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The story
After her parents die, a sixteen-year-old girl is taken in by the family next door. Four years later, their son is no longer just the boy who protected her, and wanting him could cost her the only home she has left.
After her parents die, a sixteen-year-old girl is taken in by the family next door. Four years later, their son is no longer just the boy who protected her, and wanting him could cost her the only home she has left.
The summer I was sixteen, my parents died, and the family next door took me in. That was how I ended up under the same roof as their son, Dane. He was three years older and, from the first day, the one who looked out for me.
Dane was the one who always showed up with an umbrella, the steady hand at my back, the closest thing to family I had left. For four years I loved him the easy, uncomplicated way you love someone who has always just been there. Right up until the day that changed.
On the first day of college, in a courtyard full of strangers, Dane called my name. I turned and forgot how to breathe. In the sunlight he was the same Dane I had always known, and somehow not. The forearm beneath his rolled sleeve was more defined than I remembered; his shoulders were broader. He set his hand on my head the way he always had. The same familiar touch, except now even the brush of his fingertips made my pulse jump. You're not supposed to look at him like this, I told myself. I looked anyway.
That night I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. Dane pulled the blanket over me and murmured, low, "I know I shouldn't." I held my breath. His fingertips brushed the hair back from my face, so gently it ached. "But somewhere along the way I stopped seeing you as the girl next door."
And in that moment I understood. My first love had been right next door all along.