When he answers the door, I swear smoke pours out. “Uh, I’m not much of a cook,” he says, with an adorable sheepish grin. “I make no claims that the food you are about to eat is edible in any way.”

I laugh. He’s wearing gray track pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, his hair sticking up slightly in the back.

I smile and inhale the aroma. The smell sweeps in memories of my mother, a terrible cook, whose only mastery in the kitchen was chicken-noodle. “I’ll cut you a little slack.”

He smiles. “How very generous of you. The first batch of pancakes isn’t bad, actually. And the bacon is only two levels past crispy.”

He pulls a covered plate from the microwave and reveals a stack of slightly misshapen flapjacks. “I bought the breakfast stuff before I knew we were also having breakfast for dinner. So, uh, sorry for the, uh, redundancy there.”

“No worries. I could eat my weight in pancakes and still want more.”

He smiles. “I thought we could eat on the porch. I brought some juice and utensils out already. Grab some pancakes.”

I take a clean plate off the stack and serve up the top three pancakes. He leads me out to the back porch, picking up a small fleece blanket along the way. As soon as the door opens, the whooshing sound of the ocean greets my ears. I sit down beside him, pulling the throw blanket over my lap.

From behind the house, the sun basks the beach in a warm glow. But we’re all alone, despite the intense beauty of the vista. The sand is empty of any people or birds. It’s like this little beach house is on an island, not the edge of town.

I lean slightly on him, and take my first bite of pancakes. “They taste better than they look,” I say, between bites.

“Thanks. I think.”

Ten quiet minutes later, he takes my empty plate and stacks it up on his. Then he sets it on the small table beside the rocker. I pull my feet up underneath me. He keeps his on the ground, rocking us as he wraps an arm around me. I sigh, staring out at the beach as I lean back against the porch swing and wrap the blanket tighter around the two of us.

The morning seems extraordinarily quiet. Beyond the rustling of the reed grass and the breath of the ocean, there’s nothing.

“Did you have fun last night?” I ask, leaning my head against his chest.

“I did,” he says. “I could spend every night seeing you in a dress that short.”

I laugh. “It’s nice, though, doing . . . normal stuff.”

“Yeah, definitely,” he says.

We go quiet again, and I stare out at the ocean. Moments tick past. Waves come in and out. Birds swoop down and fly away.

And I can’t think of anything to say. It’s weird, how if we’re not talking about our curses, we don’t really have that much to say. I guess I never noticed that before.

Far in the distance, white clouds appear, but for now, most of the sky is blue.

“Beautiful,” he finally says.

“Definitely,” I agree.

“I meant you.”

I look down at my hands, feeling silly. “Oh.”

He pulls me even closer, rests his lips against the spot where the curve of my neck meets my shoulder. “I love you,” he says.

The ocean goes as silent as my heart. I swallow. It’s everything I’ve always desperately wanted to hear. Someone loves me.

But I feel strangely trapped by the words. Like the best thing I could do right now is leave.

These last few weeks, that was what this was all about. That was why we were spending time together—so we could fall in love. His birthday is days away, now. So why does it surprise me so much to hear it? How did I manage to forget that being with Erik wasn’t just about having a normal teen experience . . . but about falling in love with him?

I can feel his breath on my skin. “This is the part where you say—”

“Why?”

He lifts his head, tries to look me in the eyes, but I don’t turn away from the beach. “That wasn’t where I was going with that.”

I sigh but still don’t meet his eyes. “I know. But why do you love me?”

“What do you mean? I love everything. You’re amazing.”

It’s hard not to frown. “No, I mean, what do you love best about me?”

God, how pathetic do I sound? It’s like I’m fishing for compliments. But for some reason it seems inordinately important. I have to know why he loves me.

He goes so silent. I wouldn’t even think he was beside me if his arms weren’t wrapped around me. “You’re beautiful. And smart.”

A small lump grows in my throat. I’m cursed to be beautiful. He should know that’s the wrong thing to say. And smart? It rings false. Erik and I have never had one intellectual conversation. He’s never even asked me what my other classes are besides English. He doesn’t know they’re AP courses. So why would he think I’m smart?

Something twists in my chest.

Either he only loves me because I can give him a normal life—because I’m his match—or he doesn’t really love me at all; he’s just saying it.

I wonder, if Cole could have loved me, what he would have said if I asked the same question. It wouldn’t have been “because you’re smart,” I know that much.

I smile and look up at him, hoping he buys it.