PAST
“Want to go on an adventure?”
I look up as Cam, wearing an oversized denim jacket and a gray beanie, squeezes through my halfway-open window. I’m shoved in the far corner of my room, feet pressed against the wall and back against the side of my bed. I pull a well-creased copy of
The Bell Jar off my face.
“Another broken vending machine at the laundromat?” I ask dryly.
Cam smiles wide and shimmies the rest of the way through the window. I watch the whole entrance routine: an absolutely terrible somersault across my bedroom floor followed by a quick pop-up to standing, beanie flying off and unruly blond curls bouncing everywhere.
I clap politely. “Very nice. Ten out of ten.”
Cam laughs and saunters over to me. “Check this out.”
Before I can shift, we’re scrunched in together, arm pressed tight against arm. The familiar smells of sandalwood and citrus find their way into my hair.
The Bell Jar has been kicked under my bed thanks to Cam, and there’s now a new book hovering between us. As our hands meet on either edge, I see the rainbow-colored title arching over its cover:
GAY TREASURESMy breath catches so hard that I fumble the book and fall into a horrendous coughing fit.
Oh my God, my brain screams between coughs.
Oh my God, oh my God. It’s happening. The talk is happening.How does Cam even know I’m gay? I’m frantically backtracking through my memories. Was it the pixie cut I got last fall when we started high school? My ridiculous insistence that we wear pussy hats to all the marches we begged to join as kids?
Cam’s breathing has gone soft, and I realize I’m supposed to react in some specific way. As I open my mouth to say something—anything—a thought strikes my head so forcefully that I get a second bout of mental whiplash: What if this talk isn’t about me at all? Or what if it’s not
only about me?
Want to go on an adventure?Did that mean . . . Was that really asking if I wanted to go out with . . .
“My uncle Brian,” Cam says quietly.
I turn my head. “What?”
“He died before I was born, and he left this massive trunk behind in our attic. That’s where I found
this.”
“Was he gay?” I ask, at the exact moment Cam blurts out, “It’s a treasure map!”
We both stare at each other.
“I guess . . .” Cam says uncomfortably. “I mean, yeah. He probably was. That would explain why he had this thing, anyway.”
Cam grins and wiggles the book in front of me, as though it’s a shiny piece of bait I just can’t resist. I take a deep breath, stuffing down every question I was set to ask, every confession I had momentarily considered making.
Of course Cam didn’t come here to talk about being gay, I tell myself.
Cam and I don’t talk about things like that.It was stupid to let myself imagine it.
“A treasure map,” I echo. I sigh and force myself to grab hold of the bait.
The book’s spine is so lean that it barely resembles a real book at all. It reminds me of those handmade zines from the 1990s. I thumb through the pages. There are crude drawings of people marching and waving signs, of others standing at podiums and on park benches, speaking to crowds, their mouths open and fists curled. Text fills in the blank spaces behind the people, an angry storm of words in the sky. Various Rubik’s Cubes and tic-tac-toe grids with numbers scribbled inside are tucked into page corners. There’s a strange urgency in the slant of the writing. Like whoever made these drawings and put this thing together was racing to get it done.
I study one of the Rubik’s Cubes. “Well . . . if this really is what you say it is—”
“It is!” Cam interjects. “I’m telling you, this is a real-deal treasure map. Fame and glory are ours!”
“Then you came to the right person,” I say, offering a demure smile. “For
research. We’re going to have to Benjamin Gates the hell out of this thing.”
Cam frowns. “Benjamin who?”
The book falls into my lap.
“Okay,” I say. “You did not just bring an alleged treasure book into my house without knowing who
the Benjamin Franklin Gates is.”
Cam takes a second, then snaps. “Oh, you mean the kite- and-glasses dude!”
“Gah!” I scramble up and grab the laptop off my desk. “That’s it! We are watching
National Treasure right this second.”
We’ve had so many impromptu movie nights and random sharing of online videos that Cam rises as if on autopilot and plops down onto the left side of my bed. I take my usual spot on the right and start searching for the crème de la crème of movies about treasure hunting, or, as the incomparable Nicolas Cage character Benjamin Franklin Gates puts it, “treasure
protecting.” But just as I get the movie queued up, I feel the gentlest touch on my arm.
“Ivy,” Cam murmurs.
My whole body freezes, the way it always does when Cam says my name. I peel my eyes off the screen and look at my best friend.
Cam gazes deeply back at me. “You think this is real too. Right?”
I glance down at the soft hand resting against my elbow.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I think it’s real.”
Then, all too quickly, the opening music swells, lightning strikes over a young Benjamin Gates, and Cam and I snap back to doing what we do best: pretending to be more focused on anything else than we could ever be on each other.
PRESENT
CHAPTER ONE
The view before me is sublime.
A gorgeous girl with thick, auburn hair and cat-eye glasses sits across the café table, her eyes soft, lips parted. Her nails trace the rim of her latte mug, tapping along to cheerful French music as it trips from the speakers. In the background, rows of books with shiny, uncracked spines gleam on the shelves.
Everything in my vision comes together like puzzle pieces. The girl. The coffee. The books.
The girl. It’s all making this perfect picture. But the very best part of it, the biggest piece you can’t even see, is the person who isn’t here. I get to sit back and enjoy a world of total calm and sophistication without a certain someone—
The gorgeous girl, aka my date, Rachel, suddenly gasps.
“Is that Cam Leonardo behind you?”
I swear, even the violin in the background music shudders.
“No,” I say automatically, though I haven’t turned my head to look. I scrunch down in my chair and lift my giant mug like a mask.
Copyright © 2026 by Kit Rosewater. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
