Amber sits cross-legged on her bedroom floor, toes pressing into the plush cream carpet, focusing on the sensation of each fiber against her skin. Her black Lululemon leggings hug her legs like a second skin. The meditation app's voice flows through her AirPods, a woman's carefully cultivated serenity washing over her:
"Notice the weight of your body against the floor. The rise and fall of your chest. There is only this moment. Not the past with its shadows. Not the future with its uncertainties. Just this breath. This heartbeat. This now."
Amber tries to follow the instructions, but her mind keeps skittering away like water on hot oil. The voice continues, maddeningly calm: "When thoughts arise, observe them like clouds passing through a vast sky. Let them drift by without attachment."
Easy for you to say, Amber thinks bitterly. You're probably some trust fund hippie who's never had to maintain a perfect 4.0 while managing college apps, a boyfriend's athletic career, and a carefully curated social media presence. You've never had to smile through charity galas while your brain feels like it's being shredded from the inside out.
She ends the meditation with a sharp tap, yanking out her AirPods. The silence feels accusatory. After checking that her bedroom door is firmly locked, she reaches under her bed, fingers finding the zippered pencil case hidden in an old pointe shoe. Inside, three orange prescription bottles rattle against each other – her daily cocktail of mood stabilizers and antipsychotics. Each label reads "ROSENBERG, AMBER" in stark black letters, followed by medication names she refuses to Google because knowing too much feels like admitting defeat. She's memorized their shapes instead: oval white pills, round blue ones, small peach-colored tablets that dissolve too slowly on her tongue.
So this is what it takes to be Amber Rosenberg at seventeen, she thinks, studying the pills in her palm. Secret medication. Bi-weekly therapy sessions carefully disguised as "college counseling." Meditation apps and breathing exercises just to keep her from fracturing apart in public. What a fucking joke.
She swallows the pills dry, the bitter taste a reminder of everything she has to hide. After pulling on a pair of socks, she heads downstairs, the house's perfect silence broken only by Tommy's laughter floating up from the family room. Hannah's voice follows – something about dinosaurs and their relative scariness – and Amber's chest constricts with sudden, violent anger.
That little bitch, digging into things that don't concern her. Acting like she belongs here with her thrift store sweaters and too-perceptive eyes. Amber's fingers curl into fists as she hurries past the family room, not trusting herself to maintain composure if she catches sight of Hannah's face.
Her parents are... somewhere. Monaco? Dubai? The destinations blur together these days, an endless parade of "essential business trips" that leave the house feeling like a museum: beautiful, empty, cold.
Live in the moment, she reminds herself, the meditation app's serene voice echoing mockingly in her head as she descends to the basement. Focus on what's real. What's now.
The home gym spreads before her, a testament to Richard Rosenberg's particular brand of excess – top-of-the-line equipment worth more than most cars, machines that would gather dust if it weren't for Nate's dedication. Her mother prefers the treadmill hidden away in the attic, her father claims he's "too busy" for exercise, and Amber only uses the space for occasional yoga sessions when her thoughts become too loud to contain. But working out with Nate... that she enjoys more than she'll admit.
He's there now, shirtless and lost in whatever's playing through his headphones, muscles gleaming with sweat as he powers through another set on the bench press. His face is twisted with something that looks like fury – veins standing out on his forehead, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. He hasn't noticed her yet, so she watches, appreciating the raw power in every movement.
The bar clangs back into place and Nate sits up, but his eyes remain fixed on some middle distance, his expression haunted in a way that makes her stomach clench. Music bleeds faintly from his headphones as he stares at the floor, chest heaving, looking less like her boyfriend and more like someone preparing for war.
Amber approaches slowly, struck by a strange urge to preserve this unguarded moment. Because this is her Nate – not the laughing charmer who rules the hallways at Riverside, not the dutiful boyfriend who poses for perfect Instagram shots, but this beautiful, broken boy who carries their secrets like Atlas holding up the sky.
"Hey, superstar," she says softly, close enough now to catch the scent of his sweat mingling with expensive cologne. "Room for one more in this workout?"
Nate doesn't hear her approach, his movements still fueled by whatever's pounding through his AirPods. Amber watches the muscles in his back tense and release, a beautiful machine powered by something that looks dangerously close to rage. She reaches out, gently pulling one AirPod from his ear.
"JESUS—" Nate jerks away, nearly falling off the bench. His eyes are wild for a moment before recognition sets in. "Amber. Fuck."
"Guilty conscience?" She means it as a tease, but the words come out sharper than intended, cutting through the air between them.
Nate's smile is automatic, practiced, but it doesn't reach his eyes. The expression reminds her of the masks they both wear at her parents' charity galas – perfect and hollow.
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"You looked like you were preparing for battle," she says, trailing her fingers along his shoulder. "All fierce concentration and righteous fury. Very dramatic."
His expression shifts, smile vanishing like it was never there. No response, no playful comeback. Not even a kiss. Just silence, heavy with things they never say out loud.
"Hey." She studies his face, really looks at him. The shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. "You okay?"
He nods, but the gesture is mechanical, empty.
"No, you're not." Amber slides onto the bench beside him, wrapping her arms around his sweat-slicked torso. She presses tiny kisses along his neck, tasting salt and body wash. "Baby..."
"How long?" His voice is rough, almost unrecognizable. "How long can we keep doing this shit, Amber? We just... we take it all and shove it down deep, pretend it's not eating us alive." He laughs, but the sound is hollow. "Every morning I wake up and it's like going to war. My mind's the battlefield, and I'm losing ground every fucking day."
Amber's kisses pause against his skin. She knows this mood, has seen it building in him lately – in the way he attacks practice drills, how he zones out during parties, the growing intensity in his workout sessions.
"That's what we do though, isn't it?" She keeps her voice gentle, soothing. "We take all of it – the guilt, the anger, the fear – and we transform it. Turn it into fuel." Her fingers trace the defined planes of his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath her palm. "Into perfect grades and touchdown passes and early admission letters. Into a future so bright no one will ever look too closely at how we got there."
"But what if—" His voice catches. "What if we can't keep transforming it? What if one day it just... spills over? Everything we've buried, everything we've hidden?" His hands find hers, gripping almost painfully. "Sometimes I look at my phone and see Hannah's messages, see her trying so hard to connect, to understand, and I just..." He trails off, shoulders slumping. "I feel like I'm drowning in all the lies."
"Hey." Amber moves to straddle the bench, facing him. She takes his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Look at me. We're not drowning. We're surviving. Everything we've done – everything we're still doing – it's all to protect what matters. To protect us."
"Is it?" His eyes search hers, desperate for something she's not sure she can give. "Or are we just protecting ourselves? Our perfect little world where money makes problems disappear and we never have to face consequences?"
"Stop." The word comes out sharper than she intends, her carefully maintained control slipping. "Just stop. You think I don't understand? You think I don't lie awake at night replaying everything?" Her voice cracks slightly. "But we made our choice that night at Hampton Beach. We chose each other, chose our future. Everything since then has just been... following through."
Nate's hands come up to cover hers where they rest against his face. "And what happens when following through destroys us anyway? When keeping all these secrets turns us into people we don't recognize?"
The question hangs between them, heavy with implications neither of them wants to face. Amber leans forward, pressing her forehead against his. "Then we'll face that together too," she whispers. "Just like we've faced everything else. You and me against the world, remember?"
"Us against the world," Nate murmurs, the words barely audible over the basement's humming ventilation.
Amber shifts behind him, her fingers working into the knots of tension across his shoulders. His skin is cooling now, sweat drying in the climate-controlled air. She can feel every point of resistance, every place where guilt and fear have taken up residence in his muscles.
"I'm sorry," he says suddenly, voice thick. "For being like this. I just—I'm terrified of losing you, Amber."
"I'm not going anywhere." She looks over his shoulder at their reflection in the wall of mirrors, at the picture they make together – the golden couple, the perfect match. Her fingers continue their steady rhythm against his skin.
As she feels him gradually relax under her touch, a decision crystallizes in her mind. This is too much for him – all the lies, the games, the constant performance. The weight of protecting her is crushing him, and he doesn't deserve that burden. It's time, she thinks, watching their reflection. Time to let her father handle things, the way he always does.
She almost tells him – almost lets slip how Richard Rosenberg could make everything disappear, just like last time. But she holds the words back, swallowing them like her morning pills. Because when her father steps in, he doesn't leave loose ends. He ensures his daughter's safety through whatever means necessary, legal or otherwise. And some things are better left unspoken, even between them.
"Thanks, babe," Nate murmurs, his head falling back against her.
Amber slides around to settle in his lap, studying his face. "For what?"
A genuine smile finally breaks through, small but real. "For being there. For understanding."
She leans in to kiss him, and his response is immediate – fierce and full of emotion, like he's trying to pour everything he can't say into the contact. His hands tangle in her hair, and for a moment, Amber lets herself believe that love really might be enough to save them both.
Amber playfully tugs at Nate's bottom lip. "Feeling better now, superstar?"
"Much better," he grins, that familiar sparkle returning to his eyes. "Amazing what the right company can do."
Amber glances down, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. "Well, I might know a few other ways to improve your mood."
Nate's smirk returns as he stands, scooping her up in one fluid motion that showcases years of athletic training. His raw strength never fails to impress her – the way he can lift her like she weighs nothing at all.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he says, voice low and rich with promise.
"Oh yeah?" Amber raises an eyebrow. "What's stopping you?"
"A promise, actually." His eyes dance with amusement. "See, this amazing girlfriend of mine – maybe you know her? About 5'7", blonde hair, blue eyes, absolute queen of Riverside – she promised she'd work out with me this morning."
Amber laughs, throwing her head back. "Did she now?"
"Mmhmm." He carries her toward the squat rack, his movements controlled and precise. "And I never skip leg day, princess. Even for you."
He sets her down with exaggerated care. "Alright, Your Highness. Warm up first – proper form is everything."
Amber approaches the empty barbell, positioning herself with practiced grace. The cool metal feels familiar against her shoulders as she begins her warm-up squats.
"Let's see what you've got, princess," Nate calls from behind her, switching seamlessly into trainer mode. "Show me that perfect form I know you're capable of."
As Amber moves through her warm-up set, she can't help but smile. Because this – the playful banter, the easy chemistry, the way they push each other to be better – this is what she's fighting so hard to protect. And she'll do whatever it takes to keep it.
Even if that means making a few more problems disappear.