From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of All the Bright Places comes a compulsively readable novel about a young woman determined to write her own story--sex, heartbreak, family dramas, and all. "A coming-of-age story that will make your heart ache ." — PopSugar With high school coming to an end, Claudine Henry is focused on four things: sex, starting college, becoming a famous writer, and... sex. But when her parents announce they're splitting up, her entire world begins to fall apart. The epic road trip she planned with her best friend is cancelled, and she finds herself stuck on a remote island off the coast of Georgia with her mom - an island with no WiFi, no cell service and no friends. Until she meets the free spirited, mysterious, and beautiful Jeremiah. He infuriates and intrigues her. Their chemistry takes her by surprise, and when Claude decides he should be her first, she tells herself it's just sex. Exactly what she wanted, right? They both know that what they have can't last forever, but maybe the time they have can be enough. "A coming-of-age story that will make your heart ache ." — PopSugar "[A] bittersweet summer romance.... Discussions about love, sex, family, and the conflicting emotions caused by change are refreshingly honest. " — SLJ,  starred review " A sex-positive summer romance that’s worth reading." — Kirkus Reviews " Niven describes this as her most personal novel. ... [She] intimately and sensually depicts Claude’s determination to know herself and her body, and to genuinely connect not just with Miah but with herself.” — Publishers Weekly " Breathless is a frank and tender novel of self-discovery that fans of Sarah Dessen’s transformational summer romances and John Green’s stories of poignant self-discovery and difficult growth will enjoy.” — BookPage Jennifer Niven is the #1 New York Times and internationally bestselling author of All the Bright Places and Holding Up the Universe. Her books have been translated into over seventy-five languages, and have won literary awards around the world. When she isn't working on multiple book and TV projects--including the script for the film All The Bright Places (Netflix)--Jennifer also oversees Germ , a literary web magazine for high school age and beyond. Jennifer divides her time between coastal Georgia and Los Angeles. Find her at jenniferniven.com and on social. 8 days till graduation  I open my eyes and I am tangled in the sheets, books upside down on the floor. I know without looking at the time that I’m late. I leap out of bed, one foot still wrapped in the sheet, and land flat on my face. I lie there a minute. Close my eyes. Wonder if I can pretend I’ve fainted and convince Mom to let me blow off today and stay home.   It’s peaceful on the floor.   But it also smells a bit. I open an eye and there’s something ground into the rug. One of Dandelion’s cat treats, maybe. I turn my head to the other side and it’s better over here, but then from outside I hear a horn blast, and this is my dad.   So now I’m up and on my feet because he will just keep honking and honking the stupid horn until I’m in the car. I can’t find one of my books and one of my shoes, and my hair is wrong and my outfit is wrong, and basically I am wrong in my own skin. I should have been born French. If I were French, everything would be right. I would be chic and cool and ride a bike to school, one with a basket. I would be able to ride a bike in the first place. If I were living in Paris instead of Mary Grove, Ohio, these flats would look better with this skirt, my hair would be less orange red--the color of an heirloom tomato--and I would somehow make more sense.   I scramble into my parents’ room dressed in my skirt and bikini top, the black one I bought with Saz last month, the one I plan to live in this summer. All my bras are in the wash. My mom’s closet is neat and tidy, but lacking the order of my dad’s, which is all black, gray, navy, everything organized by color because he’s colorblind and this way he doesn’t have to ask all the time, “Is this green or brown?” I rummage through the shelf above and then his dresser drawers, searching for the shirt I want: vintage 1993 Nirvana. I am always stealing this shirt and he is always stealing it back, but now it’s nowhere.   I stand in the doorway and shout down the hall, toward the stairs, toward my mom. “Where’s Dad’s Nirvana shirt?” I’ve decided that this and only this is the thing I want to wear today.   I wait two, three, four, five seconds, and my only answer is another blast of the horn. I run to my room and grab the first shirt I see and throw it on, even though I haven’t worn it to school since freshman year. Miss Piggy with sparkles.   At the front door, my mom says, “I’ll come get you if Saz can’t bring you home.” My mom is a busy, well-known writer--historical novels, nonfiction, anything to do with history--but she always has time for me. W