Pete lays there on the ground. He’s not even putting up a fight. He just winces, his eyes shut tightly as a slow trickle of blood streams from his nose.

“Stay down,” Dad warns.

Pete nods, and he doesn’t move. But his eyes finally open, and they meet mine. I don’t how to interpret that look at all or what to say. So, I turn and run back to the house. I run like the terrified little girl I am.

I burst through the back door and land in my mother’s arms. She grunts when I hit her in the chest, but it doesn’t stop her from hugging me tightly. “What in the world,” she breathes as she rocks me. She holds me close, stroking my hair until I can breathe. Then she pulls back, takes my face in her hands, and forces me to look at her. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she says.

“I think I made a mistake,” I sob.

“What happened?” she asks as she leads me to the kitchen table. She points to a chair, and I sink into it.

“Nothing,” I squeak, finally able to catch my breath.

I can’t believe I did that. I just assaulted some poor man who did nothing but flirt with me and then tell me he didn’t want to want me. I can’t tell my mother that.

She puts her hands on her hips. “It’s not nothing,” she insists.

The back door opens, and the evidence of my shame walks in behind my dad and Link. I wince and look everywhere but at Pete. “Can you get Pete some ice for his eye?” Dad asks my mom. Her brow arches at me, and she shoots me a glare that would drop a full-grown man in his tracks.

She starts to fill a zipper bag with ice. “And just why does Pete need ice for his eye?” she asks flippantly.

Dad points to me. “Your daughter hit him in the face.”

Mom gasps. “Reagan!”

Mom crosses to stand close to Pete. She looks him over, pressing on the bone beneath his eye with her thumb. He hisses in a breath. One side of his face is dirty, probably from where Dad rolled him into the dirt. Mom passes him a damp cloth, and he wipes gingerly at his face. When it’s clean, Mom presses his eye socket with the pad of her thumb. He winces and jerks his head back.

“I think Reagan did enough damage,” Dad warns. “Stop torturing the boy.” He glares at me, too. I want to hide my face in shame.

Suddenly, I notice the way that Pete is holding his left wrist in his hand. My gaze shoots up to meet his, and I don’t see anything but curiosity. He should be fuming mad. He has every right to be. “Is your arm hurt?” I ask quietly.

The corners of Pete’s lips tilt in a small smile. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Dad gripes. “It might be broken.”

“Oh shit,” I breathe.

“Reagan,” Mom warns.

“Oh shit,” Link parrots.

Shit again. Now Link’s repeating me.

“Oh shit,” Link says again.

I bury my face in my hands. My parents are going to kill me when they get me alone.

“Reagan, I want you to take the truck into town and take Pete to Urgent Care,” Dad says.

I lift my head. He can’t be serious.

“Oh shit,” Link chimes in. Mom grits her teeth.

Dad motions for me to get up and tosses the keys to his truck at my head so that I have to catch them. “Dad,” I complain.

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t particularly want to be in an enclosed space with you any more than you want to be in one with me,” Pete says. He gingerly touches his eye, his face scrunching up.

I deserve that. I really do. I heave a sigh. “Let’s go.”

Pete follows me to Dad’s truck, and then he opens the driver’s-side door for me to climb in. “Thanks,” I grumble. He goes around the truck and gets in the passenger side. “Are you sure you’re injured?”

“My heart’s broken,” he says.

My head jerks up. “What?”

His voice drops down low. “It absolutely kills me that you think I would try to hurt you.” He turns to face me directly. “I remember the way you looked that night. I would never, ever do anything to hurt you like that.”

I start the truck. It’s easier to avoid this conversation if I have something to occupy my hands and a reason not to look at him.

“Never mind.” Pete grunts, turning away from me. He faces the window and lays his temple against it. He cradles his wrist in his hand and doesn’t even look my way.

Pete

I don’t know what to say to her. I have no idea how to address this. I know my wrist hurts, but I also know it’s not broken. Her dad was insistent that she take me to Urgent Care, so I let him send us off. She’s been sitting there in the driver’s seat as we go down the road saying nothing for about ten minutes. Every now and then, she opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, and then she slams it shut.

Suddenly, she jerks the truck to the right, sliding into a turn-out spot and then slams on the breaks. I brace myself with my hands and instantly regret it when pain steals up my wrist. “Shit,” I mutter.

She heaves a sigh and drops her face into her hands. After a moment, she looks up, her green eyes meeting mine. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

That hurt like a mother f**ker, and I’m irritated enough to want her to suffer for a minute. “For which part?” I gripe. I pull my wrist closer to my body and cradle it.

“All of it,” she says. She takes a deep breath and tears well up in her eyes. She blinks them back furiously. All of my anger melts at the sight of her tears.