Prologue

Odette

S ixty-nine. A semiprime made up of exactly two prime numbers. An odious number. A dirty one if one's mind tends to dwell in gutters.

A large number in some ways. I wouldn't want to eat sixty-nine meatballs in a single sitting, for example. The idea of sixty-nine people at my house for a dinner party induces anxiety.

Yet it is a small number in so many other ways.

Sixty-nine hugs in a lifetime are too few. Sixty-nine kisses in a year may not be enough to fill a heart with love.

Sixty-nine days isn't a lengthy measure of time in one's lifetime. Even if it feels as if it is.

It's only taken me sixty-nine days to fall in love with Gavin Vaughn.

Maybe it will only take me sixty-nine more to bury that love in a dark and deep grave.

I can hope, anyway.

We've known each other for years, attending the same schools since we toddled our way into Mrs. White's kindergarten class. My first memory of Gavin is of him helping me up from a fall after a vigorous round of hopscotch with Katie Wheeler. I'd scraped my knee bloody, and he walked me to the nurse to get it cleaned and bandaged.

Our circle of friends was once the same but has fractured and split over time. Gavin is a jock; a hockey playing hotshot. While his crowd grew to include more athletes and cheerleaders, mine veered toward artists and misfits.

It was inevitable. Kids used to call me "Oddette". They probably still do. I wouldn't know, as I stopped paying attention to such things a long time ago. I wear clothes only from thrift or vintage shops, mixed and matched in quirky but fun ways. It's my style, but not really on trend. It makes me stand out in ways most teenage girls don't want to. But I like who I am and the individual I've become through my short life experiences. If I'm odd, then odd is a good thing.

For sixty-nine days, I thought Gavin believed the same.

The consignment shop I work at sits across the street from the local ice rink. Sixty-nine days ago, I locked up after closing the store and ran into Kyle Langford. He's always been a bully and a lot of an asshole. I ignore him because I don't think he learns so well and teachers early on passed him just to get him out of their classrooms. His stupidity shouldn't be an excuse for being a dick, but I feel bad for him. In our small upstate New York city, everyone knows everyone's business. He was picked on when we were younger, then he had a growth spurt that gave him the courage to flip the script.

Kyle had been drinking; I could smell the beer wafting off him from a few feet away. The strong bitter odor overtook me as he grabbed my arm when I tried to walk to my car. I'd told him to let go, and shook myself loose, but then Gavin was there—his wide build pushing between me and a belligerent Kyle.

"Leave her alone, Langford." Gavin's voice, guttural and direct, sent a shiver down my spine. Not in a bad way. In a good kind of way. The way that makes me want to rush home and shove a hand down my pants.

I'm a damsel in a damned great dress, not one in distress. Doesn't mean I don't like a big, strong guy standing up for me. It's never happened before, so maybe that played into my reaction some. Or that Gavin is outrageously good-looking with his dark hair consistently on the messy side and his confident stance. I'd bet he's never felt awkward a day in his life.

That night started a trend. One that lasted sixty-nine days. Not one of those days passed without either Gavin waiting for me to lock up after my closing shift or calling me from wherever he was to make sure I made it home safely.

He and Caroline Crow had just ended their three-year relationship. He said they never should have dated to begin with. That they'd mistook their close friendship for something more and succumbed to the pressure of friends and family to make it romantic. They still cared deeply for each other and were the best of friends. But Caroline would be heading to college in Michigan soon and Gavin would be playing hockey for Boston College. He said the timing felt right to end the relationship and enjoy one summer, single and free, before heading to their prospective universities.

Except Gavin didn't spend it single and free. He spent it with me.

Working had been all I wanted to do in my spare time, saving up for my move to New York City. Then he showed me attention and I made room for him in my life. So much room that he eagerly filled. He snuck in through my bedroom window more nights than not. Several nights a week he'd either bring me dinner or take me out, depending on how our schedules aligned. I was charmed by him. Maybe I always had been, to some extent. He never was like the other athletes who made fun of me and my friends at every opportunity. Gavin was kind when he was forced to interact with us.

Every time he took me out, he was the perfect gentleman, holding doors, pulling out chairs, and the like. It was a princess treatment I'd never gotten before.

"The train from the City to Boston isn't too long." He'd told me that after the third time we'd had sex, and we were languidly wrapped in each other's arms. I'd agreed, thinking, just maybe, we could make something work between us. Hopeful that we could keep a connection without it interfering in either of our studies.

One of the things we bonded over so quickly was our mutual dedication to our futures. Gavin is determined to play for the NHL. I'm destined for the fashion industry, in one way or another.

At the time, I'd thought I was willing to travel further than the few hours' train ride if it meant seeing his crooked smile and getting a blissful orgasm out of it. Gavin Vaughn is infinitely better at sex than any of the other guys I've been with. There have only been two, anyhow. Both a bit awkward and bumbling. But they were nice, and I don't regret my time with either of them. Though, neither gave me the same electric charge I feel when I'm with Gavin.

My grandmother always said, "When you know, you know." I didn't understand what she meant until I'd spent weeks with Gavin. Then I understood. I knew. I know . Or so I thought.

We'd begun making plans for our moves. He'd even gone into the City to look at my three prospective apartments and helped me evaluate the pros and cons of each. One he ruled out immediately, not liking the building's outdated security.

"I want my girl safe," he'd said, and then kissed me with more passion than I'd ever known. My girl. I liked being claimed by him, more than I cared to admit.

In return, I'd helped him make a list of all the necessary items he'd need for his dorm room in Boston. We even shopped for many of them together. It was comfortable and very domestic, but it solidified the feelings that had been forming a new life in my heart. Our excursions cemented those future fantasies I fell asleep to at night.

Ones that played visions of a future power couple; him the NHL star winger and me styling all the most famous celebrities while I travel around the country to watch him play during the season. And cozying up together in our Manhattan high-rise home in the off season.

Youth makes us all a little stupid in love, I suppose. Maybe no eighteen-year-old should count on love to last and all I've done is set myself up for disaster and heartbreak. But age doesn't make my feelings less valid.

What's the saying? Love loves its youth.

Love is what I feel for Gavin. It's not just lust, though there is that. And it isn't only a strong liking that will easily fade with separation. The thought of losing this relationship sends a sharp pain to my chest. As if it's shattering into a million tiny fragments, exposing my heart to every painful detail the world holds.

I guess that's why they call it heartbreak. Even if that doesn't sound as horrible as it feels. Looking down to check I'm still whole, my hand rubs at the pain. It's useless, of course. I can't ease this pain or untie the thick knot tightening in my stomach.

I've had crushes before. Even a few boyfriends. It didn't skew my entire existence when we broke up. I fear losing Gavin will. Life won't be the same without hearing his deep rumbling laugh, or without the way he rests his free hand on my nape as he drives.

The curtains, ones I made myself from old tablecloths I found at the thrift store for a dollar, flutter from the breeze wafting in the open window. Sun shines in, only highlighting the vibrant colors I've decorated everything with.

It's a small space, the smallest of the three rooms in our trailer. Dad once offered up his home office for me, but I declined. My room is tiny, but it's the only one I've ever known, and each piece has been carefully curated over time. Like the throw pillows trimmed with felt balls that I worry with my fingers when I'm thinking. And the landscape painting that my friend Tiffany did for me in the eighth grade before she moved to California. I decoupaged a frame I found in a dumpster with magazine cutouts, so it's a little bit of me surrounding a lot of her.

The colors can't penetrate the bleakness overtaking my thoughts, though.

Gavin has been radio silent for days now. Five, to be exact. The first day I didn't hear from him made me concerned. By the third, I was stressed out, calling and texting in regular intervals.

Yesterday, I received a response.

Gavin:

I'm so sorry.

Nothing more than that one text, despite my attempts to get him to explain.

I know the reason now. I know we're over. What I don't know is how. Or why. Well, I guess I know why, to some extent, thanks to Dad's stubborn refusal to stop his subscription to the New York Times .

An explanation would be nice, though.

The last time I spoke to him, he said good night and that he'd call me the next day. The next day turned into the next and the next. Each without a word. Until those three words.

I'm so sorry.

For what, I've been wondering.

A tear spills out from the corner of my eye, and I angrily swipe it away. I won't cry over this. He duped me, played with my heart and my trust. That doesn't deserve tears. It deserves anger and rage.

Sixty-nine days shouldn't be so hard for me to incinerate in the hellish depths of my soul. It's a short span of time at the near beginning of my life's line. One day, I'll forget Gavin Vaughn, the love we made, and the hurt that followed.

Staring down at the wedding announcement printed in the New York Times , the one my mother quietly handed to me with sadness, I make myself a promise.

Never fucking again.