"You tutor me in physics, Lanes. You'll end up at MIT while Jack and I are still trying to figure out which end of the pencil writes."

"Hah!" I can't help but blush. Technically, my academic record is even better than Jack's, but no one ever says anything about it. Sure, Mom and Dad praise me when I do well, but then the conversation always goes back to how many million views Jack and Theo's newest video got. Or how to set up trusts so the money they make is preserved and creates long-time income for them.

Or how to fight copyright violations from people stealing their content.

Or how Jack should respond to the fan who keeps mailing him chunks of her hair (answer: with a restraining order).

You get the picture. I'm basically living in the "Also Starring" credits of my own life.

"Chocolate or vanilla?"

"Huh?"

He points to two boxes of cake mix he’s smacked on the counter. "Which flavor?"

For reasons that are completely unrealistic and utterly pointless, I am disappointed that he doesn't know the answer. Like somehow the boy I've known since we were eating Play-Doh should have memorized my cake preferences.

"I already said gold star, you don't get another for baking from a box. That's like getting a medal for putting on pants."

"Answer the question, Bennett."

I roll my eyes. "Vanilla."

"Then you're getting vanilla. With sprinkles. And some questionable decorative techniques that will haunt your Instagram memories for years to come if you dare take a picture."

I watch him yank out a mixing bowl and start cracking eggs like it's a hostage negotiation. No fewer than four chunks of shell end up in the bowl, along with what I suspect might be a piece of the cardboard egg carton. I grab a fork and bend over the mess, plucking them out. Crunchy cupcakes should get their spark from crushed cookies on top.

Not extra calcium in the cake. Or paper pulp from packaging.

He reads the back of the box like it's written in ancient Sumerian and mutters under his breath about cupcake liners. I'm pretty sure I hear him whisper "what is this sorcery?" at one point.

"Where do you keep cupcake liners?" he asks.

I point to a cabinet and start to get up. He puts his hand on my shoulder. It's a little slimy from egg white.

"No, Lanes. It's your birthday. You don't do a thing here. Your only job is to sit there and look birthday-ish while I destroy your mother's kitchen in the name of celebration."

I put up my hands in self-defense, and move to the kitchen sink. Quietly, I find a sponge and wash off my shoulder, though long before I wipe it, it tingles, too. Like his handprint is electrically charged. Which is ridiculous. Static electricity doesn't work that way. Physics doesn't work that way.

Feelings shouldn't work that way either.

He moves confidently, but every so often he glances back at me, checking to see if I'm still there. Like maybe I'm a balloon that could drift away. Or a fire hazard about to ignite.

More likely, he knows I'll jump in and take over. Except this time, he's right. Letting him make me a cake when everyone else in the world forgot about me feels good. Weird, but good.

"You seriously never baked before?" I ask, sitting at the table now.

"Not unless you count burning Pop-Tarts."

"You don't put Pop-Tarts in the oven."

He shrugs. "Now you tell me. That explains a lot. Like why they kept catching fire and why my dad banned me from the toaster."

Theo unceremoniously dumps everything in one big bowl. No blending the oil and eggs first, then folding in the mix. Oh, no. To him, the bowl is a cement mixer, a place to just deliver the goods and let them combine to create a final product. He stirs with the intensity of someone trying to row a boat through molasses.

He nearly spills the batter. Spills powdered cake mix on the floor and steps in it with his socks, leaving ghostly footprints across the linoleum that make him look like the world's most incompetent cat burglar.

"You're a menace," I say.

"I'm a birthday hero," he replies, grinning. "And you're teaching me where your parents put everything in the kitchen. It's a scavenger hunt where the prize is cake and the loser is your mom's clean countertops."

"I'm a regular Home Ec teacher."

"Except you don't lecture me on how American society undervalues home labor these days."

"You should know where everything is. You spend more time here than you do at your own house," I add. "I'm pretty sure our Netflix algorithm thinks you're my adopted brother."

His grin falters just for a second. "Yeah. That's kind of the point."

That lands heavy, but I don't press. Theo never talks about his family. Not really. His perfect lawn and his mom's Pinterest-worthy kitchen hide things he doesn't share, even with Jack.

"So," he says after a beat, using his index finger and thumb to separate cupcake liners and shove them in a 12-hole tin, "Fallon still dating that guy who thinks Axe body spray is a personality?"

"God, no. She broke up with him when he sent her a playlist titled 'Songs That Remind Me of Your Tits.' Romance is truly dead and that boy killed it with his Spotify account."

Theo snorts. "How tragically on-brand. Was it all EDM drops?"

I lean my chin in my hand. "And yeah, people are still talking about what happened at last Friday's pep rally. You missed it."

"Oh no, what now? Did Principal Hoffman try to dab again? Because I'm still recovering from the emotional damage of last time."

"Someone replaced the mascot costume with one that had a... uh... realistic human butt sewn on. Like, anatomically correct in ways that violated several school district policies. And when Pen Ballard took a foam finger he brought and, uh…"

He cackles as he takes a large ladle and spoons batter into each liner all the way to the top. I almost stop him, but the entertainment of knowing what'll come out of the oven in half an hour is too good to miss. Plus, I like joking with him. It's nice to have someone actually pay attention to me on my birthday, even if he's setting himself up for a volcanic cupcake eruption.

I don't want to ruin the mood.

"Please tell me it jiggled," he says through snorts.

“The finger?”

“The butt.”

"Like Jell-O during an earthquake. It was a moment. One that even broke Jack's record for most-watched Story on Instagram that week."

The cupcakes are in the oven now, and the kitchen suddenly feels too small, like someone shrunk the room but left us the same size.

"I'm not just gonna sit there and watch them rise," Theo says, grabbing his board from the back door. "Come outside. Being stuck in the house on your birthday should be illegal anyway."

I follow him without thinking. The screen door creaks and slams behind me, the evening sun warm and syrupy across the driveway.

Our houses sit side by side, mirror images of middle-class comfort, though his always felt a little stiffer. His mom's the type who alphabetizes spice racks. Mine's the type who forgets we have cumin. And apparently, that I have a birthday. But we've shared this stretch of suburbia our whole lives, two backyards divided by a chain-link fence we've hopped a thousand times.

Although I use the gate now.

Theo's house is quiet. His bedroom window is open, curtain flapping. It's weird seeing it from the outside — like looking into a version of him I'm not supposed to see.

He drops his board on the sidewalk, gives it a casual push, and rolls back and forth a few times before turning to me with that too-big grin. "Wanna see something cool?"

"You're always doing something cool. It's annoying, actually. Save some cool for the rest of us mere mortals."

He kicks up the board, catches it one-handed. "Yeah, but this one's got flair. Birthday-worthy flair."

He sets it down, takes three quick strides, and launches into a kickflip that lands smooth and clean right in front of me. Then he does a quick pivot, rolls backward, and ollies up onto the curb like gravity doesn't apply to him. Like Newton was wrong, and the real force governing the universe is just Theo Lane's confidence.

I slow clap. "Congratulations. You've defied physics. Again. Should I alert the Nobel committee or will you be handling that yourself?"

"Was that admiration?" he teases, rolling to a stop beside me.

"Pure, unfiltered envy. I'm considering starting a support group for people who have to witness your talent on a daily basis."

He leans on the tail of his board, balancing with lazy ease. "You used to try to skate, remember?"

"I had a two-second career. It ended in tragedy and band-aids."

"You fell into a rose bush."

"It jumped out at me. Those roses were clearly trained in ambush tactics. Or maybe Jack paid them off."

He laughs, full and bright, an infectious sound that makes me glow inside.

And then his dad's voice drifts over from their porch.

"Theo! Oven's not on fire, is it?"

We both turn.

Mr. Lane is standing in the doorway, one eyebrow raised, a mug in hand like this is his evening entertainment. The Dad Channel: All Skepticism, All The Time.

Theo calls back, "Not yet. I've got, like, eighteen minutes before things get chaotic. Twenty tops before the fire department shows up."

Mr. Lane chuckles and then looks at me. "Hey, Lanie. You okay staying in the house alone?"

I blink. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"You sure? I know your folks are out of town. Just want you to feel safe. We're right next door if anything. Even if it's just a spider that needs eliminating or a jar that won't open."

I smile, awkward but grateful. "Thanks, Mr. Lane."

He nods, then looks at Theo with mock suspicion. "Wait. Did you say baking? You?"

Theo stands taller. "I'm evolving. Adapting. Expanding my skill set beyond methods of propelling myself through the air on wooden planks."

Mr. Lane snorts into his coffee. "Hell freezing over would've made more sense."

Theo grins. "Pretty sure I nailed it. I used actual eggs and everything. Only dropped two on the floor."

"Next thing you know, he'll be doing taxes without me." Mr. Lane shakes his head, amused, and disappears back inside.

I glance at Theo. "They're really watching me?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. Mom wanted to set up a whole security schedule. I convinced her we could just feed you and not let you get kidnapped. The bar is pretty low."

"Thanks for the bare-minimum babysitting. Should I leave a Yelp review? 'Five stars: Didn't get abducted on their watch'?"

He smirks. "You're welcome. Now, come on. We've got like five minutes left of daylight and I haven't made you mildly impressed yet."

"You already did that. Back when you remembered my birthday. Another low bar, but you cleared it spectacularly."

His grin fades just slightly, something softer behind it. We spend the next stretch of time with Theo skateboarding, me mocking him. In other words, like a normal evening.

Then the kitchen timer rings, piercing the moment like a needle through a balloon.

He looks at me, all mock-seriousness. "That's my cue. My baked goods await. Though 'goods' might be an optimistic term at this point."

We walk back in the house and instantly, I'm filled with self-consciousness. It's a new feeling, but not so new I've never felt it before. Being around Josh Fortner, captain of the soccer team, feels like this. Or Sameer Prakash, a fellow debater at school. That stomach-swooping, palm-sweating awareness that makes your skin feel too tight for your body.

You know. Around guys I like.

But I don't like Theo. He's just... Theo.

Next door neighbor, Jack's best friend, goofy Theo who would rather skate than breathe. Who once ate an entire giant jar of pickles on a dare and then threw up in my mom's hydrangeas. Who helped me build a pillow fort in our living room when I was nine and he was eleven, and we watched cartoons until we both fell asleep with popcorn in our hair.

Who lent me his sweater when I got my period at a football game during ninth grade and bled through, casually pulling it off then whispering in my ear while standing behind me to block my pure social humiliation.

Where the heck is this feeling coming from? It's like my hormones just showed up to the party a few years late, looked around, and pointed at the most inconvenient person possible.

Except... none of that is true. None of this is new.

It's a very, very old feeling I haven't allowed myself to feel.

"Voila!" Theo says, pulling the tray out of the oven like he just performed a miracle. As predicted, the cupcakes have volcanic tops, spilling over their liners like tiny batter lava. He sets the tray down with an exaggerated flourish, flour now smudged on the edge of his jaw. "Boom. Cupcakes. Birthday cupcakes."

The kitchen smells like vanilla and heat and something sweeter underneath it — something that crackles in the silence between us. I'm trying not to look too eager.

But my stomach growls anyway, loud enough that it might qualify as a separate entity in the room. The only way to exorcise this demon is to feed it.

He notices.

"FROSTING!" he shouts, turning away from me, rummaging through the cupboards like a raccoon in a dumpster.

"Mom normally makes it from scratch."

"Scratch?"

"Like, with ingredients."

"There are ingredients in frosting?" He's genuinely surprised. I see an opportunity here that's too good to pass up.

"Unless you get it from a frosting tree, yeah."

"Frosting tree?"

"You've never heard of frosting fruit? From the Fructus glaciosus tree? You wait until they're ripe, then you squeeze the frosting out. Like nature's pastry bag."

His tongue rolls inside his cheek and his nostrils flare as he smiles. "Let me guess. There are vanilla frosting trees, and chocolate frosting trees?"

"Oh, yes! Strawberry, and even glitter sprinkle trees. They grow best in the same climate as unicorn habitat. Very specific soil conditions. Something about unicorn manure and nitrogen content."

"You're such an ass sometimes, Lanes."

"And you're surprisingly gullible for a senior, Theo. Like, concerning levels of gullible. How have you survived this long?"

"Fructus glaciosus, huh? You made that up on the fly? I'm impressed by your dedication to botanical bullshit."

I shrug. "Have to use my two years of Latin somehow."

I walk over to the pantry, find Mom's emergency tub of shelf-stable sugar glue, and put it on the counter for him. "There you go. Fresh from the tree. Harvested at peak ripeness."

With all the grace of a sloth being electrocuted, Theo manages to coat two of the cupcakes with the vanilla frosting, then on his own, he finds birthday candles. He stabs one of the cupcakes with the wax spear and I reach for it.

"You don't have to -- "

"Ah-ah." His voice lifts, playful and smug, and then he does it—he snatches two cupcakes and holds them high above his head, way out of reach, like we're suddenly in a movie where height differences are a major plot point.

"Are you seriously withholding baked goods?" I say, standing up and narrowing my eyes at him. "On my birthday? Is this a new torture technique? Cupcake deprivation?"

The top of my head barely reaches his chin. I hate that. I hate how tall he is. How easy it is for him to be bigger, broader, golden. His biceps flex as he lifts the cupcakes even higher, teasing, and the heat in my face has nothing to do with the oven. It's like my blood has been replaced with something fizzy and dangerous.

"I have a plan," he says, grinning. His hair is a mess, sun-bleached and wild, and his skin's gone golden from hours on concrete and sunlight. He smells like sugar and vanilla and sweat and something warm I can't name. Like sunshine would smell if you could bottle it.

"You're a menace. A birthday-ruining menace."

"You're welcome. This is character building. Delayed gratification or something."

Or something.

I step closer. He leans back slightly, teasing the distance between us, but he doesn't move away. I can feel the heat coming off him. We're in the tiny square of linoleum in front of the oven, the soft whirr of the fridge humming behind us, and the house feels too quiet now, like we've stepped out of the usual chaos into something slower.

"C'mon, Lane," I murmur, using the nickname Jack always calls him, but it sounds different in my mouth. Softer. Closer. Weirdly intimate, like I've borrowed something I shouldn't have.

It's a running joke between us. His last name is Lane. My name is Lanie, short for Melanie. Years ago, they started calling me Lanes to differentiate from Jack calling Theo by his last name, so if I ever married Theo - not that I would! - I'd be Lanie Lane.

Lanie Lane. Like a tongue twister you can't stop saying in your head.

His grin falters for half a breath.

Just half.

"You want it that bad?" he asks, voice rough, a different teasing tone there suddenly.

I nod slowly, stretching up on my toes, fingers brushing his forearm. I can feel the warmth of his skin, the slight roughness from skateboarding scrapes and falls. It's unfair that boys can be so careless with their bodies and still end up looking like this.

Like they were carved rather than grown.

He looks down at me, eyes bright with amusement and something deeper underneath it. His gaze lingers on my face, on the way my curls frizz in the heat, on the freckles across my nose, on the brackets of silver peeking when I smile.

"You still hate your braces?" he asks out of nowhere, voice quieter, curious.

I blink and bring one hand to my lips, covering my mouth. "What?"

"You used to hide your smile. You don't now."

I swallow, heart thudding, slowly lowering my hand. "I still hate them. They make me look like I'm twelve and permanently surprised."

He shifts his weight, just enough to lean down a little. "I don't."

The air stills. He's not joking. His eyes, green and way too open, are locked on mine like I'm worth memorizing. Like I'm not just Jack's little sister or the girl next door or the sophomore whose birthday everyone forgot.

Like I'm not invisible.

And then he smirks again, breaking the moment with a burst of golden-retriever chaos. "But you do have frosting on your face now."

My hand flies to my cheek. "I do not—"

He laughs, boyish and bright, and finally lowers one cupcake toward me. But when I reach for it, he pulls it back just an inch, playful.

I don't think. I just lunge.

And suddenly, we're wrestling over it in the middle of the kitchen, me trying to pry it from his hand, him laughing so hard he almost drops it. It's ridiculous and childish and the most alive I've felt all day.

"Okay, okay!" he chokes out. "Truce! White flag! I surrender to the birthday girl!"

I yank it free and take the biggest bite possible, frosting first. "Worth it," I say through a mouthful, not caring about the sugar globs stuck to my braces. "I would have fought to the death for this mediocre cupcake."

He gasps and holds one hand to his chest. "Mediocre?"

I take a bite and yes - crunch. "Mmm, eggshell."

"Adds protein."

"Eggshell has no protein in it."

"Adds character."

He watches me as I laugh.

And then, voice softer now, he holds out the other cupcake. "C'mon. Let's go somewhere better."

"Better than the cupcake battleground?"

"Roof," he says. "Trust me."

I do.

More than I should.

I blink. "I'm not climbing up there in socks, Theo. I may be desperate for birthday attention, but I draw the line at death by shingle slide. Besides, my parents would kill you if I die under your watch."

At least, I hope so.

I hope they'd notice.

"Then put shoes on, Bennett. This is important. Life-changing. Epochal."

"You don't know what 'epochal' means."

"No, but it sounds impressive and birthday-worthy."

Ten minutes later, I'm perched on the roof for the first time in my life, legs swinging over the edge while the town glows below us. Theo sits beside me, a new warm cupcake in hand, like this is just another Tuesday night. Like we climb onto roofs with baked goods all the time.

He pulls a matchbook from his hoodie pocket, lights it, and sticks it into the top of the cupcake. The flame flickers weakly in the breeze, a tiny birthday candle that looks a lot like the hope I'm feeling.

He looks over at me. He nods to the cupcake. "Make a wish, Bennett."

I close my eyes. I don't wish for anything big.

Just this feeling.

To not disappear.

I blow out the match.

Theo leans back on his elbows, looking up at the stars, the universe spread out above us like it's been waiting for this moment.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It's Mom.

HBD, Lanie! We love you and we'll see you in 2 days. Dinner out then and a nice big celebration. Smooch smooch.

I look over at Theo. He cranes his neck to read the text, then shakes his head.

"Smooch smooch," he jokes, but then his smile fades a little, eyes serious. "I'm glad she texted. Even if it's six hours late. You deserve to, you know..." His voice trails off and he goes quiet. He's thinking.

I like that he takes his time to think before speaking. Like he's weighing each word to make sure it's worth saying.

Theo licks his lips and looks at me again. "You deserve it all, Lanie. You really do. The parade. The candles. The whole ridiculous birthday spectacle."

The stars are easier to look at than him, less intense and less confusing so I stare at the sky and note the constellations. Like if I focus on something millions of light years away, I won't have to deal with the boy right next to me and whatever's happening in my chest.

The shingles are warm beneath my jeans, still holding the last of the sun. Theo leans back beside me, elbows propped, legs stretched out, as if he owns the roof, the sky, and the moment.

We haven't said anything in a while. It's the kind of quiet that makes me nervous and full at the same time. Like holding your breath underwater.

Above us, the sky stretches wide and indigo. A few stars are starting to blink awake.

"There," I say, pointing. "See that one?"

Theo turns to follow my gaze. His shoulder brushes mine and I swear my entire nervous system resets.

"Which one?" he asks, voice low.

"Boötes. The herdsman." I trace the kite-shaped constellation with my finger in the air. "That bright one at the bottom? That's Arcturus. If you follow the arc of the Big Dipper's handle, it leads right to it."

He looks up, then at me. "How do you know that?"

"Remember my astronomy phase in middle school? I thought maybe if I could name everything in the sky, I wouldn't feel so small under it. Knowing the names of things gives you power over them somehow."

Theo goes quiet again, but it's a listening kind of quiet. He's actually absorbing what I'm saying instead of just waiting for his turn to talk.

I shift, pointing to the east. "And that one - see the twisted W? That's Cassiopeia. She was a queen. Vain, kind of awful. But she's always visible, always recognizable. Even upside down."

"She sounds like someone I'd date. I have a type: vain, kind of awful, visible, upside-down."

I laugh, then catch the way his eyes flick to my mouth and back up again. It's so fast I could pretend I imagined it.

But I didn't.

"You still like stars?" he asks, his voice different now. Softer.

"I think I just like knowing they're always there. Even when you can't see them. Even when everyone forgets to look up."

His hand shifts on the shingles. Our pinkies brush.

My heart stumbles.

The air changes. Thickens. My whole body goes still and electric because he's looking at me like I'm the only thing worth seeing tonight. Like I might be a constellation he's only just noticed. Like maybe I've been in the sky all along.

He leans in, just the slightest tilt. His eyes drop to my lips and my pulse starts pounding in my ears.

I don't move. I can't.

And then—

"THEO LANE! GET DOWN FROM THAT ROOF RIGHT NOW BEFORE YOU BREAK YOUR NECK!"

We both jerk back like we've been electrocuted.

Theo groans, tipping his head back toward the stars. "Oh my god. The universe has the worst timing."

I peek over the edge. His mom is standing in their driveway, hands on hips, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder, hair in a scrunchie, reader glasses hanging on a chain around her neck, crocs on her feet.

The Official Maternal Buzzkill Uniform.

"Lanie, honey," she adds, "I know you're smarter than this! Roofs are for shingles, not teenagers with poor impulse control!"

I flush all the way to my ears. "Sorry, Mrs. Lane!"

Theo mutters something under his breath and starts gathering the crumpled cupcake wrapper and matchbook like they are evidence that must be destroyed.

"I swear," he grumbles, "I could be inventing teleportation and she'd still yell at me for standing too close to the edge."

I smile, heart still thudding.

Even as we climb back into the house, I can feel the almost of it still humming in my chest. That not-quite kiss. That maybe-someday.

The strange, bright hope that maybe… he felt it too.

And the even stranger thought that maybe being forgotten on my birthday wasn't the worst thing after all. Because if everyone had remembered, I would have been surrounded by party hats and streamers and generic happy birthday wishes.

Instead, I got cupcake battles and rooftop stars and Theo Lane looking at me like I was suddenly visible.

Like maybe I'd been a constellation all along, and he was just now learning my name.

---

What do you think, readers? TELL ME! The next chapter flashes forward 12 years. Do you like Theo and Lane? Curious about what happens next? SPILL! You’re helping me write this.

Chapter One comes on July 14.