I try and fail at keeping the emotion out of my voice. My parents respect logic, not feelings. And one has no place with the other.

“You can’t fault her for being compassionate and for acting instinctively, Richard. That’s how you do business, and she’s just emulating her father. And really, as far as mistakes go, it’s a small one in comparison to what other children her age get up to. And people talk, I happen to know for a fact that several of the councilors’ kids have been in trouble for far worse. They’ll understand.”

“Yes, but I hold Dylan to a higher standard. She’s better than other kids her age, more aware.”

I’m not. I’m just better at pretending.

“And she’s met that standard for years without any issues. She’s not an employee, Richard. She’s your daughter.”

Dad lays down his knife, and it clangs against his plate. He frowns down at the food that he’s only really been pushing around since the conversation began.

“So what do you propose I do? Let her off without any form of reprimand?”

I speak up then. “I decided to sign up for the Renew Project that the university is sponsoring, the one where students are repairing homes for the underprivileged and elderly in town. It’s three days a week until school starts, and then every Saturday through the end of September. I thought it might be a good way to channel my frustrations into something positive. To give back.”

“There,” Mom says. “That sounds like a perfectly respectable way to redeem her actions.”

Dad frowns, but says, “Fine. I suppose that works.”

Under the table, I unclench my fists, the indents of my fingernails smarting on my palms. With that settled, Mom picks up the conversation for the rest of dinner, asking Dad questions about his trip, telling him about the few days she spent without him and how miserable she was.

And for the first time, I look at the two of them and wonder if they love each other. Or if they’re just like Henry and I were . . . a good fit.

I think then about my birth mother. I never think about her. There’s not much point since she died before I was put in foster care. But I can’t help but wonder now how different my life would have been with her. Would I know myself better? Would I even be myself?

It’s too much to think about. And it can’t change anything anyway. That part of my life is long gone.

When I’m getting ready to leave and head back to my apartment an hour later, Dad wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close. “I don’t like being disappointed in you.”

Something pinches in my chest, and somehow, even though he’s hugging me tight, that one sentence is the worst moment of the whole night.

“I don’t, either.”

Even after he lets me go, it still feels like his arms are constricting around me, like there are these bands that are always there, but now they’ve gotten just a little bit tighter, a little bit more noticeable.

I try to forget about them all the way home, try not to feel them as I crawl into bed. But there are too many things I’m trying to forget, and I can’t seem to block any of them out effectively.

And Silas was right.

I so badly need to breathe.

Chapter 13

Silas

Brookes is in the kitchen when I head downstairs in the morning. There are few things that can make me get up this early in the morning. Football is one of them. Dylan is apparently another.

I walk past him for the pantry, where I dig out a couple of protein bars for breakfast. Dylan should be here any minute, so I don’t have time for anything more.

“So, I guess you’re not coming to practice,” Zay says.

I look down at the old jeans I’d pulled on instead of athletic clothes.

“Coach told me not to.” I peel open the wrapper on one of the bars and take a bite.

“For how long?”

I shrug. “A week.”

He whistles. “And two games?”

“At least. He threatened worse if I don’t get my shit together.”

“I’m sorry, man. I should have said it yesterday. I can’t imagine how you’re feeling.”

“Not good.”

He stands and takes his dishes to the sink.

“What are you doing today, if you’re not allowed at practice?”

“Something with Dylan. I don’t really know.”

“Dylan?”

“The girl who handed you your ass yesterday.”

He crosses his long arms over his chest and surveys me.

“You’re seeing her again? You guys a together or something?”

“Nah. Not really. She’s, I don’t know, a preppy rich kid sowing some wild oats. I doubt she sticks around long.”

The words feel wrong in my mouth even before I say them. But just because I have to open up to her, doesn’t mean I want to spill my guts to everyone. It’s better if everyone thinks she is just another girl.

But as usual, Isaiah Brookes is a hard man to fool.

“Normally it’s you that doesn’t stick around long.”

I throw away the empty wrapper for one bar and tear open another. I don’t reply because lie or not . . . he’s right, and I don’t know why this time is different. My deal with Dylan isn’t a relationship . . . I don’t want or know how to have one of those, but I also hope this deal sticks. I have to make it work not just for football, but to keep her around. I can’t think about why that’s important right now, but it is.

“Is she part of this? Whatever mess you’ve got going on?”

“No. God no. She’s just about the only damn thing that’s not part of it.”

The doorbell rings, and I finish scarfing down the last of my breakfast.

“That’s her. Do me a favor? Tell Coach I’m working shit out.”

I’m almost out of the kitchen when he calls out my name.

“Yeah?”

He says, “Be careful.”

“I plan on staying far away from all kinds of trouble.”

“I meant with this girl. I don’t want it to f**k your head up more if it goes south.”

I don’t have a reply to that, so I just nod instead. I stride the last few feet to the front door and pull it open. Dylan pulls off her sunglasses and gives me a small smile. She’s wearing a blue tank top that’s almost the color of her eyes, and her thick hair is pulled back and away from her face. I can see the straps of a sports bra over her shoulders, and it has her tits pushed up and together. A pair of worn, perfectly fit jeans hug her h*ps just right.