Excerpt

As she steps up to the next branch, the one beneath breaks off with a sharp crick! Zoë freezes again, her heart pounding. No, Shannon would definitely not approve. Above her she can see the light on in Henry’s room. He must be in there, carrying on with his life, his life without her. She climbs higher, just a few branches now from his window. The tree sways from her weight. She realizes she might fall. She glances down, seeing the dark ground far below, and catches her breath. She can picture Julia in her mind, shaking her head: I don’t let boys take over my life. Zoë’s aware her current position, ten feet up a tree outside Henry’s house, doesn’t make her look good. But this is Henry. They had something real together. For all Julia’s adamant opinions about boys, she has no grounding for them. She never had a boyfriend. Unless you count her relationship with Seth Jessup back in sixth grade. As far as Zoë knows, Seth’s the only boy Julia’s kissed. This most definitely makes her no expert on how Zoë should be feeling now that Henry’s ripped out her heart and torn it to shreds.

Julia doesn’t know what it’s like. No one knows.

Zoë nestles her foot on to the next branch. Then she is there, just under Henry’s window. Muted light comes through his shade. She cranes her neck and sees that she’s in luck. On such a beautiful night he’s opened his window just a touch. She reaches behind her and slides the poem from her pocket, then pushes it through the gap. Her heart picks up pace again. She stays still, listening. Part of her hopes he will come to the window, throw it open, and respond like the lover in Rapunzel or like Romeo, that he’ll see how deeply in love with him she is. But another part of her, a darker part, a scolding part, imagines that she looks nothing like a romantic lover but rather like someone deranged by grief. And this part is terrified he’ll see her, hanging like a fool from his tree.

Voices. Zoë freezes and looks down below, where a woman is saying good-bye at the front door. Zoë hears Henry’s mother’s voice.

“Yes,” she says. “I will. Drive safely now. We’ll see you soon.”

The door closes, and the woman makes her way across the long front walkway. This is when the bough beneath Zoë decides to give out. Her leg scrapes against the bark, and she grasps desperately at the branches. In the turmoil, and in her attempt to grip the tree trunk, she scratches her cheek on a twig. The scrape stings. Her arms are wrapped around the tree. Her breath comes quickly and heavily, as does her heartbeat. But somehow she is not lying unconscious on the ground.

        “I see you,” the woman calls up to her. “And I’m calling the police.”