Chapter Fourteen

I had a big chance to come clean with Wyatt about my “rich kid” roots when we were hanging at the carriage house a week or so later.

Did I take this big chance?

Nope. Like other big chances I let it slide.

“So what are you going to do this summer?” he asked. We were sitting in our favorite fine-dining position. Backs against the wall, legs stretched out, pizza box on the floor between us.

“Mm.” I chewed slowly, even though my mind zoomed lickety-split, tripping away from any discussion involving the future, or at least time beyond next week’s schedule at the diner.

“You’re gonna have to come up with something better than that. Three whole months of your life, Ray. They deserve something better than a grunt.”

“Okay. Lemme think.”

He tossed a pizza crust in the now-empty box. “God, that was good.” With a sigh and a small belch, he slid his butt on the shiny floor until his long body was flat. He looked up at the ceiling, blinked, cracked a yawn. He swiped at his eyes with his hand. “Man, I got a lotta shit to do. I hope the nutritious cheesy goodness I just consumed zaps my feeble brain with super power.”

I snorted. “You want your brain to be cheesier?”

He smiled, closing his eyes. “I’ve got a lover who likes it when I say cheesy shit in bed. But maybe I need new material?”

I snorted. Again. Obviously my brain was also suffering from undernourishment. “Nah. You’ve got the cheesy covered fine.” I cleared my throat and qualified, “Keeps me satisfied, anyway.”

His eyes opened and flicked to mine. He gifted me with my favorite lopsided smile. “Don’t got any other lover, Ray.”

I felt my cheeks turn pink. “Good.”

He turned to his side, propping his head on his hand. “You know…if you formally re-enroll with the college you’d have a lot more housing options this summer.”

The first part of what he said made me feel panicky and so I responded (snarkily) to the second part, “Yeah, Ellery College tuition is way cheaper than rent—”

“And then in the fall,” he talked over me. “If we play our cards right, you might even be able to stay in this place.”

My convo with Teddy Solomon and his Crabbe and Goyle sidekicks lingered cloyingly. Kind of like Teddy’s touch…and his designer cologne. I wasn’t interested in “playing cards” or anything else with those guys.

“I get what you’re trying to do with this pledging stuff,” I said. “And I get the point you’re trying to make by suggesting Fenton become more inclusive, but…”

“But what?”

I raised my brows and tapped my cheek. “See this mug? Does it look like the kinda mug you’d see on a poster?” I went for humor because it seemed like the best way to avoid this serious conversation I didn’t want to have.

Wyatt grinned. “Yeah. I see it. I love looking at it. ’S’gorgeous.”

“I’m too old and jaded to be a poster child for change.”

He rolled his eyes. “Old and jaded are the last words I’d use to describe you, Ray. I think you’re strong and thoughtful and that you’d be the perfect person to instigate a few changes on this campus.”

His faith made my chest clench. I wasn’t sure if it was pleasure or fear. I was an introverted hermit-type with a bad attitude and a bad academic record (and currently I even had bad hair). Who would listen to me? I wasn’t sure my epic fuck-you look would take the cause very far. And then there were other factors.

“You’re not gonna wear me down,” I told Wyatt. “Even if I was truly eligible to pledge, I don’t want to be a Fen-man. It’s not my goal in life right now. It’s not a shining beacon of tomorrow-y goodness for me. I see no advantages.”

“I’m a Fen-man. You get to hang out with me more if you pledge.”

I pressed my lips together, stifling the stuff I wanted to say. Like wouldn’t it be better if he wasn’t a Fen-man? Because if he wasn’t one he could bail on the house and live wherever he wanted. He could maybe get a sweet little studio apartment sorta-kinda like what Lucy and Amelia had. And maybe if he had a sweet little apartment, I could sorta-kinda move in with him. And he could keep going to classes until he was done with Ellery. And I could keep waiting tables. And—

“The reason I brought up the subject wasn’t to get you riled,” he said.

“It wasn’t?”

“Nope. There are better and more fun ways to do that.”

I smiled agreeably. “What the heck are you talking about, then?”

“So here’s the thing,” he said. He looked down at the pizza box. His fingers were turning the corrugated edge into fine pulp. He dropped his hand, shoved the box a few inches. “I’ve got a line on an internship that happens in June and July.”

Wow. That was news. I hadn’t even been aware he’d been applying for internships.

A smear of grease glossed the floor. He drew a pattern through the smear with his fingertip—a circle connected to a square connected to a triangle. His eyes weren’t on his finger, though. They were on me. Expectant. Curious. Maybe a tad nervous.

“Where’s the internship?” I asked.

“It’s actually something that Perlmutter’s lined up. On Wall Street.”

Wall Street.

“Ah,” I said. I brushed pizza crust crumbs from my hands and closed the grease-soaked box. Super normal. Not freaking out. Nothing strange happening to my nervous system. Nope.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

No. He didn’t. Good thing.

He exhaled a huff of laughter and continued, “Before you accuse me of selling out and going for big bucks, you should know that the internship is not with a bank or financial firm.”

His finger was no longer tracing basic shapes like triangles and squares. Now it was creating more complex shapes. Hearts. Flowers. I wanted to smile and give him shit for it, but my heart wasn’t in it. Ha.

Wyatt swallowed audibly and continued, “It’s, uh, with a new think tank about economic policy that Perlmutter and some of his old buddies are funding. They want to create new bridges between the government, Main Street and business. I know it sounds all rose-colored glasses…” Another nervous laugh. “And it probably is, but they’ve recruited some amazing people—most of them academic types—to get it up and running. It’s a great opportunity.”

I should’ve said something congratulatory. Or funny, maybe. Or happy-for-him. Instead I said, “A think tank, huh?”

“Yeah.” I could tell he wanted to tell me more, but as usual he was reading me well and so he was waiting, patiently hoping I’d cough up whatever was bugging me.

I began folding the pizza box. My challenge was to smash it down into a square small enough to fit in my smallish trashcan. Could I meet this challenge? Would my stiff, cold hands be up to the task? Dunno. Because right about now breathing seemed too big a feat for my body to tackle.

“I’ve always wondered where that term came from.” I said. “Think tank. I picture a bunch of guys hunkered down in a tank. Charging the front lines. Having deep thoughts like ‘holy crap!’ and ‘damn, let’s blow up some shit!’.”

This comment garnered a guffaw. I was relieved some of the tension in the room busted up but, honestly, I was still feeling funky as hell about this conversation.

Wyatt cared about what I thought. And I’m pretty sure he thought I would judge him harshly for taking this internship gig. Because it was on Wall Street.

While he’d been working on his econ papers and studying for exams over the last couple of weeks, I’d given him plenty of opinions about how I felt on a variety of money-related topics. It had been fun sharing my opinions with someone who thought deeply about this shit, with someone who wouldn’t judge me and with someone who listened to what I had to say. But it had been an academic exercise, right? We hadn’t been talking about real-life money or economics. It was the kind of abstract talk that came up when students wrote papers and took tests and went to seminars and whatnot.

But this conversation we were having right here and now—this wasn’t academic. It was real life. The lens had shifted and I had to refocus. Wyatt was at Ellery to get a degree and find a job. Wyatt had chosen to pledge Fenton and he’d chosen his major and he’d chosen his advisor because he was savvy about getting what he wanted, about planning his next steps to achieve success. Wyatt was here because he wanted to change the world—he wanted to be the kind of big shot who made other big shots think harder about their big-shot ways.

Duh. Why did it feel as if I was seeing this for the first time? Stupid, faulty lens.

Because I was looking at Wyatt with new focus I had to look at myself too. Ask questions like, “What the heck was I doing here?” And wasn’t it ironic that the basic answer to that question was that I was here because of my big-shot dad and his piles of money and his notion that I should follow his proven big-shot steps for becoming a success?

If I tightened the focus of the question again and asked what the heck was I doing here in this carriage house, sitting on this floor, messing with this pizza box and casting lovesick and worried glances at the boy sitting beside me, then my answer got even more ironic—I was here because I’d fallen hard for a guy who was exactly the kind of person my dad wanted me to be, but who I knew I could never-ever be.

“Hey, Ray,” the guy in question said. “Are you okay?”

“Yup.”

“You know…”

“I know what?”

“If I get this internship, part of the deal is that I get accommodations.”

“That’s good. Because living in the city could very well wipe out whatever funds they’re paying you.”

“I know, right? But Perlmutter was telling me they’d be able to line up an efficiency or something for me. His old firm owns a bunch of properties and they could get me something super cheap.”

“Nice.” Tom was so generous with his properties. For people who met his standards as tenants. Clean-cut. Oriented toward the proper Tom-approved goals and directions.

“If I had my own place, you could come with me.”

Took a couple moments for that to sink in.

“Come with you?”

“Yeah. I won’t be working every hour of every day. We could hang out. Explore the city.”

Explore the city. He sounded so excited. So unjaded.

An image of Wyatt as a kid—big ears, smart eyes, scrubbed skin tanned from the Nebraska sun—hijacked my brain. An internship in the Big Apple meant more to him than a leg-up on grad school or a job. The sheriff was looking forward to exploring new horizons. The idea of holding his hand as he did so was pure temptation, as shimmery and color-saturated as a cowboy sunset. I swallowed hard. “And what would I do when you were working?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t really thought this through because I wasn’t sure I was even going to do this thing, you know? But the more I think about it, the more I want you to be there with me. I don’t want to wait until September to be with you like this, how we are right here, right now…”

Was it because I wanted it so much—wanted it so badly that my heart was beating crazy-fast at the very idea of it—that I immediately set about sabotaging it? Or was it because I didn’t believe it could happen, didn’t believe it would ever work, didn’t believe that something between me and a guy like Wyatt had enough life to keep breathing beyond this strange little space we’d created for ourselves?

“It’s a stupid idea,” I said.

His smile was half amused, half pissed-off. “No. It’s not. And if you’d think about it for more than thirty seconds you’d realize that.”

“I’m broke. I can’t spend the summer hangin’ loose in the Big Apple.”

“Well, yeah. That’s not exactly what I was picturing. Perlmutter knows a lot of people. You might be able to find something worthwhile. And if you can’t, my stipend is gonna be pretty fucking generous and since you’re frugal as hell—”

“No.” I didn’t deserve this kind of generosity. Not from his heart or from his bank account. “It’s a ridiculous idea.”

“It is?”

“Yeah. Worthwhile ain’t my shtick. And I don’t want to sit around all day, waiting for you to be done working, staring at the walls, feeling like a schmoe—”

His snort of laughter rudely interrupted my rude diatribe. “You wouldn’t be bored. I get the feeling you would love hanging in Manhattan, that you’d find all kinds of trouble to get up to.”

“That feeling’s messed up. I’ve been there plenty and I have no desire to spend my summer there.”

He sat up and looked at me with his steady-Eddie eyes until I was forced to look away because of their all-penetrating, must-find-truth power. Of course I wanted to spend the summer with him. I’d sit in the most boring hellhole of a Wall Street apartment and be happy because I would know many Wyatt hours would be coming to me at the end of the day.

But there was no way I could spend the summer in New York living with Wyatt Kelly without my folks and/or Tom finding out about it. I’d likely be accused of “working my wicked wiles” on such a nice boy, and Wyatt would be punished in ways I didn’t want to imagine for associating with me. He’d worked hard for this internship. He didn’t need me fucking it up. And, of course, there was the rich-kid factor. Once that was revealed, everything would change between Wyatt and me. The dream of the little love-filled efficiency in Manhattan would disappear in a poof of bus exhaust.

“Well…I guess that’s pretty plain.” He’d done a stellar job of messing up his hair. The tips of his ears were hot pink. “Maybe a bunch of my feelings are messed up. Because I feel like we have something good here and I feel like I don’t ever want it to stop. Not even for a couple of months.”

I bit down on my lip because the little fucker was trembling. I shook my head.

“It’s not as if where you are with your life and your living situation is ideal right now,” he said.

I shot him a glance.

He held up his hand. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not judging you. I’m just going by the shit you always say, the vibe I get from you on a constant basis. My point is that right now you have some freedom. A crap job and a crap apartment are easy to leave.”

“Hey, man.” I tried a casual laugh but managed only a raspy puff of air. “My crap job and this crap apartment are all I’ve got. Be careful what you say.”

“Hey, man,” he said, mimicking me with an annoyingly kind smile. “I’ll be careful about what I say if you’re careful. You’ve got a lot. Health, beauty, smarts—” I snorted but he kept going, “—friends—I know about them because of all the texts you get from your pals Lucy and Amelia and your diner buds. Dave sure as hell falls in the friend category, right? And…” he reached over and tapped my chin, “…you’ve got me.”

My head came up but I didn’t let my eyes connect with his. The see-too-much thing would happen right now for sure.

Didn’t matter. It was impossible to hide how freaked out I was. Especially when he closed the gap between us and he brushed my lips with his. My mouth opened and I exhaled shakily. He caught my breath as if it was something precious. I gripped the back of his head, my fingers holding onto his hair like it was the only thing that could keep me stable in a world that kept flipping me upside down. The kiss we shared was as tender-soft as the lilac blossoms opening up outside the windows.

When I pulled away, my lips clung to his for a moment and I had to do an unsexy, smack-y thing to disconnect. My mouth was smarter than me. It knew a good thing to hang on to.

Wyatt laughed softly and ran his tongue over the curve of my lower lip. My own tongue gave chase, seeking more delicious Wyatt flavor.

“So what do think?” he asked, draping his arms over my shoulders, holding me in place.

I sighed. “About what?”

He rolled his eyes. I was teaching him bad habits. “All of it.”

“I like the part about spending the summer with you,” I told him.

He leaned in and bussed my cheek. “Good.”

“But I don’t like the other parts.”

“Maybe you need more time to think about those parts.”

“Nope. I don’t. I like it here. I don’t want to go to New York.”

“Ray…”

“I know everyone thinks my job is crap. But if I quit, it’s not a sure thing they’ll hire me back.”

“So get a job somewhere else. Restaurants are always looking for wait staff. I know. I spent a few years working as a waiter myself.”

“But I’m comfortable at the Ellery Inn. It’s a good place—”

“It is. But my guess is it’s the people there that you like. And you’ll still have them as friends if you stop working there.”

“None of that matters anyway.”

He laughed as if I’d just said something ridiculous. Which I had. “Why?” he asked.

“I can’t leave Dave. He’s going through a rough time.”

His eyes shifted toward the window and his smiling mouth thinned into a straight line. Sheriff Earp was easy to read. He had bad news.

“What?” I asked, dropping my hands from his hips.

“There’s something else I found out today that I wanted to tell you about.”

“Tell me.” I knew it was gonna be bad because of his expression and the way his arms went taut on my shoulders.

“Dave’s gonna be gone this summer too.”

My toes curled against the floor. “Where’s he going?”

“To see his mom. In Europe. He’s pretty excited about it to hear him talk.”

Of course I never got to hear him talk anymore. This time my sigh was directed at myself. I shrugged my shoulders and Wyatt dropped his arms, giving me the space I needed. I walked to the window and looked down at my favorite lilac bush.

It was good news. It was. Dave needed to reconnect with his mom, needed to make parental connections beyond Tom. But all I could think about was the bad stuff that might happen. Maybe Dave’s mom would keep him there and I might not ever see him again.

“Yeah,” I said. “Belarus.” My voice cracked on the word—as if it couldn’t manage to pronounce something so foreign and far away.

Jesus, was I crybaby or what? Poor abandoned, lovelorn Ray. Like there was no such thing as a plane ticket or a phone? Still. My gut lurched and my head spun. I thought I was used to these little shake-ups life threw at me. Maybe I’d acquired a new taste for smooth and easy.

Speaking of smooth and easy, Wyatt slid his arms around my waist and pulled me back against his chest. “Dave will come back,” he whispered against my hair. “Perlmutter won’t give up custody. He’s not gonna abandon his kid, Ray.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He’d never do something like that.”

“I’m gonna hang out with Dave day after tomorrow, I think. I’ll try to make arrangements so that we can include you, okay?”

I stifled the “whatever” forming on my lips and made myself say, “Okay.” It was my fault Wyatt didn’t understand how or why this shit with Dave hurt me. I hadn’t explained it so now I was gonna have to live with faking it. Moot point anyway with both of them leaving.

I concentrated on Wyatt’s strong heart beating against my back, but for once the rhythmic thud-thud didn’t comfort. It made me think about how much I loved Wyatt’s touch, his presence and how much it would suck when he was gone.

“I hate to say it, but I’ve got to go to a council meeting at the house. We’ll talk about this later.” His big hand spread across my belly. “You’ll be here, right?”

I wanted to say no just to be spiteful. Worse, I had a truly crazy-stupid urge to break things off completely. To tell him to forget about ever coming here again. Or—here was an easier way to handle my urge to explode things between us—I could pack up and leave, save both of us the trouble of the inevitable break-up. The apartment was rehabbed. I’d had some fun with a cute boy. This part of my so-called plan had run its course. Now I needed to move on to the next phase, right?

“Ray? You’ll be here later?”

“Sure,” I said, pressing my hand against his. “Where else would I be?”

“I’m glad you’re here, you know.” His whisper made my ear ache in such a sweet-soft way. “Even though I know you dream about being somewhere else.”

He dropped his hand and began to gather his things. My belly shuddered.

When I closed my eyes, the backs of my lids were imprinted with lilac blooms. And an image of my hand being covered by Wyatt’s.

I made a sandwich and zoned out with a movie. Or tried to zone out. Wrangling thoughts away from Wyatt and the future was proving difficult even with the gorgeous distraction of Rock, Liz and Jimmy being Giant on my small screen.

I was debating whether or not to text Lucy to see if she could spare some weed when I got a text from Lisa, my manager at the diner. The dread virus had tapped another staff member with its Reaper claws. Could I take the eleven-to-seven shift tonight?

On my way, I typed. Double score. A distraction and the potential for much-needed cash.

Jacket on, helmet ready, I gingerly tromped down the stairs. Before getting on the Vespa I unpocketed my phone again. Should I text Wyatt, let him know where I’d be tonight?

Hate to admit it—because it was a small way to be thinking—but my first thought was to blow him off.

My second thought was different. More honest. It came from my heart and not my hurt.

I didn’t want to blow off Wyatt. I wanted to see him tonight. I wanted to see him every night. He would worry if I was gone when he showed up here later. He cared about me and I cared about him. I could admit that to myself, right?

I sent him a text: Working night shift at diner.

Not waiting for any ping-backs, I repocketed the phone, climbed on my ride and vamoosed.

At about three I took my lunch break—same Bat-table, same Bat-burger, same Bat-fries.

I’d checked my phone earlier and had a couple of messages. One from Wyatt saying he’d see me in the morning with bagels and coffee (such a worthy friend) and a typically PITA text from Tom asking for a meeting tomorrow. Okay, he didn’t really “ask” so much as command. Meeting at my Ellery office. 11:15 am tomorrow.

I was pondering (worrying) what the meeting could be about when Sheriff Earp strolled into the saloon. He waved off Trina—the other person on shift tonight—and looked around the dining room, hands shoved in the pockets of fine-fitting jeans, hair messy and glinting gold under the track lights.

When his gaze landed on me, my shoulders eased comfortably against the booth’s vinyl seat for the first time since I’d sat down. My sheriff was a star with major feel-good presence.

He started down the aisle and I was so busy checking out the deluxe way he made his long legs and lean hips move together that I didn’t notice his expression until he arrived at the table. Up close his eyes were red-rimmed, bleary. In fact, all of his features seemed shrouded by a bleary-weary haze.

When I inhaled I caught a whiff of booze. Had getting blotto been on the council meeting’s agenda tonight? He’d said they were planning on talking about important frat-boy business. Likely they’d pored over spreadsheets itemizing keg expenditures, bouncy-house rentals and lame party themes and the getting blotto business had happened later. Which might explain why Earp was still up and moving at three a.m.

“Hey,” I said. “Didn’t expect to see you until later. What’s up?”

“I was hoping you’d be on your break.”

His tone lacked its usual tease-y, cheesy goofiness. My nerve endings began to ring tiny alarm bells. I gestured for him to sit. “Your timing’s excellent,” I said. “I’ve got twenty minutes.”

He sat. His hands splayed on the Formica. His gaze flitted from my burger, to the ketchup bottle to the thingie that held the Splenda and sugar. His expression indicated he was viewing them all as alien objects. Artifacts from Planet Ellery.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He stayed silent. The tinkling bells in my head amped into full-blown clangs when he finally said, “A few things.”

When he didn’t immediately reveal any details, I prompted, “Bad shit go down at your meeting or something?”

He snorted. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“That sucks.”

“Teddy Solomon’s in the hospital.”

“What?”

Earp rubbed his jaw and I noticed a rose-colored scrape shadowing the right side of his chin.

“Mishap,” he said.

He was gonna have to do better than that. My heartbeat joined the cacophony of clangs in my ears. “What the hell happened?”

“I went up to the carriage house apartment after the meeting. He followed me.”

His gaze shifted to my face—a slow analytical survey of my brow, my nose, my chin. As if I were another alien who’d appeared on his horizon. I didn’t like it. I liked the other ways Wyatt tended to look at me much, much better.

I shifted around on the squeaky seat. “And so you fought?” I prompted, my tone getting edgy.

“Yeah. That’s when the other bad shit happened.”

“Are you gonna tell me what this bad shit is?”

“Some of the stairs gave way and he fell.”

I gulped. Those fucking stairs. “Is he going to be okay?” I croaked.

“Yeah. He dislocated his shoulder. Got a concussion, they think. He’s gonna have to spend a few days in the college infirmary.”

“Shit. That sucks.” I hated Teddy and, yeah, I’d dreamed of smashing his face. But that was only a Looney Tune-type fantasy. In real life I was totally against anvils being dropped on people’s heads or clueless coyotes falling off of cliffs. Or stairs collapsing beneath hopeless asshole’s expensive shoes.

I cleared my throat. “So you fought about stuff that happened at the meeting, or…”

“The meeting was to review the fall budget. The carriage house apartment was discussed. Teddy doesn’t think you have a right to live there, even for a short while. I do. Or did, anyway.”

“Oh.” The din in my head was still roaring. Wyatt’s demeanor was freaking me out. It was three in the morning and he’d been in a fight, and he’d obviously had a few drinks. I’d expect him to be shaky and bugging out, maybe a little hot under the collar, ready to wave around his tin star and spout off about the injustice of Teddy wanting to kick me out of the apartment. But the sheriff’s features were stone-carved and his voice was chilly.

“Well,” I said. “It’s not as if I didn’t already know I’d have to move out—”

“The other brothers didn’t care about you living there,” he spoke over me. “So earlier today Teddy went over the council’s heads and called out the big guns for support.”

“Big guns?”

“He emailed the alumni advisory board. And our faculty advisor. Told them about you. Told them about the apartment situation.”

Faculty advisor. Wyatt had never mentioned who the house’s faculty advisor was, but I still had my guessing cap on and I was damn sure I was right about which prestigious member of Ellery’s faculty advised Fenton. As for the alumni advisory board—the fatheads who showed up for special events and occasionally got called to provide emergency influxes of cash—I didn’t have to guess on that one. My dear old dad was currently serving on that particular board. Of course, I’d never mentioned that to Wyatt.

I pulled my water glass closer but I was afraid I’d choke if I took a drink. “And what did all these advisors say?”

Wyatt inclined his head, his bleary eyes narrowing. “You might be surprised…”

“What?” I asked again. Jesus. What, what, what?

“Perlmutter said that if the building passed inspection and was up to code he’d be open to renting it to non-members. And that he might consider reopening the conversation about the house’s inclusivity statement.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, but the alumni advisory board had a different response.”

“Yeah?” My throat burned. I made myself take a drink. My fingers were trembling hard enough to make the ice cubes rattle against the glass.

“Yeah.” Wyatt leaned against the seat back, folded his arms. “Teddy printed off the email. Showed it to the council. The venerable and revered Mr. Paul Prentiss stated that he didn’t think it was appropriate for his kid to use Fenton as a way to…how did he put it? As a way to exorcise personal demons.” His eyes pricked and prodded. Angry Sheriff Earp. Disappointed Sheriff Earp. “And any involvement Rayanna Fayette-Prentiss had with Fenton or its members was simply a way of getting in digs against him.”

I stared down at the puddle of water I’d made when I sloshed my drink. The water blob spread, unhindered by plates or napkins or condiments, heading straight toward Wyatt’s middle finger. My lips twitched. There was poetry, everywhere, right?

A giggle-snort escaped my throat. My chest expanded—a bubble of hysteria growing around my thudding heart, getting bigger and bigger and bigger…

“Are you gonna say anything?” Wyatt asked.

I shook my head. I couldn’t think.

“No smart-ass remarks? No clever explanations?”

I covered my mouth with trembling fingers. God. I honestly wasn’t sure what might come out. Wyatt’s eyes narrowed. He was pissed at this reaction. It was inappropriate. And I agreed. Especially in the face of his seriousness and his disappointment and his justified hurt.

“You think this is funny?”

“No,” I gasped. “I don’t.” How could I explain that I was afraid the bubble in my chest would pop and then my heart would explode? The wildly beating fucker was likely to rip through my ribs and muscles and tissue, spew like blobs of squeeze-y ketchup all over the table between us.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what? That my dad is an asshole? The kind of guy you hate—”

“Don’t try to bullshit around this! You know what I’m talking about. Jesus! There are huge things about your life you didn’t bother to tell me. Like the fact that Tom Perlmutter is your stepdad! And Dave is essentially your little brother. And why the hell wouldn’t you let me know that your dad is Paul fucking Prentiss?”

“Emphasis on the ‘fucking’,” I said.

This earned me an epic Earp glare. I wasn’t trying to be a smart-ass. I wasn’t trying to make light of the situation. I was trying not to slide down into the space between the table and the banquette, trying not to land in a quivering mass at Wyatt’s feet. Anything that came out of my mouth was hot air—an attempt to stay afloat.

“I can’t really explain why,” I told him. “It’s complicated.” Another half-hysterical laugh blasted from my lips because complicated was such a feeble way to describe the messy soup of emotions that had been feeding my fears about this topic. “I don’t like my dad and I don’t want people to judge me based on my relationship with him. We don’t really have a relationship. And honestly, I didn’t think telling you about my messed-up family stuff was necessary.” I was babbling, but I couldn’t seem to control the word spew. “At first, anyway. I thought we were having a casual…thing. And casual things don’t need a bunch of deep talks and explanations about family shit—”

“You’re calling what we had a casual thing?” Wyatt stopped my flow with an appropriately solid question.

My response was panicky and guilty and, yeah, weak. “That’s what it’s called when a twenty-year-old waiter and a twenty-three-year old student get together—”

“So the connection we had,” he raised his voice over mine, “the things we talked about…the way I feel about you and the way I know you feel about me. This whole time you were thinking it was a casual thing? And that’s why lying didn’t matter?”

I shoved my hand into my hair. My scalp ached. I was hurting him. Hurting me, hurting us. Explaining this all wrong. I tried again, “My idea of a casual thing has changed. I just hadn’t…or haven’t caught up with what my heart is telling me. I mean, what we had…what we have means a lot to me, even though I said what I just said—”

He wasn’t impressed by this admission and he spoke right over it, “When you put a label on something, folks are gonna have their own interpretation of what that label means. You taught me that.”

“Yeah,” I said. I exhaled as if I’d been gut-shot. The sheriff had good aim. He wasn’t celebrating his direct hit, however. He was reeling too.

“Man, I can’t believe this,” he muttered. He put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. “You made me look like a fucking idiot, Ray!”

My eyes went wide. The comment surprised me. What kind of a fucking idiot did I make him look like, exactly? In what way had I embarrassed him most?

“I didn’t make you look like anything,” I blurted. “You knew pretty much from the start what you were getting with me.” He tipped his chin, his eyes flashing a dark, don’t-go-there warning. But I kept going. “And you made damn sure you covered any unknowns very thoroughly in my bed.”

“I’m not talking about sex!” His hands thunked against the table. His eyes blasted me with more green outrage. “Yours, mine or what we did together. That was a goddamn cheap shot and you know it!” He said all this loudly. Angrily.

Trina, the other waitperson on shift, looked up from the table she’d been clearing by the front window. “Everything okay, Ray?” she called out.

“Yeah.” The word stabbed through the clog in my throat. I wasn’t sure if she heard me, but a rasp was all I could manage.

“Everything is not okay.” He cut the volume, but the low-pitched sneer in his voice blew a chill down my spine. “I fought for you, Ray. In words, in actions, on paper. I took a stand for a friend who I thought was down and out. For a person I loved and wanted to be with. And then I discover that person…that friend…is someone I don’t even fucking know. Someone who could afford to buy my whole damn town four or five times over for God’s sake. Someone who didn’t need my help at all—”

“I did need your help!” I choked out, desperate to make this rolling ball of awfulness stop. “I still do. I should have told you. I’m sorry.” Two lamest words ever. But I was feeling them so hard about everything.

He shook his head. “I am such an idiot, you know? I mean because even after I read that message Teddy brought to the meeting…even after I had to hear him jeer about how you’ve been laughing at all of us, playing me for a fool, I still wanted to smash his teeth for saying ugly things about you.” His laugh was bitter, painful to hear. “And if the stairs hadn’t taken him out, I would have done it. On top of everything else tonight, I’d be facing an assault charge.”

I reached for his hand, but he pulled away. For the first time ever, Wyatt pulled away from me. I curled my fingers into a fist, exhaled a sobbing gasp. “I understand why you’re mad. I get it and I deserve any grief you wanna give me. But you’ve gotta know that I kept things from you because I was scared and stupid and a wimp, not because I thought it was funny or because I thought you were a fool.”

“I don’t know. That’s the point. I don’t know goddamn anything right now.” The angry-storm look—the one with nasty black clouds and churning anger—had passed and now I was seeing the ugly aftermath. Cold. Wiped out. Everything fragile and new and hopeful that I’d ever seen in his eyes was gone. I wanted it back.

I swiped a hand over my face. My cheek was damp. Spilled ice water or clammy fingers? Or hell, maybe I was already crying. “I am your friend. And the fact that you took a stand…it means more than you could ever know.” My voice cracked.

He didn’t seem to be paying attention to me. His bleary gaze was focused on the space beyond my right shoulder. “Did you know,” he asked, “that your dad’s firm is the chief sponsor for the internship I wanted to do this summer?”

I shook my head lamely. “We don’t talk about… No. I didn’t know.”

“I sent him an email this afternoon. Right after you and I had our talk about summer plans. You know what I asked him?”

I closed my eyes. Opened them again. “What?” I whispered, even though I didn’t want to know.

“I told him I had a close friend. A person who’d had troubles at Ellery and who was unsure about re-enrolling. Someone I thought would benefit from a leg up this summer. I asked him if he knew of any opportunities for jobs or internships in NYC…if he had any suggestions for how I might help my friend, Ray Fayette.” It was Wyatt’s turn to laugh hysterically. “Can you believe that? I actually asked Paul Prentiss if he’d help his own fucking kid find a job.” He pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes. When he dropped his hands and stared down at the table, his whole face looked bruised. “I’m sure I moved myself to the top of the candidate list with that message…”

“He won’t hold it against you,” I said. “He’ll approve you for the internship. And probably any other job you want. He’s gonna love you.”

Wyatt snorted. “Right,” he muttered.

He thought I was joking, but I could fix this. I could fix this one small part of this huge fucking mess. Even though Wyatt was all out of faith in me right now, I knew exactly how to present a good case to my dad for accepting Wyatt as an intern.

“It might not seem like I have any pull with my dad—and I totally don’t when it comes to a lot of stuff. But the internship’s yours. I’ll tell him about you and the stuff you’ve been working on and he’ll be genuinely impressed. I can put Tom on the case too. Believe me, I know what scores points with good old Paul.”

His gaze rose to mine. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Least I can do.”

“No, I mean I really don’t want you to do that. Otherwise, I wouldn’t feel like I’d earned it. And then it would feel…”

“Weird?” I suggested. “Fake? As if you were getting favors because of a name and powerful people who you know?” This was a feeling I knew well, the story his eyes were telling was one that I knew by heart.

“To put it bluntly, yeah.” His gaze traveled from my hair to my eyes to my mouth in another one of those awful “you’re an alien” analyses. “I can’t get used to the idea that you’re Prentiss’s kid.”

“You’ll never get used to it,” I told him. “See how it’s different?” I waved my hand into the space separating us. “Everything takes on a new meaning now that you know who I am. Feelings. Intentions. The stuff I say. It’ll be impossible not to second guess any of it.”

He considered what I’d said for a moment and then shook his head again. “You’re conflating two different things—my being bummed that you couldn’t be honest with me and my need to know I got the internship based on my hard work. Two separate things.”

I didn’t like his arrogant, know-it-all tone. It made the Wyatt I wanted and needed seem even more distant. This conversation kept going in the wrong direction. He was being all cool and rational about the crap I was feeling, adding a new flare of frustration to the fiery stew churning in my gut.

Because, really. I might have been Donny Decepto about my background but Wyatt hadn’t been entirely straight about his holier-than-thou Sheriff Earp scheming. Example: we could have avoided a lot of trouble if he would have told me ahead of time that he was gonna email Paul about finding me a job. But Earp knew better than me about my future, right? So, like a fighter going down, with punch-drunk precision I honed in on this one weak chink in his armor and threw a punch.

“Conflation,” I rasped. “There’s a zillion-dollar Ellery-boy word. Let’s apply it to something new. You’ve always conflated my need to be low-key and loose about my lifestyle with your idea that I’m just a run-of-the-mill underachiever, and all I ever needed was a helpful push—from helpful people like you—to become a social activist superstar.”

He refused to punch back. He said in a scarily sincere tone, “I never thought you were run-of-the-mill. Or an underachiever.”

“But that doesn’t matter now, right?” I exhaled shakily, trying to hang on to my anger. Because when the anger was gone, I didn’t know what I’d have left. “Because now you know I’m a fucked-up, selfish-as-hell rich kid who doesn’t give a crap about any cause but my own.” I was going for snark, but he stared at me with clear eyes and a set mouth, like for the first time in a long time I was saying something truthful.

“You know,” he said, “those are some labels I might actually believe when it comes to you.”

The booth creaked as he scooted toward the end of the seat. He was getting ready to leave. My chest was heaving. Up down, up down, up. I needed to think of something to say. Something way, way better than what I’d been saying. Something that might make him understand.

He braced his hand on the table, looked up at me. “Will you do me a last favor? Please?”

A last favor? Jesus. What was he talking about? Why was his tone so heavy and final? As if this was it for us. As if I’d blown it because I’d been stupid about my stupid family—my stupid family that didn’t even want to have anything to do with me.

“Ray?”

“What?”

“Can you hold off on talking to your dad—or Perlmutter—until tomorrow? Give me today to straighten out this mess on my own, okay?”

Okay? Okay? No this was not okay. It hurt so bad I couldn’t breathe. I mean, he honestly thought I was gonna sabotage his precious internship out of spite? Or, worse, he was worrying that the mere fact I might mention his name would taint his chances at a great future because of my extreme fuck-up status with Perlmutter and Prentiss, his two great white hopes?

I couldn’t think of anything to say so I stared at him. Blinking wasn’t going to happen. If I blinked, the tears building in my eyes would overflow my lids and it was super important at this moment—for reasons both lame and strong—not to cry.

He looked at the floor, the other tables, the door. Anywhere but me. “I know you don’t understand this—or don’t want to understand it—but I worked hard to get where I am at this school. I’m working hard for a future my family can be proud of. Something that I can be proud of. I’d really appreciate it if you could let me handle this.”

Was it possible to feel even more hurt by this conversation? Yes. Yes it was. Because realizing he thought I was incapable of understanding hard work and hope? It was a fresh blow. And because I was already against the ropes and reeling, all I could do was hang on and pray I didn’t do a face flop onto the diner floor.

“So…” The word clogged my throat. I swallowed convulsively, trying to clear it away. “You don’t want me to do anything to help this situation? I mean, I promise I wouldn’t say anything to my dad or Tom about our…relationship. That wouldn’t be weird because I rarely say anything to them anyway, but I know there’s a way I could help with the Teddy situation or with the stuff with the house—”

“No.” He carded his fingers through his hair and then let his arm flop against his side. “Stay out of it. Please, just…I need some time. Some space. To process this shit.”

I stared at him. The words weren’t really sinking in, I guess, because I only felt…nothing. A rubbery kind of numbness.

This isn’t working anymore. I need space. Time to move on…

Odd that this was the pattern for the way my heart got broken. It might seem like I was the kind of person who hated clichés, but I didn’t hate them. Not really. I was a sucker for all the old standbys. “I love you” and “you mean everything to me” and “my heart beats only for you” were some of the ones I’d always yearned to hear, for example.

“Okey-doke, Sheriff,” I said. I was going for an even-toned delivery but I’m sure the voice-break ruined the effect.

He nodded. He didn’t walk away immediately. Being the polite guy that he was, he said first, “I’ll be holed up studying at the library or the house for the next few days. I got the council’s approval to let you stay in the apartment until the end of term. O’Malley’s got his mom working on getting a place if you still need one.”

Ever-polite, he left the phrase “although I don’t know why you’d need help with a Fort Knox-sized trust fund” unspoken. He finished by saying, “If anything comes up…with the, uh, apartment or anything, you can text me.”

I wanted to ask him what would happen after he finished his three days of holing-up. Would the text offer still stand? Would all communication with me have to cease after seventy-two hours? Or maybe by then his need for space and time would be over and we could talk face-to-face? We’d joyfully reunite and we’d fall on each other and we’d fuck like hoppy-go-bunny lovesick fools again.

Oh God. That was never gonna happen. Not in three days, not in three lifetimes. I’d fucked up again. Used poor judgment. My life was spinning across the pavement, doing another nasty one-eighty, and I could feel everything sliding, sliding…

My hand jerked and knocked my water glass against my plate, sloshing liquid and ice all over my uneaten fries, turning the ketchup blob into a pale pink lake. The Ray special. A hot mess with a side of ice.

“Hey, Ray.”

“What?” I didn’t look up at him. The sheriff was gonna stroll out of my saloon and I didn’t want to see it. This movie sucked. Especially the ending. I was never gonna watch it again—

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” He turned away from me. He stood still for a moment, straightening his spine, squaring his shoulders. Then Sheriff Earp slowly walked out of the diner. And my life.

Drama, I know. But it was, in fact, a dramatic exit and my heart was, in fact, splattered all over the table he’d left behind.

When I got off my shift, the sky was dark gray and spewing a nasty combo of rain and sleet. Perfect for my mood. Not so perfect for the Vespa. I had to take the ride very, very slow. For the first few blocks I thought about going somewhere other than the carriage house at Fenton (I was trying not think of it as my apartment anymore). But it was 7:15 in the morning and the carriage house was close to the diner. Also I didn’t know where else I would go. I sure as hell wasn’t feeling fit for company.

As I parked the Vespa and looked up at the carriage house’s dark windows, everything—even normal bodily functions like blinking and breathing—seemed insurmountable. Especially when I saw the space—four risers up—where Teddy must have busted through the steps. Yep. Insurmountable.

I squinted, gauging distance. It was a testament to my state of mind that I decided to go for it. When I stepped over the gaping cavern Teddy had left, gripping the railing to pull myself up, the whole rickety contraption swung away from its shot-to-hell moorings. My wet fingers battled with the bucking railing as my feet slid from beneath me. My chin hit one of the risers. Hard. I tasted blood.

I looked down, debating whether I should bail. The drop was about fifteen feet. Totally doable. But then I’d be on the cold, hard ground and in the same damn boat. Cold and wet with no place to go.

I looked up. Up to where my stuff was, up to where it would be warm and dry. Seemed like my only reasonable choice. If I fell to my death before I reached the landing then Sheriff Earp could find me. Weep over my broken, lifeless body. Bury me in a grave beyond the hills under a plain stone marker.

Yeah, I really needed sleep.

As I shifted my weight—carefully, carefully—the stair frame rocked back toward the carriage house. I gripped the slippery shingles on the side of the building and wished really hard I would suddenly become Spider-Man. Or Batman. Or, hell, why not Wonder Woman? Her lassos were some serious shit I needed right about now. I began climbing. Not too horrible. When the stairs were bolstered and not free-floating, they were relatively functional. Just like me.

I was fumbling for my keys when I noticed the door was partially open. The lock and its inner guts spewed from the door’s edge, the jamb splintered to bits.

Oh, holy fuck… No. Just…no.

Swabbing water from my eyes with a shaky hand, I pushed at the door. There was no light, of course, but I could tell right away something was wrong. A floor covered with feathers and fluff was so, so fucking wrong.

Someone or, from the looks of it, a few someones had seriously messed up my stuff.

“Shit,” I whimpered out loud. I walked toward the center of the room, taking in the damage. My clothes were scattered everywhere. The futon, comforter and pillows had been knifed, their downy contents scattered. Tiny feathers whuffed over my boots as I walked, many of them losing their fluffy life against the wet leather. I stared down at them, oddly struck by how ugly feathers were when they were dead.

My gaze landed on dish shards. The shelves I’d put up had been ripped from the walls. Every dish was broken. My pots and pans scattered.

The cute little cactus plant Wyatt had given me last week—the one I’d named Mr. Prickles—was shattered beneath the window, Mr. Prickles sprawled brokenly with prickly arms up high. I surrender! Save me!

Tears spilled over my lashes, sending hot trails down my already wet cheeks.

“Shit,” I croaked again.

Dizziness rocked me. I stumbled, took a few rollicking steps and smacked my palm against the wall. I leaned against it for a moment. A moment was all I had before the next wave of awfulness slammed me. The room smelled like piss. Apparently tearing up the place wasn’t a big enough insult. No, they fucking had to urinate on everything too. And, as my gaze flitted from corner to corner to corner—my senses jittering and jolting in the way of true horror—I noticed they’d written on the walls. What with I couldn’t let myself consider. The words were vile and filthy enough. Cunt, fag, freak, tranny, slut, dyke. The full gamut of hate.

The smell of urine and wet wool and feathers hit the back of my throat. I put my hands on my knees as my gorge rose. I swallowed convulsively but there was no holding it back, and I added my own misery to the filth on the floor, retching again and again.

By the time I was finished I was sobbing in great gasping heaves—a snotty, teary, pukified mess. I needed to move, to get the hell out of this horror. But I couldn’t do that if I couldn’t breathe. So I concentrated on the act of breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Count. Five sets. Ten. I made my way to the door, flung it open. It was brighter outside—the clouds were thinning, the light behind them turning them opalescent. I looked down. My Red Wings were covered with slimy feathers. And puke.

I don’t know what I was thinking—I couldn’t think—all I knew was that I couldn’t bear to have the boots on my feet. Not for another second. I took them off and hurled them over the railing. Then, feeling as though the filth in the apartment would rise up monster-like and come after me with icy, slicing, razor claws forged from hate, I ran down the stairs.

The stair frame flung wide of the carriage house wall when I was midway down. I didn’t care. I didn’t care if the whole thing got torn asunder and went flying, taking me with it. At least then I would be in a new space, away from the last five minutes of my life.

I jumped. I landed on my knees, heard the thin cotton of my khakis rend, felt the cold wet on my bruised kneecaps.

The Vespa was like a beacon of freedom. I ran toward it but panic hit me hard, wrenching a gaspy scream from my throat. My keys! Had I left them upstairs? With my bag?

No. Thank sweet, sweet Jesus! They were in my pocket.

I climbed on, helmet-less, shoeless but in slightly better shape than I was twenty seconds ago as the purr of the Vespa’s engine reached my buzzing ears. Tires chewed gravel and spat it out as I gunned it, driving like a bat out of hell. Not an exaggeration. It truly felt as though I was leaving hell behind me.

Three minutes later I was surprised to find myself on Tom’s street. I hadn’t planned on going to his house. I hadn’t planned on anything. Stringing two thoughts together wasn’t going so well at the moment. As I caught sight of the ginormous triple-sized Cape Cod, my heart swelled. I coughed into the damp, cold air.

Dave. Dave would be here getting ready for school. Dave loved me and because he loved me he would know how to help. It was a dopey thought. I recognized that. But right then it seemed crucial to see him.

The Vespa’s perky headlight lit up the fancy taillights of Tom’s new car. After parking in my old spot, I stumbled on to the walkway leading to the kitchen door, following the diamond-shaped shafts of yellow the kitchen lights were throwing on the pavers.

My feet were bleeding.

Did I still have some shoes and socks here?

I tripped up the stairs, crashing hard into the storm door.

I sat for a moment, stunned, trying to get a grip. I was a wreck. I couldn’t show up like this. Dave would be so worried. Tom would be mad—

The interior door opened with a familiar squeak. I turned my head, gazing up through the storm door’s glass at Tom.

“Ray? What the hell?”

“Hey,” I croaked. I wanted to move, but want was obviously useless today. I sat there. “Could I see Dave?”

“What are you doing here?” His voice was muffled by the glass. “What’s going on?”

“Sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.” A sob wracked me. I put my head in my hands. “Oh shit.”

The storm door opened slowly behind me.

“Careful. I’m coming out.”

I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on my knees.

“God, Ray.” Tom stepped onto the stair beside me. “What the hell happened?”

I probably could’ve managed a semi-normal response if he hadn’t put his hand on my hair. The gesture felt so normal. So sane. A parent’s comforting touch. The kind I hadn’t felt in a few years. I huffed out a sodden breath. Gasped.

“What is it, honey? Did someone hurt you?”

“They wrecked my place, Tom. They ruined it.” I swiped at my face. I couldn’t see through the tears. Or maybe that was the rain. “And I fucked things up with Wyatt. God, I think I fucked up everything. Again.”

I tried to inhale but my lungs wrenched in another awful, sobby-spasm.

“C’mon. I’ll help.” His hand was gentle as it clasped my shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.”

When another sob attacked me, he waggled his fingers, offering his hand. I took it and he pulled me up. My feeble brain entered a déjà vu funk. As he opened the door for me and led me carefully into the kitchen, I felt exactly like the five-year-old I’d been when my mom and I had first moved into Tom’s house on Long Island. Tom, can I call you “Dad” now?

The kitchen smelled good and familiar. Coffee and Koffee Kup donuts and Mrs. Meyer’s geranium-scented cleaner.

Tom pulled out a stool from the kitchen island and helped me sit. He grabbed a towel from a drawer and handed it to me. When I buried my face in the clean-smelling linen and tried to catch my breath, stop sobbing, he gathered me in his arms. Brave of him considering the state I was in. Muddy, bloody, barfy, and who knew what else.

“All right, then,” he murmured. “You’re gonna let it all out and then you’re gonna have a cup of coffee with me and we’re gonna fix this.”

This made me sob harder.

“I promise, Ray-bird, okay? I’ll do a better job of helping this time. And you can try to do a better job of letting me help.”

I nodded into the towel.

“You know,” he said. “Most of the time you twenty-year-olds rule the world. I get that. But there are those other times when being fifty and having all the experience that goes along with it comes in handy.”

This made me want to roll my eyes. But since my eyes were currently occupied (being held into their sockets with a dishtowel) that wasn’t going to happen.

“Are you hurt? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

I shook my head.

“You’re sure about that? Because if someone hurt you, we need to deal with that. Now. Before anything else happens.”

I took one last shuddering breath and dropped the towel. “No. Nothing like that happened. I fell. That’s how I smashed my lip and ripped my pants.”

Tom tipped his head, narrowed his eyes, analyzing for lies in my words or body language.

“It’s the truth.”

“Okay,” he said, not sounding completely convinced. “Why don’t you take a shower in the guest bath? I’ll find you something to wear.”

Hot water. Soap. Clean clothes. I got dizzy thinking about how good it would feel.

“Go on,” Tom coaxed. “You’re dripping on the floor you always tried so hard to keep shiny.”

My sore lip twitched. “Okay.”

Fifteen minutes later I returned, scrubbed clean with quality men’s hygiene products and wearing snazzy workout wear that was too big for me but that felt silky soft and warm against my skin.

Tom was puttering around. Unloading the dishwasher. Setting out coffee mugs. “Feel better?” he asked.

“Sort of.” On the outside, anyway.

“What kind do you want?” he asked, pointing to the K-Cup dispenser. “French roast? Sumatra? Vanilla fru-fru shit?”

This made me smile. “French,” I rasped. I winced. Man, I’d really ripped out my throat bawling and hurling. “Where’s Dave?”

“Still in bed.”

“No school today?”

“Yeah, but he came home sick yesterday with a fever.”

“Oh no. That shit’s been going around.”

“School said there are four kids in his class out with it.”

“Did he sleep okay?” I fiddled with the ceramic bowl resting on the counter. It was filled with oranges. They were pretty and I picked one up, holding it to my nose. I only ever wanted to smell good things again.

When I glanced up at Tom he had a funny half-smile on his face. He was watching me. “Yeah. He slept with me. My bed’s closer to a toilet than his.”

“How many times did he barf?”

Tom’s smile widened.

“What?” I asked. I couldn’t even remember the last time he’d smiled so big at me.

“You. You really love that kid.”

“Of course,” I croaked indignantly. Because, duh. “He’s a great kid.”

He held up his hand. “I know, I know. I mean, I’ve always known that you two were a pair. But ever since our last conversation right before you moved out…I’ve been feeling bad about what I said about you being a bad influence on David. You might not be the most together person in the world, but you love him. And that should’ve counted more with me.”

He handed me a mug of steamy coffee. I put the orange down and clasped the mug gratefully, wrapping my still-chilled hands around it. I looked at him, considering. “So are you saying this shit because your new therapist is making headway, or are you saying this because I look like hell and showed up sobbing on your doorstep?”

He laughed. “Both, probably.”

We sat side-by-side on the stools, taking it easy for a few minutes as Tom suggested. Tom had some yogurt and muesli but I stuck with a few sips of coffee. My stomach was still queasy. I thought about the apartment. The smell, the mess. I closed my eyes. Might be queasy forever.

“So,” he said, pushing his bowl away and reaching for his mug. “What the hell happened?”

“Um…”

“This is the part where you communicate and I help based on what you tell me.”

I made a show of looking around the room.

“What?” he asked.

“Checking to make sure the therapist isn’t hiding somewhere with her grade sheet.”

His smile was guilty. In a vague, Tom kinda way.

“Just tell me what happened, would you?”

I exhaled slowly. “I’ve been living in the carriage house apartment at Fenton. I got a deal on rent for the rest of the term—as in, I didn’t have to pay it—if I agreed to work on rehabbing it.”

“Kelly arranged this.”

“Yeah. You know about it already, right?”

“I heard.”

The academic advisor. The frat advisor. Wyatt had likely told him a lot of things. But I didn’t want to dwell on Wyatt. Even though he was part of the story, I wanted to stick to facts. Couldn’t cope with emotions. I was exhausted. My hands were gripping the counter hard—otherwise I’d be on the floor, telling my sad tale from a prone position.

I explained to Tom about the pool team. And Wyatt’s idea to ease the brothers into the idea of making changes, making the house more in-your-face inclusive.

Tom stopped me and said, “Let’s deal with that issue later. Right now you need to tell me what happened with you. Why you’re in such rough shape. Tell me more about what happened to the apartment.”

My spine straightened and I scowled into my mug, bristling at his typically high-handed tone.

“Someone broke in and wrecked my shit.”

“Did they hurt you?”

He’d asked this earlier, but I kept my patience. “No. I busted my lip on the stairs. And wiped out on the lawn. There was nobody in the apartment when I got up there…”

“What time was this?”

“Sevenish. I worked at the diner ’til then.”

He reached for the phone resting on the end of the island.

“What are you doing?” My heart thudded. I didn’t want him to call Wyatt. For some reason I was sure that was who he was calling.

“Calling the cops.”

Okay, maybe that was worse.

“Why are you—?”

He raised his hand. “Hey.”

I drew my lips into a tight line. Ow.

Tom scowled. “This shit won’t stand, Ray. I don’t care what kind of squabbles you and Wyatt and the rest of the guys were having. We’re gonna handle this the right way.”

This is what happened when I came to Mr. Black-and-White with my problems. My problems got uglier and waaaaay more complicated before they got better.

“C’mon. Do you want whoever did this to get away with it? To keep doing it? To have power over you?”

“No.” And I didn’t. It’s just that it all seemed…overwhelming. Stupid stuff was floating through my head. Down and feathers. I didn’t want anyone to see the mess—in my head or my apartment. I didn’t want anyone to read what was written on the walls or to see Mr. Prickles or to step on my broken dishes or to breathe in that foul air. I wanted it gone. I wanted a chasm to open beneath the carriage house and swallow it whole.

“Do you want me to call a friend for you? Wyatt?”

“No!” I shook my head once, hard.

“He didn’t do this, did he?” Tom’s tone was quiet, cautious.

My chest froze. “God,” I exhaled. “No! No, no. You know Wyatt. He would never—”

“You said that you’d had a fight. Sometimes young guys can get…passionate. Do stupid shit.”

Fire blazed from my chest to my face. “Not Wyatt. Not this.”

“What about Wyatt?” a small voice croaked from behind us.

I turned. Dave’s face was flushed. His hair was pancake-flat on one side of his head and spiky-crazy on the other side. His jammies were askew. He looked beautiful to me.

I smiled. “Hey, Davey.”

His eyes were glassy, and his smile was lopsided. “Hey, Ray. What are you doing here?”

“Um.” I shot a glance at Tom.

“Ray needs our help, honey.”

“You do?” Dave’s eyes were fixed on me. “What happened?” He glanced at the big windows overlooking the back yard. “Is it raining? Did you wipe out?”

“Kind of, yeah. To all of the above.” I held out my hand. When he took it—his palm was warm and sweaty—I reeled him in and hugged him. He probably didn’t want a hug from me right then, but he was getting one anyway.

“Is Wyatt okay?” he asked, his voice muffled because his face was smashed against my arm.

I closed my eyes. Was Wyatt okay? Weird question to answer right now. I wasn’t entirely sure if Wyatt was okay.

“Yeah, I think so,” I said. “He seemed relatively okay when I saw him last.”

Dave nodded. “Can I have some juice?” he asked Tom.

“Sure.” Tom rounded the island, heading for the fridge. “How’s the belly this morning?”

“Feels…” Dave held out his hand, stuck out his thumb, giving it a sideways waggle. “So-so.”

“How about a half-glass of Gatorade?”

“All right.” Dave sidled onto the stool next to me. “So what happened?” he asked.

“Someone broke into Ray’s apartment,” Tom answered, passing Dave a small glass of funky blue liquid. Ugh.

“No shit? That’s awful!”

“Hey. Language.”

“Sorry.” Dave sent me an eye roll.

I stifled a laugh. The Dave-man was always good medicine. “I worked at the diner last night and when I came home this morning the place was wrecked.”

“Who did it?”

I shrugged. “Somebody who’s fucked up.”

Tom was frowning at his phone. He glanced at me. “Can you hang with Dave for a few, Ray? I’m gonna make this call upstairs.”

“Sure,” I said.

Dave had consumed a smallish bowl of plain Rice Krispies—seemed like the best food to cope with in case of a return appearance—and I’d finished my coffee when we decided to move to more comfortable seating. Between my night from hell (the deep, dark, fiery depths of Beelzebub’s lair) and Dave’s flu, we were in bad shape.

We’d flopped down, zombie-like, in our old familiar spots on the leather sectional. I was absently noticing a few changes to the hideous country club décor when Tom came back.

His expression was grim.

“What?” I asked, my heart rate immediately revving back to super-slug rhythm.

“I just got a call from the Ellery College counsel. He was contacted by an attorney representing a Fenton brother. Regarding an incident that happened yesterday. They’re threatening to sue the house and a bunch of other people unless things are resolved to their satisfaction. Wyatt Kelly was named as a concerned party.”

I licked my lips. They were crusty and dry and I couldn’t seem to make them work. “What…who? Whose family?”

“Teddy Solomon,” he said. “You know him?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know him very well, but I know who he is.” I held on to the sofa’s arms as the cushions pitched and tossed under my body. Stars pricked my peripheral vision. Shit. I didn’t have time to pass out. I needed to think…

“Why would they sue Wyatt?” Dave was asking, his voice pitched high. “Or Fenton?”

“I don’t know, buddy,” Tom said. “We’ll figure it out and fix things. I need to go down to campus and meet with some folks.”

I shoved my hands into my hair. Why couldn’t I make my brain work? I didn’t know what steps to take next. I didn’t even know if I was capable of taking steps. Mental or physical.

Tom approached me, putting one of his big paws on my shoulder.

“Take it easy,” he murmured. “We’ll get everything sorted out. I called my friend Lauren to see if she’ll come sit with Dave for a few hours.”

Dave groaned.

Tom shot him a look. “This is one of those times when we need to pull together, right, David? Family.”

“Okay,” Dave muttered.

“I’m going to take Ray to campus with me. We need to take care of some things with campus security and the police.”

My nails dug deep crescents into the leather. I didn’t know if I could face the police. Or any of the boys from Fenton. Especially Wyatt. I thought about those words that had been written on the apartment’s wall. I thought about Wyatt’s eyes as he gazed at me across the table at the diner.

Alien. Freak. Fuck-up. Liar.

This mess kept getting messier. I mean, really, I could barely stay conscious under the weight of it. How could I possibly help to clean it up?

Dave put his hand in mine and said, “You should go help your friends, Ray. Deal with the bad stuff and don’t put it off.” His tone was solemn. He was a blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked wise man. “Wyatt really digs you. He’ll want your help.”

I looked down into his beautiful, sad, wise eyes and a small gear clicked in my head. I realized that not only was the décor in the room slightly different, but the house’s vibe was different too. The feel. The dynamic.

Tom squeezed my shoulder. “We gotta do this, Ray-bird.”

The backs of my eyelids were like hot sandpaper as I blinked back more tears.

“Okay.”

One of my least favorite scenes in Rebel Without a Cause is the one where James Dean’s character, Jim Stark, ends up drunk at the police station. After listening to an absurd analysis of his bad behavior his idiot folks serve up to a wise and perceptive cop, Jim goes from being a giggling, singing drunk to a screaming mess in like two seconds flat and he screams, “You’re tearing me apart!”

I think the scene bugs me because Jim’s sudden outburst of emotion is supposed to be surprising and raw. As if the director’s making a point about showing how Jim is all honest when all the adults around him are being brittle and phony. But the outburst never strikes me as surprising or raw. Maybe it hit viewers like that back in 1955, but I always figured that anyone watching it today would think the scene was silly and melodramatic. A weird criticism from me, I guess, since one of the reasons I love the movie is because it’s silly and melodramatic. Go figure.

Anyway, I was rethinking the realness of the scene when Tom and I were sitting in the campus security office, talking to the college’s head of security and an officer from the Ellery police. Tom was in Wall Street Avenger mode (more Hawkeye than Hulk, thankfully), explaining who I was and who he was and how he thought I needed to formally report a crime. I was shifting around in the uncomfortable chair, trying to keep from screaming. I have no idea what form the scream would take if I let it out—if it would be coherent words or a groan or some kind of spasm. Or, who knows, maybe I’d suddenly twist my face in anguish a la Jimmy Dean and shout “you’re tearing me apart!”

Tom would recognize the line—even though he hated the movie because it was, yeah, too silly and melodramatic. Maybe he sensed my hysteria, or maybe it was that point in the convo when he deemed it good to show me some support—obviously I hadn’t been paying attention, so I wasn’t sure—and he put his hand on my jittering knee. “Are you going to be okay to give your statement now, Ray?”

I glanced at the lawmen. They were both youngish, easygoing types. Guys who probably volunteered as coaches for the local youth hockey league and who performed triathalons to fundraise for Ellery Hospital’s cancer center. Ruddy cheeks, clear eyes, square jaws, sturdy bodies that smoothed out the creases in their uniforms.

There was a possibility they could bust the guys responsible for trashing the carriage house. But there was no way they or any of their counterparts could solve the mystery of hatred or get to the bottom of the idea that difference was a threat that had to be slashed and pissed on.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay.” I didn’t take this opportunity to discuss my theory of “okay relativity” and that right then I was comparing my state of okay with the states of the gazillions of people on the planet who had it waaaaaay worse than me. My knee wouldn’t stop jittering. Tom gave it a squeeze.

“When we’re done here we’ll go over to the house, okay?”

“The house?” My knee stopped its jitterbug.

He shot me a look like, haven’t you been paying attention?

Nope, I shot him my own look.

“They’re having an emergency council meeting about what happened. I need to go and I think you should go too.”

Dave’s words rang in my ears. Be brave. Be a friend. Deal with the hard shit.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”

After giving my statement as quickly and clearly as I could manage, and answering a bunch of questions as quickly and clearly as I could manage too, I was having difficulty believing I could ever do anything in a quick, clear way again.

On the walk to Fenton, Tom was right there next to me, occasionally putting his hand on my elbow or shoulder to steer me and keep me upright. Or maybe he was just making sure I didn’t cut loose and run.

When I was a kid I’d loved to hold Tom’s hand wherever we went—on the short walk from his car to my school building, in the supermarket, across the lawn. At first he’d been uncomfortable with it. I could tell because his fingers were stiff and he’d disengage at the first opportunity. But I figured I’d trained him well because after a few months he’d been the one to instigate most of the handholding.

Looking at him now I wondered about how odd it must have been for him—all of a sudden having a needy, quirky little kid clinging to him all the time. He’d done a pretty good job dealing with me. Better than my parents. At least Tom kept trying. Then and now.

“Hey, Tom,” I said.

“What?” He looked down at me as we kept walking, his forehead creased with worry lines.

“Thanks.”

His mouth turned down on one side. I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t ask me to explain. I didn’t have the energy. Plus I’d meant it as sort of a blanket thanks for a bunch of shit I knew I couldn’t articulate. I also realized I might finally be ready to tell him the truth about what had happened when I wrecked his car. But that would have to come later too. Right now I needed to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

He was probably just as exhausted as I was, and he didn’t ask for an explanation. He just said, “We’re gonna figure this shit out,” and kept guiding me down the sidewalk.

As we approached the house’s sloping lawn, I noticed a few guys standing on the terrace. I couldn’t tell who they were—the terrace was too far away from the sidewalk—but their postures were all hunched shoulders and hands shoved in pockets. Serious Fen-men today. Party was over for a while.

I was clenching my own hands tightly inside my jacket pockets when one of the guys started loping across the lawn. Wyatt. As soon as I saw him in motion—easy-moving long legs and compact arm swings—I recognized him.

“Ray,” he called.

Tom and I stopped, waiting. As he jogged closer, I saw that his eyes were wide, wild, completely un-sheriff-like. He flicked a glance at Tom and pulled up, slowing his steps. His arms flopped and he ran a hand over his crazy curls. “Hey,” he said. The word came out squeaky—a sound I’d never heard from his mouth before.

“Hey,” I said. His gaze traveled over me, once, twice, three times, as if he didn’t know where to focus, but he couldn’t look away. I shifted my weight in my borrowed shoes, feeling…weird, uneasy, unsure, overwhelmed. Too many things. I wanted to take his hand, say something comforting. He looked like he needed some comfort. I know I needed some.

“How’s it going, Kelly?” Tom asked, his tone semi-dry, as if he thought maybe it would be good to remind Wyatt about reality.

Wyatt ignored him, keeping his eyes locked on mine.

“You’re okay?” he croaked.

“Yeah,” I said, adding a reassuring nod. “I’m doing all right.”

“You didn’t answer your phone…I’ve been calling, texting…”

“Oh.” I gulped. He’d been worried. More than worried by the look of him. He’d probably seen the apartment when the cops showed up earlier. I should have called him. Was he mad I hadn’t called him? I blinked, feeling more tired and confused than I’d ever felt in my tired and confusing life. “I don’t know where my phone is…”

Tom spoke up, saving two desperately freaked-out people from more lame attempts at communicating. “I’m thinking Ray’s phone is probably up in the carriage house apartment. We’ll figure it out later. Right now we have a council meeting. Right?”

Wyatt nodded slowly, like he was coming out of a trance. “Right.”

Tom and I followed Wyatt up the lawn to the house. After we got inside, we stood in the front hall for a moment. My ears buzzed in the eerie quiet. I was thinking the place was empty—maybe the boys had become victims of a zombie horde or a goon squad hired by Teddy’s dad—but when Tom put his hand on my shoulder, steering me like a three-wheeled wagon down the center hall, I heard the low-level hum of voices engaged in serious discussion. We arrived at the open double doors of a big, bookshelf-lined room. About a dozen Fen-men were congregating around a round table, some of them seated in leather club chairs, some standing.

Mike stood next to the door. He caught sight of us and said, “Oh! Hey, Ray. Hey, Professor Perlmutter.”

The conversation going on between the other guys stopped as they turned to look at me and Tom and Wyatt.

“Gentlemen.” Tom nodded.

They mumbled a bunch of greetings that weren’t exactly gentlemanly. Lots of “uh, hey’s” and “what’s up’s”. The weird quietness descended again and for a few moments everyone stood in place and stared. Them at us. Us at them.

Finally Tom took a step forward and a boy on the left side of the table vacated a chair, making room for their fearless leader. I got offered a chair by Hoke, but I waved him off and shuffled to a spot against the wall just inside the door next to Mike. Wyatt stood next to me, the sleeve of his jacket brushing mine. My hand jerked but I made it behave, spreading my fingers, pressing my palm against the paneled wall behind me.

Tom flexed his formidable running-the-show muscles and commandeered the meeting. He gave a short but detailed explanation of what was happening. My version would have been shorter: Teddy’s folks were upset because Teddy’s beautiful face had been rearranged by the carriage house stairs and lawn. The council—and Wyatt specifically—were in trouble for renting out an apartment that wasn’t up to code or inspected. Teddy’s folks were not going to be easily placated. Attorneys—the house’s and the college’s and the Solomons’—would be handling things. The boys were not to discuss the case, even with each other.

At the end of Tom’s summary, Mike spoke up. “But what about what happened to the apartment? And Ray’s stuff? Doesn’t take a genius to figure out who was responsible. Teddy’s buds were fit to be tied after he went down yesterday.”

I cast a glance around the room. I didn’t see Crabbe or Goyle. Not a surprise. They weren’t exactly bright bulbs within the Fenton glow of manhood and responsibility and thus not Fenton council material.

Mike was still ranting. “And what about all the shit Ted said at the council meeting last night? That was beyond uncool, man. Wyatt had every right to take him out but he didn’t. And now Wy’s gotta pay the price? Unbelievable—”

Tom held up a hand. “Sorry, Mr. Mettler, but I’m not going to discuss those details until things are resolved with the attorneys and the police.”

“Um…hey?” I pushed away from the wall, cleared my throat and tried again. “Hi. I’d like to discuss some stuff.”

“Ray, this isn’t the time or the—”

“I want to clarify a few things.” I spoke right over Tom’s warning. Years of practice and all that. “First I wanted to say thanks to those of you on the pool team. You guys treated me cool even when I kicked your butts on the tables.” I swallowed and then continued to talk over a few nervous-sounding chuckles. “All I wanted to do was play pool and I never really had any designs on becoming a pledge. Maybe on your wallets, but, um, yeah…” More nervous chuckles. I ran a hand over my hair, keeping my focus away from Wyatt. I could do this, maybe, if I pretended he wasn’t there.

Tom was watching me, blue eyes wide with interest. When he shifted in his chair, throwing signals he was about to take over again, I kept going, “Also, I wanted to say that I was never a tenant of the carriage house. Wyatt hired me to help get the place ready for renting to a true bro maybe later this summer. I mighta slept up there because I’d had a falling out with my family and I didn’t want to take the time to work things out at home.” I waved my hand vaguely at Tom. I didn’t have the balls, the energy, or the time to go into parental history, so I hoped it would serve as a semi-decent explanation. “But Wyatt didn’t know the details of any of that. I never signed a lease. I never paid rent. My official address with the college, with the police and with campus security—and I made sure this was clear with all those guys today—is on Locher Ridge. Tom Perlmutter’s house.”

The room was so quiet I could hear the sound of breathing, feet shuffling on the rug, fingertips squeaking on the shiny table.

“Anyway,” I said. “I told the cops I couldn’t really comment all that much on the vandalism or the fight between Teddy and Wyatt because I was only a witness to the aftermath.” I shoved my hands into my pockets and rocked back on my heels, wishing for my old leather jacket and my boots. I swallowed hard. “The aftermath sucked and makes me feel like shit for a bunch of reasons. I’m sorry it had to end this way.” I looked at Tom, pressing my lips together, trying to keep from breathing as if I was about to be attacked by a monster—some hideous creature who had Teddy’s face and a cop’s hat and sticky-icky feathers. “And that’s all I gotta say.”

Tom nodded. “Good.”

I wanted to ask him if he meant good in the sense that I was done talking, or good in the sense that I’d said a bunch of brilliant shit, but my time for productivity seemed to be over for now and I swayed back against the wall, pressing sweaty palms against the smooth wood for support.

Tom pushed his chair away from the table and stood. Several worshipful bros mimicked his actions. “I’ll be in touch. Keep your noses clean, gentlemen.” Too bad he didn’t realize that noses weren’t the problem around here. Dicks, mouths, asses, minds—those were the parts that needed help. But maybe that was too much for even old Tom to conquer. At least as far as today went.

The boys said their goodbyes, some of them singling me out to apologize for what had gone down with the apartment and my stuff. I don’t know if they were being kind because of Tom’s presence or not, but I decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. I needed to do more giving in this life.

We were walking down the hall toward the door—Tom’s arm around my shoulders in a way that, shockingly, was more comforting than annoying—when I heard footsteps clomping behind us.

“Hey, Ray.”

I turned to face Wyatt, Tom’s arm slipping from my shoulders.

“Hey, Earp,” I said, more because it was an automatic response than anything else.

My heart thud-thumped and I had to fist my hands firmly at my sides so I wouldn’t reach for him as he approached.

I held my breath, waiting, trying to read his face.

“What you just said in there…” He tipped his head toward the room we’d just left. “I don’t know if anyone is gonna buy that.”

His half-smile was a good sign, but I didn’t want to hash out stuff with him right then. I was on a mission and didn’t want to be swayed. I had a good plan for next steps, but I was sure the plan would be a disappointment to Sheriff Earp. He didn’t appreciate lies or quick getaways. I told him, “Spinning facts so they fit the situation is a matter of family pride.” I cast a sidelong glance at Tom. “Right, Tom?”

He smiled ruefully. “Yeah,” he sighed. “It kind of is.”

“Got it.” Wyatt smiled his own rueful smile. He ran his hand over his poor, tortured hair. When his ears peeked out from his curls, my aching hands twitched. “I was wondering if you had some time later. There’s some stuff I want to talk about.”

His gaze was on mine, not Tom’s, but Tom answered, “We need to get home to David. And I think Ray here needs a solid ten-twelve hours of sleep. Maybe you could call tomorrow? Ray will be staying at her permanent address for the foreseeable future.”

Damn. Tom sounded like a total dad. Had he ever sounded like this before? Or had I always been so annoyed by the sticky situations we found ourselves in that I tuned him out? Or maybe this was the first time I’d let myself acknowledge that sometimes I needed a dad.

“All right,” Wyatt said. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

I blinked up at him, wishing I could read his expression. Those green eyes, that rock-star mouth, the set, stubbly chin—they were throwing off signs I couldn’t seem to interpret. I realized in that moment how when you fall in love with someone you become a sort of highly specialized anthropologist—an expert on a language and culture contained within a single human being.

The fact that I couldn’t figure out what Wyatt was trying to tell me while we were standing there silently in the hallway with Tom, made my worn-out eyes prickle with fresh tears. I needed more research time, more studying—I needed to put forth better effort because I knew now that Wyatt was the kind of subject who deserved my best A-material. But I’d run out of time.

“C’mon, Ray.” Tom clasped my elbow and led me out of the house.

I waited until I was safely ensconced in the too-cushy bed of one of Tom’s guest rooms before dialing my dad’s personal number. I was using Tom’s cordless phone so it wasn’t a big surprise when my dad, who’d likely seen Tom’s name on the incoming-call screen, answered with “What the hell is going on there?”

“Dad?”

“Rayanna?”

I swallowed. “Yeah.”

“What kind of mess are you in now? Tom called me with news about some strangeness at Fenton. And I got a damn weird email from a kid who says he knows you—”

“Dad,” I cut him off. “I need help.”

This inspired several heart thumps’ worth of silence.

“What happened?”

I exhaled. Was I that bad of a kid that I deserved such a world-weary tone? Maybe.

I briefly explained what had been happening over the last few weeks. I ended the explanation with the stark truth. “I’m in love with Wyatt Kelly. He’s a good guy and I hurt him. This is a turning point for me. I’ll do anything you say if you help.”

His snort was eerily similar to mine. I mean, yeah, genes and all that, but my dad was a fifty-year-old investment manager not a wacky college dropout.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Well, pretty much.”

This earned me another snort. “You’ll re-enroll at Ellery?”

“Yep.” I’d been expecting this one.

“You’ll stop working at that dive?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll clean up your act in terms of dress and behavior?”

I held my breath. Did he mean when I came home, or did he mean permanently? I decided not to ask for clarification. I’d interpret it to mean “cleaning up my act” when I was in Paul’s direct line of sight. It would be Mr. Precise Legal and Business Language Prentiss’s fault if he didn’t spell things out clearly, right? “Yes,” I breathed.

“You’ll stay away from Fenton House and any screwy ideas about…”

He was fumbling for words, trying to think of an inoffensive way to say something offensive. I decided to help him out. “I’ll stay far away from Fenton and its denizens.”

“And you’ll take Tom’s advice about your living situation.”

I snagged my bottom lip with my teeth and thought about this one.

Tom was becoming an interesting factor in my “situation”. Something of a wild card. As in, he might sorta-kinda see my side of things. Sometimes. But my dad didn’t have to know any of that. “Yep,” I said for what I hoped was the final time in this convo.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll get in touch with Tom and get the contact information for the Solomon boy’s attorney.”

“Thanks,” I said. My impulse was to hang up right away, but I stayed on the line, waiting to see what else he had to say. Apparently he didn’t have anything else to say because the line went dead. “Bye, Dad,” I whispered.

I shoved the phone under my pillow and shoved my mind into a better place called sleep.

The next afternoon, I was sitting with Dave on the front porch rockers—two semi-invalids enjoying early May sunshine—when Wyatt’s truck rumbled into the driveway.

“Cool!” Dave hooted. “It’s Wyatt!”

“Yay,” I said, only sort of sarcastically. I was glad to see the sheriff, even though his smile made my heart beat faster and get all achy. Things had been close to divine for those few weeks with him when there were no aches involved. I needed to be satisfied with that.

I flexed my toes inside my Chucks—I’d found an ancient pair in the basement—and rocked the chair, hyperaware of the air rushing in and out of my lungs as I took in the always satisfying sight of Wyatt getting out of his truck.

He shut the door with surprising care, all my favorite muscles flexing beneath a plain navy tee. His shoulders rolled as he stood still for a moment and then turned to face us. I realized he was nervous. He didn’t have to be. Didn’t he realize he was facing two of his biggest fans?

Proving my point, Dave bounded down the stairs and across the lawn to greet him. “Hey, Wy, guess what?”

“What?”

“After going two straight days where I barfed every single thing I ate, I haven’t hurled a single time today!” Dave chuckled. “That’s news you wanted to hear, right?”

Wyatt laughed. “You betcha.”

I smiled as they strolled toward the porch. Wyatt’s gaze caught mine and my smile went lopsided.

“Hey, Ray,” he said.

“Hey.”

Dave continued his scintillating news roundup. “Ray slept for fourteen hours straight and now my dad’s laid up with the barf bug.”

“Fun times at the Perlmutter house,” I said. “Are you sure you want to take another step?” I pointed to the bottom porch step where they were standing.

“Actually I was hoping I could get you to take a ride.”

“Hey, that sounds awesome!”

Wyatt ruffled Dave’s hair. “Sorry, buddy, not you this time. Just Ray.”

Dave’s light didn’t dim. “Oh!” he said. “That kind of ride.” He huffed another evil chuckle.

My cheeks got hot, but I managed to say with a fair amount of affection, “Shut up, you evil Goomba.”

I looked at Wyatt. He had a goofy half-smile on his face that was pretty encouraging but I didn’t let myself hope. Things were still in flux. They’d continue to be in flux. Even if he forgave me for my evil ways, even if all the horrible crap about Fenton House and Teddy got resolved quickly, I couldn’t be hopeful.

Technically, I was still keeping things from him. I’d interfered behind the scenes when I’d promised I wouldn’t. What would he think, say, do when he found out about my machinations with my dad?

“I can go for a ride,” I said, my heart slugging my ribs. “But I need to be back in an hour. Lauren’s hanging with Tom right now but she’s gotta leave later.”

Wyatt nodded. “Okay.”

I stood. My hands had gone damp and I wiped them on the butt of my jeans. Actually the jeans were an ancient pair of Tom’s. Threadbare 501’s that I’d had to tie to my hips with a scarf. Between the hand-me-down clothes, my scrubbed-clean face, my floppy hair and my fat lip, I was looking finer than fine. These were the things I was telling myself to get through the day.

“Can you tell Tom what’s up?” I asked Dave.

“Sure,” he said, grinning ear-to-ear at both of us. “Have fun!” Another snarky chuckle.

I rolled my eyes.

“Later, twerp,” Wyatt said.

When I climbed into the truck, inhaling the dirty-oil scent, sliding my butt across the bench seat, gripping the seat cover’s rough fabric with shaky fingers, it was like greeting a friend I thought was gone to me forever. Tears welled in my eyes. I was surprised my body could still manufacture salt water. You’d think it would be fresh out.

Blinking the tears away quickly, I watched Wyatt cross in front of the truck. His brow was slightly furrowed and for the four-gazillionth time since I’d met him, I wondered what was on his mind.

His movements were uncharacteristically clumsy as he slid onto the seat beside me, fumbled with his belt, fired up the ignition. After slowly pulling out of the driveway and giving Dave—who was still standing on the porch grinning—a final wave, he eased the beast onto the street and looked at me. “Do you want to go out to the lake in Lyster?”

“Um…” That was a trip that would take more than hour. A quiet kind of trip to a pretty place. My heart thudded.

“It’s a beautiful day.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It is. The lake sounds good.”

He concentrated on driving through the dense afternoon traffic downtown, staying silent as he competently maneuvered the truck between students and Land Rovers and Subarus and buses. The windows were rolled all the way down and I leaned my elbow on the door, letting the sun bake the pale skin of my forearm, content to be silent along with him and simply enjoy the ride.

When we got onto the highway leading to Lyster, my nerves got the better of me and I turned to him and said, “I need to tell you something.”

For some reason this made him grin.

“What?” I asked.

“I was remembering the first time we rode in this truck together.”

“You were?”

“Yeah. Things are different now, but still kind of the same. I know some of your secrets but in lots of ways you’re still a mystery.”

“Secrets?”

“Yeah.”

“What are they?”

“I’m not gonna tell. They’re secrets.”

“But if they’re my secrets you can share with me, right?”

“Nope.”

“You’re a goofball.”

“That is definitely not a secret.”

“Got that right.”

His hand rested on the seat between us, his fingers three inches from mine. I looked out the window, avoiding the temptation of a tentative pinky rub.

“I talked to my dad yesterday,” I said.

When he didn’t say anything, I looked over at him. He was grinning at the windshield. “See, that’s a secret I know,” he said.

“What do you mean, you know?”

“I talked to your dad too.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. And you were right.”

“I was right?”

“Yep. He’s an asshole.”

I swallowed. “What did you talk about?”

He shrugged, draped his wrist over the steering wheel. Deliberate. All casual and relaxed. He was working me, dang it.

“What?” I demanded.

“We talked about the internship. The situation at the house. You.”

There was another long pause.

“Oh my God,” I ground between my teeth. “If you don’t tell me right now what happened I am gonna…”

He grinned slowly, turning his head toward me. “You’re gonna what?”

“I don’t know.” I whimpered. “Earp,” I croaked. “I’m dying. You gotta tell me.”

“I told him I didn’t want the internship. I made the decision yesterday. Right after he sent me a reply to my email asking to find you a job. A reply that will go down in the annals of my message history as the most fucked-up, arrogant, pole-up-the-ass—”

“What did he say?” I interrupted because I already knew my dad was all those things.

“I should let you read it because, really, it’s like the biggest, most amazing example of asshole-ishness I’ve ever seen. You would truly appreciate it.” He said all this with a sort of edgy delight. As if he was impressed and repulsed in equal parts. “I am so sorry to hear you might have become caught up in my daughter’s confusion,” he uttered in horrific upper-crust Downton Abbey-esque tones, “so sorry you might have become the tool through which she tries to pry meaning from her life…”

I winced, screwing up my nose, gripping the seat with a shaky hand. “Oh man,” I repeated.

“But I’m not going to let you read it,” he continued. “Because I love you too much to let you see that shit. I mean, my grandpa can be a real hard-assed jerk, but there’s always love and a try at understanding there to back up his demands, you know? There was absolutely zero understanding coming from your dad. Not even an effort.”

I nodded. My throat was clogged.

“Between the email and the phone conversation and the stuff Perlmutter was telling me on the phone this morning while you were asleep… God. I’m sorry you had to grow up listening to that guy, Ray. And I’m fucking sorry about other shit too. The shit that happened in the carriage house—I was an idiot for not being more careful about the way I handled all that with the brothers—and the fact that I didn’t realize how much of a fucking psycho Solomon was—”

“Stop,” I croaked. “We don’t have to talk about the apartment right now, do we?” Even though I got how much he wanted to apologize, I didn’t want to think deeply about what had happened with the carriage house. Not today anyway. I closed my eyes. Because I just couldn’t even…

“No,” he said. “We don’t. But I didn’t want you to feel any guilt about that internship biz. It was easy to tell him I didn’t want it. It felt good. As if I’d made a narrow escape, you know?”

I wasn’t sure I believed him one hundred percent. But I understood the good feeling that came from telling my dad “no”.

When I opened my eyes, Earp gave me another look. The searching kind. “After I told him I had other plans, he told me about the conversation he’d had with you yesterday afternoon…” he paused, watching the road for a few moments, “…and he told me you’d said you were in love with me and because of this love you were willing to do what he asked and sacrifice everything that makes you you. It was at that point that I gave him the famous Ray goodbye.”

“The Ray goodbye?” I whispered.

“I told him to fuck off.”

“You told Paul Prentiss to fuck off?”

“Yep. It felt fucking awesome.” He laughed. Half cackle, half guffaw.

“You do realize that I have never, ever told my dad to fuck off.”

He raised his brows at this. “You haven’t?”

“No. Are you kidding?” Sure, I’d said plenty of nasty stuff to my dad over the years, but I’d never dropped the f-bomb on him. I mean, I’d lived to the ripe old age of twenty. That kinda proved it.

“You need to try it.” He grabbed his phone from the dash, handed it to me. “In fact, I think you should do it right now.” His eyes flicked from the road to me and back to the road. He was excited. “Start off by telling him you love me again.” Another quick eye flick to me, this time with a smile. “I think that’s a great way to start any conversation, by the way. But this time tell him I love you back.” His mouth firmed and his jaw went rigid. Earp-serious. “And tell him love makes you strong, not weak. You won’t be needing to jump through any of his bullshit hoops for me. Unless they’re hoops you actually like.”

I looked at the phone. I wanted to say all that stuff to my dad. I really, really wanted to. But not now. Later.

Right now I needed to let Wyatt’s words sink down into my skin. Feel them burrow their way into my heart where they belonged. Let them settle into a space where I could believe them and live with them and let them grow.

When I didn’t take the phone, he set it on the seat between us and took my hand in his. “Maybe later,” he said.

My fingers flexed against his. His hand felt so good. Warm. Rough-skinned and strong. Utterly reassuring. One of those magenta-hued bubbles expanded in my chest. This time it was formed from relief. I was so completely, utterly grateful Wyatt was touching me, speaking to me, not shutting me out. We were gonna talk this through. Work this out.

I pressed my other hand against our entwined fingers. I bowed my head—it was too heavy to hold up—and rested my forehead on the hand sandwich I’d made.

We drove in silence for a few miles. “What about the lawsuit?” I asked, raising my head. “What about the liability stuff and the house and all that? I don’t want everything to go to hell for you because of what happened. I can’t take it if—”

“Nothing’s going to happen with a lawsuit. There’s going to be too much evidence that proves Teddy encouraged his buddies to trash the carriage house. His parents are gonna have to back down.”

“Evidence?”

“Yeah. I told you Teddy and his friends weren’t exactly well-liked by the bros. At the house last night it was pretty much pile on the hate and squash ’em.” His shoulders shuddered as he exhaled long and low. “We all saw the carriage house, Ray. Hard not to imagine what could have happened if you’d been there. It was personal. Not some random act of strangers. We all thought about how you must’ve felt when you saw it…” His voice thinned to a rasp and I squeezed his hand tight. He took a couple of deep breaths before saying, “The council is sick of Teddy’s shit and they want him to go down. They will find evidence. They’re like a pack of dogs going after fresh kill.”

A quake shook my body. He flexed his fingers against mine. “Don’t worry about the house or the brothers,” he said. “They’ll be okay. Your dad or Mike’s mom or any number of rich-as-hell alumni will spray a few layers of perfume on all the shit. Happens every time.” He shook his head, looking all disgusted.

I kept hold of his hand—my humanified elixir of life—and looked out the window. All the angles were gentle this afternoon. The velvet-fuzz fields, the tufted hills layering the horizon. The silvered slopes of barn roofs and the mossy trunks of trees. The air blowing on my face was saturated with gold—the light, the scent, the feel—and every pore reveled in its richness.

We were getting close to the lake and I had to ask, “So…what happens now?”

The truck slowed, the engine humming ponderously as it downshifted. Like it, too, was considering this question. We turned onto the small road leading to the lake’s trails.

“Big picture? I don’t know.” The sheriff’s tone was grave but his eyes gleamed leafy bright as they met mine. “Short-term? We’re gonna walk around the lake. Talk some more. Hold hands. Maybe do some kissing.”

My belly fluttered.

“That sound okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Way, way okay.”

The truck slowed to a stop, the big tires making good music against the freshly graveled parking lot. Wyatt dropped my hand so he could turn off the ignition.

In the breezy quiet, he turned to face me, reaching for my hand again, tugging it to rest on his chest. “And it’s okay if…I want to figure out a way to be with you? For a long time. In Ellery, Vermont or wherever. It’s okay if I love you?”

I released my seatbelt with my free hand, sliding across the wide, creaky seat so I could get closer to this guy I’d fallen so hard for. I touched his face, molding my fingers and palm against his temple, cheekbone and chin. When he smiled, the pad of my thumb grazed the lower curve of his lip. So touchable, this mouth. Cool, dry, firm outer layer. Moist, delicious heat inside. I was crazy about this mouth and it had just uttered the craziest questions. So crazy they were making my heart flail in a happy dance.

“That’s ginormously, stupendously okay,” I told him before leaning in to let my lips join my thumb in its blissful inspection. One butterfly kiss. Two. Three. I paused, inhaling the warmth of his breath. “Okay in every imaginable sense of the word.”