She smacks my arm, laughing. “No, me right now. I could say what I’m feeling right now or something. I mean, isn’t that the point of what you’re doing? To figure out how people feel and see life?”

I shrug, my legs hanging out of the car as I prepare to jump out. “I don’t know. I was kind of just thinking that it could be like a video diary or something about my life… my thoughts… the way I see things.”

“Hey, I’m huge part of your life, Nova Reed. You better include me in this.”

“Did you seriously just last-name me, Delilah Peirce?”

She grins, grabbing the keys from the ignition. “Oh, yeah. Now pull out that damn camera so I can tell the world my insightful views on life.”

I readjust my legs back into the car and retrieve my phone from my pocket, regretting telling her my summer filming plan. “Okay.” I swipe my finger across the screen and click on the video icon.

“We’re so going to get you a real camera.” She turns sideways in the seat and tousles her auburn hair with her fingers. “That thing’s going to make me look all blotchy.”

I hold up the phone, positioning it so I can see her in the screen. “You know they cost a shitload of money, right?” I click Record. “Okay, go.”

“Wait, what should I say?” she asks, still fussing over her hair. The sun shines brightly behind her and all that’s really showing up on the screen is her silhouette. “I’m drawing a blank.”

Pressing my lips together, I try to restrain the laughter bubbling up in my throat. “I don’t know. You’re the one who wanted to do this.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Well, you’re the director.”

“I am not,” I protest. “I’m just a girl with a camera trying to see life through a different eye.”

She points a finger at me and gives a clever look. “That should be your title.”

I sigh with frustration. “It only records for a few minutes, so if you’re going to say something, you better hurry up and do it.”

She wavers for a few seconds longer, and then smiles perkily at the camera, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “Okay, so here’s the deal. I know what you’re all thinking. That I’m just a ditzy redhead wearing slutty clothes that’s about to go in and screw her ex-boyfriend who cheated on her.” She waves her finger at the camera and clicks her tongue. “But don’t be fooled, my friend. What you see on the outside might not be who I am on the inside, and I always have my reasons for the crazy, impulsive things that I do.” She strikes a pose, blowing a kiss at the camera, and then rolls her eyes and her shoulders slump. “Okay, Nova, I’m done.”

I keep recording for a few seconds longer. She’s never said anything like that before, and I find it fascinating that she’ll say it to a camera, especially with me behind the lens. I press Stop, and the screen shifts back to the icon. I tuck my phone back in my pocket, and Delilah grabs the door handle.

“Shall we?” she asks.

I nod. “We shall.”

We climb out of the truck and meet around the front. I start counting my steps the moment we head across the gravel. One… two… three…

“So I was thinking we should relax tonight,” Delilah says, linking arms with me as we walk toward the gate lined with rusty five-gallon paint buckets.

Four… five… six…

“And avoid any kind of drama,” she adds as she opens the chain-link gate.

Seven… eight… nine… “Like getting into fights?” I latch the gate shut. Ten… eleven… twelve…

When we make it to the front door, she slips her arm from mine. “Hey, I only did that once,” she says, squaring her shoulders and sticking out her chest. “And the bitch deserved it.”

“You broke her arm,” I remind her, as she raps her fist on the door.

“She tried to kiss Dylan,” she hisses with a conniving grin, then she pops her knuckles. “She totally deserved more. She’s lucky you were there to stop me.”

I shake my head and a small smile escapes. Every once in a while, in the rarest of moments, I manage to get it right: to smile without feeling guilty about it. But as quick as it comes, I’m frowning again as I drift back into the numbness.

“Come in!” Someone hollers from the other side of the door after Delilah knocks on it again.

She puts her flirting face on, hiking up her denim skirt a little, before shoving the door open and strutting inside. I follow her, walking into a room full of humidified smoke tainted with the stench of weed, dingy plaid sofas, and a cracked coffee table. The wood panel walls have water stains on them, and the once white ceiling is discolored. The kitchen to my side overflows with empty alcohol bottles, cigarette butts, dirty dishes, and garbage. On the far wall is what I’m guessing is a hallway, but a putrid orange curtain hangs over the entrance. A little over a year ago, I’d never be caught in a place like this—it wasn’t who I was or who Landon would let me be. But I don’t know who I am anymore, and that makes it harder to find reasons not to be here, except for maybe the fact that the unfamiliarity raises the obsessive need to count all the damn photos hanging on the wooden paneling.

“Holy hell. You look even more beautiful than I remember.” Dylan rises from the chair he’s lounging in and places the cigarette he’s holding in the ashtray. He’s tall, kind of lanky, and his head is shaved. There are intricate tattoos covering his arms, most in black, but a few are filled in with shades of crimson and indigo.

Delilah lets out a squeal as she jumps up and down, then runs into Dylan’s arms. They embrace each other passionately and immediately seal their lips together in a fervent kiss. Tristan, who’s playing darts over in the far corner by himself, looks at me then rolls his eyes at Delilah and Dylan, giving me a halfhearted shrug. I don’t know Tristan very well, but he’s always seemed like a really nice guy. Under normal circumstances kissing him would have probably been enjoyable. He had nice lips, and even though his blond hair is a little scraggly, it’s really soft. He has lean arms, is tall with broad shoulders, and has dark blue eyes. In reality, as I look at him, he seems out of place in a home like this, littered with glass bongs and roach clips and ceramic pipes, kind of similar to the ones Landon kept hidden in his room.

Minutes later, Dylan’s and Delilah’s lips are still attached, and their hands roam all over each other as they wander through the curtain, leaving me in the room with Tristan and his darts.

He watches me for a moment, and then grabs a red plastic cup from the coffee table. “So what have you been up to?” he asks, setting the cup down after he takes a swallow. He turns back to the dartboard, aiming the tip of one while shutting an eye.

“School.” I wind around a sofa, reducing the distance between us. There’s music playing from an old stereo in the corner, “Emily” by From First to Last. “Other than that, not a whole lot.” I step up beside him and stare at the dartboard as he throws the dart, hitting it just outside of the center. “You?”

He shrugs and extends his hand for the cup again. “Work, life, honestly nothing that great.” He puts the rim of the cup up to his lips and tips his head back, chugging a mouth full before crushing the cup and tossing it into an overflowing trash can in the corner near a lamp without a lampshade. “You need a drink or something?”

I debate my options. The buzz from the few sips I took from the flask has simmered down, so either I can stand here and count all night until Delilah finishes up with Dylan or I can take Tristan up on his offer and try to find some kind of silence in alcohol. “What do you have?” I ask.

He smiles and motions at me to follow him as he hops over the back of the couch and proceeds for the kitchen. I choose to walk around the sofa, constructing my own path, noting it takes me twelve controlled, steady steps to follow him to the fridge. He opens the door, pokes his head inside, and starts rummaging around through the various brands of beer. He ends up selecting a Corona, and I can’t help but briefly smile because after eight months he still remembers my drink. He kicks the fridge door shut with his foot, walks over to the counter, and places the top of the bottle on the edge of the countertop, knocking the cap off.

The golden liquid bubbles as he hands me the opened bottle. “Here ya go.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and move the mouth of the bottle up to my mouth. “Thanks.”

He squeezes between me and the counter and moves back to the living room, rolling up the sleeves of his long-sleeved black shirt. “No problem,” he says. “You look a little tense anyway. Maybe that’ll relax you.”

Nothing will relax me. Ever. Nothing will drown out the memories of that day—no matter how much I fight it—everything I missed. Why did you do it, Landon? Why? As soon as my mind recollects the faint flicker of his sad laughter, the feeling of that goddamn night start to chip away at the wall I put around it. I blink and blink again as tears start to sting my eyes. Shut the hell up. Shut the hell up. Now is not the time. Wait until you’re at home, alone. But they pool in the corners of my eyes, hot liquid about to burn down my cheeks and stain my skin. Panicking, I start to count the lines of the panels that make up the wall. I reach fifteen, and then I tilt my head back, and gulp down half the Corona before I can breathe again.

“You good?” Tristan asks, watching me devour the beer as he holds an assortment of darts in his hand.

I lick the remaining beer off my lips and stride over to the dartboard. “Yeah, I’m great, but can I play? I need a distraction.”

A smile curves at his lips as I start to remove the red darts from the board. “Absolutely, but how about we make it fun and play for something?” His gaze skims up my bare legs, to the hem of my dress, and then up to my eyes. I think he’s going to propose something sexual, by the fiery look in his eyes, but all he says is, “Winner owes the loser twenty bucks?”

I suck back the remaining tears still wanting to spill and stick out my hand. “You have a deal.”

We shake on it and he gives my hand a squeeze before pulling away. “Ladies first,” he says and then steps back toward the couch, making room for me to step up.

I weave around him and position myself in front of the board. I count backward before I inhale and hold my breath as I throw the dart. It hits the bull’s-eye. I force myself to breathe through the memory of the last time Landon and I played darts and he let me win, even though he denied it.

“Wow, I think I might have just thrown away twenty bucks.” Tristan rubs his scruffy jawline and steps up to the dartboard, taking his time targeting the dart. When he shoots it, he starts cursing as the dart bows to the side. It ends up hitting the outer edge of the board and he turns to me, shaking his head.

“Okay, I think I might have had one too many drinks to be playing darts for money,” he says, sitting down on the arm of the chair. He looks me over as the light above my head flickers. “Where’d you learn how to play like that? Or was it beginner’s luck?”