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pushes out a few more chips.
    He taps his finger lightly on the cards. I listen for the pattern, some kind of Morse code. But I don’t need the signal, I already know.
    I raise his bet. Not much; I don’t want to scare him.
    My hand lingers in the middle of the table, hovering over the stack of chips. Our fingertips touch. Seconds pass. Neitherof us moves, even though the voice in my head screams at me to pull back.
    He calls the bet and turns the last card. It’s the queen of diamonds.
    Holy shit.
    The minute hand moves closer to the XII.
    Ten minutes to our curfews, ten minutes until this night, this moment has passed.
    â€œYou can do better,” I say. He raises an eyebrow.
    Maybe he didn’t hear me. It’s possible I never actually spoke aloud, never voiced what I’ve been thinking and feeling since the first time we met. Then his forehead crinkles, eyes go blank. Confused? Angry? Shit, I’m not even sure.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say.
    Henry sighs. “It’s not that simple. You know that, right?”
    I do know. He’s trapped under the weight of expectation—school, family, Catherine .
    I shift and our toes touch, innocent. A warmth unfurls beneath my shell. “Maybe it could be,” I say, not knowing whether I’m talking about Henry, or me, or Henry and me. “Maybe everything’s not as difficult as you think.”
    The clock tick-tocks, breaking the spell, and an old, familiar guard springs up around my heart when he doesn’t respond. “Whatever,” I say, feigning nonchalance, pretending I’m okay, better than okay. I’m fine, great, perfect.
    I’m bluffing.
    I push the rest of my chips into the middle of the table, wait for Henry to accept the challenge. He peeks at his cards one last time. It’s a big risk, a chance to have it all—or lose everything.
    Noise surrounds us. The clash-clang-cling of the pinball machine, the angry roar of a car chase—
    Henry pushes the rest of his chips up against mine. Our eyes lock, a split-second spark. And I know.
    He’s all in.
    I am too.

CHAPTER NINE
Henry
    T he oar slices through the water, propelling the rowboat with long, even strides.
    I inhale.
    Breathe out on the next stroke.
    Recover.
    On the seat in front of me, John mirrors my strokes. We shift forward in unison, bringing the oars out of the water, pushing back on the extraction. Repeat. We find our rhythm and surge against the smooth surface.
    Morning fog hangs over Lake Washington, casting the tree line into silhouette.
    The beach is uncharacteristically empty, but I don’t envy anyone lazing around in bed. If it wasn’t for rowing practice, I’d be pumping iron, running a marathon, doing something, anything, to ease the white noise of voices churning doubt in my mind.
    Focus.
    Seated behind me, Rick and Wyatt keep pace, their labored breaths punctuated by the synchronized splash as all oars pierce the surface in unison. Charles sits at the stern to call each stroke, eyes on our target, his bleached blond hair silvery in the muted light.
    With just weeks before the fall regatta, we can’t afford to mess up.
    My heart packs an unsteady wallop—too fast, too uneven, too loud. A heavy roar in my eardrums. And buried deep, yet not fully out of reach, the seductive whisper of Anne’s voice: You can do better.
    As if on cue, Catherine’s house emerges into view. It’s not the largest mansion along the shore, but from an architectural standpoint, it’s one of the most impressive. A single light shines on the lefthand side of the second floor. Catherine’s.
    The oar slips from my grip.
    Too late I reach for it, hold on so tight my fingers dig into my palms. The boat jerks out of rhythm.
    John curses.
    â€œChrist, Henry, get in the game,” he says, his tone sharp and annoyed. “That’s the second slip since we left shore. Where’s your fucking head at?”
    The