You’d think from what she just said she’d be done with him, but she’s not. It’s a routine for her. A seductress routine, full of toxic kisses and mind manipulation. She stands up straight and she’s wearing heels, so her legs look really long as she struts over to the table and traces her finger across the back of the guy’s neck. I catch him shudder. She leans down and whispers something in his ear, then she pulls away, but not before she snatches hold of his tie. His eyes widen as she guides him up, and then he lets her lead him into the bedroom like a dog.

Seconds later I hear the door shut and then music turns on. She always turns music on, either because she likes to listen to it while she has sex or she doesn’t want me to hear what’s going on. “Leather and Lace” by Stevie Nicks and Don Henley flows down the hallway.

The song continues to play as I finish off my breakfast, then put my dishes away and dance my way back to my room, singing the lyrics under my breath, pretending for a moment that I’m center stage.

I change out of my pajamas and get ready for school. Jeans and a T-shirt are my normal attire. A ponytail is my go-to hairdo. Add a little gloss and eyeliner and I’m good to go. It’s not like I’d benefit from trying any harder. Guys don’t notice me even when I try. Like the one and only time I wore a bikini to the town pool. I was thirteen and still filling out a little bit, but still I thought it’d be nice if a few guys looked in my direction. But Sandy Manderlin, the lifeguard, was wearing her bikini that day, and let’s just say that she could give Pamela Anderson a run for her money.

I felt stupid for even trying and severely inadequate, especially when Tommy Linford told me that I didn’t need to wear a bikini at all—that Band-Aids would have sufficed. I retorted with a simple remark about him needing to stuff socks in his swim shorts just to make it seem like he had something there.

He flipped me off and I went home crying. And burned the bikini.

After I get dressed, I slip my Converse sneakers on then throw my pointe shoes and leotard into my backpack because I have dance class after school. The instructor’s not the best, not like the instructor over in Fairview who’s actually been part of a company and danced on stage in New York City. But she’s cheap and it’s all my mom can afford. And even getting her to pay for classes, took a lot of persuading and promises to clean the house.

After I get my dance and school stuff, I head outside. It’s a bright day, the sun beaming in the sky, birds chirping. It’s a scene straight out of Sleeping Beauty, except for the forest is a bunch of low-income houses and the animals are crackheads, prostitutes, and poor unfortunate souls who’ve either had crap luck throughout their life, made bad choices, or, like me and my mom, gotten divorced and lost half of their household income because some deadbeat father won’t pay child support.

Still, I pretend I’m Sleeping Beauty because it makes the walk to school easier, and by the time I’ve reached the end of the driveway I’m twirling along with my arms out in front in my “in first” position as I sing “Beautiful Day” by U2.

Halfway to the street, I swear I feel someone watching me, but shrug it off because no one ever notices me.

I’m in midturn when I hear someone say, “Well, aren’t you just a bunch of rainbows and sunshine.” The sound of the male voice causes me to trip over my next turn. I stumble and fall forward, slamming my elbow against the chain-link fence bordering the side of the driveway.

“Motherfucker,” I curse in a very unladylike tone as I rub my scraped elbow

“I’m sorry,” the male voice says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

My eyes lift to the house next door, and I find the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen standing near the fence with grease on his hands and forehead, looking at me. He’s got dark brown hair that’s shaved short, and he’s wearing a pair of loose-fitting jeans hanging on his hips and brown work boots. He’s also shirtless and his chest is cut with lean muscles and there’s a series of tattoos on his side that look like tribal art.

Tattoos that I’m staring at.

And he notices me staring too.

I blush, staring down at the sidewalk as I take a few steps back, squirming under his penetrating gaze. “You didn’t scare me,” I lie. “I’m just a klutz.”

“You’re not a klutz at all,” he says, and the sound of his deep voice sends vibrations through my body. “I was actually enjoying watching you dance.”

I glance up at him, shocked to find he’s still looking at me with so much intensity it’s hard to breathe. I search my mind for something to say, but my throat feels very dry.

“In fact, you’re probably the complete opposite of a klutz,” he continues, looking at me in a way that I’ve always dreamed a guy would look at me—like I’m not invisible or insignificant. Like I exist.

“What’s your name?” he asks, slanting forward toward the fence and resting his elbows on top of it.

“Delilah Peirce,” I tell him, shifting my backpack high on my shoulder. “What’s yours?”

“Dylan Sanderson.” He nods at my single-story stucco house that still has Christmas lights on it even though it’s May. “You live there?”

I nod. “Yeah, with my mom.”

“Aw.” He arches his brows. “So that blond woman I saw earlier coming out to get the paper off the steps is your… sister.”

I frown, feeling my invisibility surfacing again, the lights around me dimming, no longer center stage. “No, she’s my mom.”

His eyebrows shoot up even higher. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting that one… how old is she?”

I’m battling to keep my disappointment contained. “Forty-one.”

He pauses, studying me intently, and it makes my skin heat, but not from blushing. It heats with want, because I want him to keep looking at me like that. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.” I’m not sure why I lie, other than being seventeen suddenly seems a hell of a lot better than being sixteen, and besides, I think he’s a little bit older. “How old are you?”

“Almost eighteen,” he says, eyes still on me.

“Did you just move in?” I ask. “Or are you staying with the couple that lives here? I don’t remember them moving out.”

“They didn’t.” He hitches his finger over at the house. “I just moved back in with my parents for a little bit until I can figure some stuff out.”

I dare to step closer to the fence and notice how beautiful his eyes are. And how much emotion they carry. Like he’s feeling too much, but trying to keep it all bottled up inside and hidden from the world. “Well, where’d you live before?”

He seems to get a little tense from this question, his shoulders stiffening. “Here and there.”

I think about asking him what his story is, or, better yet, dazzling him with my flirting skills. But I haven’t discovered them yet, so instead I end up saying, “That sounds cool.”

He gives me a look like he thinks I’m adorable. “Where are you heading to so early in the morning?”

“School,” I tell him.

“It’s summer. Isn’t school out?”

I shake my head. “Today’s the last day.”

“And you’re going?” he questions, wiping the grease on his hands onto his jeans, seeming to lose interest in me as he gazes off over my shoulder. “Man, I used to always ditch the last day.”

I suddenly feel like a ten year old with LOSER stamped on my forehead. “Well, I have dance right after and I take the bus from school so I sort of have to go.” I make a lame excuse.

“You’re a dancer?” he asks, and it brightens me up a little bit that he’s paying attention to me again.

I nod. “Yeah, I do mostly ballet and sometimes hip-hop.”

His gaze slowly scrolls over my lean legs and flat stomach, and I struggle not to look away from the heat in his eyes and the heat surfacing in my body. The heat only amplifies when his gaze meets mine, and for a moment I feel this strange confidence inside me flicker and I stand up a little bit taller.