That dawn when the sun flowers like a ruby on the horizon, Freya aches—thinking of Spencer, the guy who'd gripped her hands high on rollercoasters but drawn away when she'd leaned into him while waiting for late night buses in the fog; of Carter with his heart-shaped chocolates and honeyed poems and his accusations of her melodramatic self-pity—and now 3 years later, Freya fears the risk that she's falling in love again, and she prays her heart doesn't fracture again, and then she whispers to her reflection in the rippling lake, "I think I'm starting to love you."