Jesse doesn’t send me anything else. I’ve got my phone in hand, fingers wrapped tightly around it, waiting for the vibration. I’m checking the cell signal when brakes squeak. I look up to see that same pickup in front of me, having turned around and come back. It’s idling again. Three guys sit in the front seat. A RivCol football sticker decorates the window.

I’m reasonably sure they didn’t spot me earlier. If they stopped for anyone, it seemed to be Jesse. But he only glanced up, no sign that he knew the occupants.

The truck takes off with another chirp of the tires. It turns down a road two intersections away and disappears from sight.

Hello, paranoia.

I still exhale in relief when I spot the coffee shop sign. Then I see the FOR LEASE one. Figures. Oh well, I know there’s another cafe around the next corner, which may be why this one went out of business.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text. I jump. When I lift it, my hand is shaking.

It’s just Mae.

Her: Home yet?

I type stopped 4 and add a coffee emoji.

The pause tells me she’s deciphering. I resend in full verbiage and add: That okay?

Her: np! Can I pick you up in an hour? We’ll go out for dinner.

I don’t want to go out for dinner, but if I say that, it’ll seem like I’m being difficult. I start to reply, asking her to pick me up at the coffee shop. Then I take a deep breath and reply: Just text before you leave & I’ll wait at condo.

I pocket my phone. When I look up, I see that truck. It stopped after turning the corner. It’s idling. Again.

Because they’re looking for a place and pulled over to Google-check their destination. Just chill. Seriously.

Still, I pick up my pace as I make the next right and look for the coffee shop sign, which is…farther than I expected.

Again, chill. It’s not midnight. It’s not ten miles away. Stop freaking out.

When I hear a car turn the corner behind me, I don’t look back. I will not be paranoid. Will not.

The pickup whips past and veers into a lane I’m just about to cross. The door swings open, and I see the ginger-haired guy who checked me out at the track meet.

Great. I eye-rolled his once-over yesterday, and now he’s spotted me and had his buddies drive back so he can let me know exactly how big an opportunity I missed.

I start to give a sarcastic “Can I help you?” before realizing all the ways that can be answered. Instead, I fix Ginger Dude with a cool “Yes?”

“Skye, right? Skye Gilchrist?”

The driver’s door opens. It shuts with a slam. A big guy in a football jacket saunters around the front of the truck.

I glance toward the back bumper. That’s all I do—glance. But Ginger Dude sidesteps that way, as if I’m making a break for it. The passenger door opens again. A third guy moves into the opening but stays on the seat, sideways, his legs dangling, the door wide.

“RivCol Raiders, huh?” I say, nodding at the big guy’s jacket. “What do you play?”

“Wide receiver,” he says, and he puffs up, as if waiting for me to…I don’t know, ask for an autograph?

“How’s the team doing this season?” I say, as if I’m some grown-up trying to make polite conversation with the local kids. His eyes narrow, like maybe I’m insinuating something about the team.

“I heard they were city champs last year,” I say. “I’ll look forward to seeing you guys play this season.”

That look stays fixed on his face, waiting for the insult, because this is just too civilized a conversation. Ginger Dude’s eyes gleam in anticipation. He’s hoping I’ll insult his football-playing friend, which will give him an excuse to get up in my face.

“Good luck with next week’s game,” I say. “And enjoy your Saturday night. You’re going to…” I follow the lane they’ve pulled into. “The Lion and Lamb. Hope you’ve got your ID ready. I hear they can be jerks about it.”

I nod a farewell and start around Football Player, who seems the most likely to stand in dumb silence and let me pass. Which he does. But the guy still in the truck, the silent one, springs to life, swinging out the passenger door to cut me off.

He doesn’t say anything. Just gives his friends a “Well, dumb-asses, say something” look.

Ginger Dude saunters over. “You used to be friends with Mandal, right?”

“Jesse? Sure.”

“We spotted him around the corner and wondered what he was doing in this neighborhood. I heard you’re staying with your aunt, the dyke who’s, like, a CEO or something.”

I open my mouth to call him on the slur, but he’s still going. “This seems like the kind of neighborhood she’d live in. That explains why Mandal’s hanging around. You and him are meeting up, huh?”

“Supposed to be,” I say, because I’m becoming increasingly aware of how quiet this street is, most of the shops—including the pub—either closed or not yet open for the evening.

“Well, you missed him over there,” Ginger Dude says. “And you might want to keep missing him.”

I arch my brows.

“You’re new here, Skye. Well, newly returned. And you’re having trouble, right? Kids hassling you? Kids can be assholes.” He manages to say this with an utter lack of irony. “It might be tempting to fall back on old friends. But Mandal’s the wrong kind of friend, if you know what I mean.”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“He’s trouble. Like his brother. You know the truth about the shooting, right?”

I stiffen.

Ginger Dude continues, “It was his fault. Jamil Mandal’s. Your brother and his friends were just trying to stop him.”

“Stop Jamil from—?” I cut myself short as I realize I really don’t want to continue this ridiculous conversation. “I’m going to let you guys go enjoy your Saturday night. Don’t drink too much. It seems like you may have already had a few.”

I know better than to turn my back on them. So I reverse for a few feet, and then veer to go around them and hoof it to the coffee shop. As soon as I back up, though, Ginger Dude grabs my arm.

I throw him off with a “Hey!”

“What? You can dish it out, but you can’t take it?”

I screw up my face. “What the hell are you—?”

Deep breath. I’m not dealing with mental giants here.

I say, “Look, you’ve had your fun, but—”

“Oh, we haven’t started to have our fun, Skye.”

Yeah, I walked into that one. Deep breath. Take two.

“I appreciate the advice about Jesse.” Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. “But I’m actually just meeting my aunt at the coffee shop over there.”

“Right, the dyke aunt. She teaching you anything? Maybe something we should unteach you?”

I have to bite my tongue hard not to WTF them.

“You guys want to take potshots?” I say. “Go ahead. You have two minutes. Insult me, insult my family, my friends. Get it out of your system.”

“You’ve got a smart mouth. How about I show you a better way to use it?”

Don’t respond. Don’t respond. Don’t—

“The way I use it is just fine,” I say. “Now get your ass out of my way before I kick it.”

Ginger Dude snickers. He grabs for me. I wait until his fingers wrap around my arm, and there is absolutely zero chance he’s just testing me. Then I slam my foot into his shin and seize his arm, and as he stumbles, I throw him down.

“There,” I say. “Ass kicked. Now, you other guys? I suggest you decide I’m beneath your notice and help your buddy back into the truck. The alternative is that you can try kicking my ass, and between the three of you, I’m sure you can, but someone’s going to notice, and then you’ll be the three jocks who beat up a girl.”

The silent guy nods to Football Player, telling him to let it go. Ginger Dude pretends the message isn’t meant for him, too.

“Grant.” Quiet Guy breaks his vow of silence. “Drop it.”

“You think I’m walking away from some smart-mouth bitch—”

“—who put you down?” his friend continues. “Yeah. Come on.”

I nod in thanks, and Quiet Guy seems surprised but then gives a curt nod and grabs Grant’s arm. “Drop it, bud.”

“Screw you, Marco. I’m teaching her a lesson.”

Grant lunges at me, breaking from Marco’s grip.

I backpedal, and Marco is hauling Grant away when a voice shouts, “Leave her alone!”