“When is the last time you hit anyone?” I ask.

Sawyer nods to the house. “Danny was the last person I hit.”

The sliding glass door opens behind me. “That’s a lie,” Lucy says.

“Stay out of it, Lucy,” Sawyer warns her.

“And what, sit here and watch you throw away a perfectly good relationship because you have a distorted view of what really happened? I won’t let you do that. My walls are thin, Sawyer, I could hear everything you said. You have to get over this, son. It’s eating you alive.”

“You weren’t there,” he says.

“No, I wasn’t. But a dozen other people were. And their stories to the police were all the same. Are you saying they all lied?”

“It’s my fault, Lucy.”

“It’s not,” she says. “In fact, from what everyone else said, it was Daniel’s. He took a swing at you. He hit you. Even the police records show you with a black eye.”

“I took a swing at him, too,” Sawyer says, his face filled with excruciating pain.

“Of course you did. You had just been hit,” she says. “And the fact that he stepped out of the way and then tripped because he was drunk, was not your fault.” Lucy turns to me. “They were on the end of the boardwalk at a place where there are a lot of rocks in the sand. Daniel tripped and fell head-first into a rock. He was too drunk to have good reflexes so he didn’t brace himself. The rock ripped through his skull causing a traumatic brain injury. He damaged the frontal cortex of the brain where the higher learning and thought centers are. So now he has a mental handicap, a cognitive deficit, and he will always have the mental capacity of a six-year-old.” She walks over to Sawyer and places a hand on his arm. “And it is not your fault. So quit blaming yourself.”

Sawyer shakes his head over and over.

Lucy sits down next to me as we watch Sawyer pace around the yard. “At first, I think he came around to punish himself. He visited Daniel in the hospital every single day. And after Daniel’s release, Sawyer came to dinner every Sunday. It was hard, seeing my strong and vibrant son revert to such a low level of learning. Even Daniel’s father couldn’t handle it and we divorced a year later. But Sawyer stuck around, visiting him often. Eventually, they became more like brothers.” She nods at Sawyer. “That man has been a Godsend. He’s the light of Daniel’s life. He could have walked away. Most other seventeen-year-olds would have.”

“Do you know about his mom?” I ask.

“I do. In the early days of Sawyer’s coming around, he told me. He told me he was just like his father and that’s why Daniel got hurt. It wasn’t true, of course. He’s nothing like his father.”

“He thinks he’ll hurt me,” I say. “I used to think what he meant was that he would leave me. But he literally thinks he will hurt me. He thinks he’ll hit me like his dad hit his mom.”

“He won’t. I’m sure of it. And even if he had the inclination, I think knowing what happened to his mom and to Daniel would keep him from ever doing it.” She puts her hand on mine. “If I had a daughter, I’d give her my blessing to be with him. That’s how much I trust him.”

“But he doesn’t trust himself,” I say.

“Are you two done talking about me?” Sawyer says, coming up to join us. “Because I need to get back. I have an early flight tomorrow.”

Lucy gives me her phone number and tells me to call her any time. Somehow, I have a feeling this won’t be the last time we talk.

In Sawyer’s car on the way home, I think about everything I found out tonight. Sawyer probably believes it made me think less of him. That couldn’t be further from the truth. If it’s possible, I love him even more.

I look down at my hand and remember the fake proposal from earlier. “We could always tell people the ring had to be sized.”

“What?”

“You know, to explain why I’m not wearing one.”

He cracks a smile. “My fiancée is one smart cookie.”

“Please don’t call me that when it’s just the two of us,” I say, looking out the window, once again being reminded of what can never be.

“Fair enough,” he says.

I stare at the streetlights as they go by, knowing he’s wrong. There’s nothing fair about it.

Chapter Thirty-three

Sawyer

I hide in my closet. Not because I think he will come for me. He never comes for me. But it’s quieter in here, and I bring my Gameboy with me so I don’t hear him yelling. So I don’t hear her crying.

She never cries in front of me. She just smiles. She smiles even though she has a bruise on her arm or a cut on her face. I don’t get it. When I fall off my bike, or rip my pants when I’m sliding in baseball, it hurts. No way would I smile. But she smiles. And she bakes. Usually, after my dad yells and throws things around the house, I get to eat cake. Or cookies. Or brownies.

I hate cake and cookies and brownies.

I hear a crash. Something hits the wall. Probably something my mom loves. Like a vase or a framed photo. He likes to break things she loves. He likes to break her. He loves her. Why does he like to break things he loves?

“I’m sorry,” she cries.

I wonder what she’s sorry for. She does everything he wants. She even makes steak for dinner. She hates steak. But she makes it because she loves him. She loves him so much. She tells me that all the time. She tells me he loves her too. And me. She says he loves me.

But all he ever does is complain that he has to spend money on baseball. Last week, my coach said my bat was getting too small for me and Daddy got mad that he had to buy me a new one. I think he spent fifteen dollars at the second-hand store to get me a bat that was all scratched up. I’m not sure why he got mad at Mommy for that, but he did. And the next day, we ate chocolate cake.

Finally, I hear Daddy’s car start and pull out of the driveway. That’s when I know it’s safe to go out.

“Mommy?” I ask, from outside their bedroom door.

“I’ll be right out,” she sings from inside.

I go wait on the couch. It takes her a long time to join me. When she does, I can tell she’s been crying. And I know what she was doing in her bedroom. She was using that brown stuff on her face. The stuff she usually puts on when we go out somewhere. It makes her look prettier than she already is. She always puts it on after she fights with Daddy.

“Okay,” she says, walking into the room. “What shall we do for the rest of the evening?”

I shrug. “Can you toss me some baseballs out back?”

She smiles at me. “Of course.”

I run to my room and get my glove. But as soon as we’re out back, I feel bad, because I notice she’s trying to throw balls to me with her left hand because her right hand is hurt.

I put my glove down. “I don’t want to throw balls anymore,” I say. “Let’s do something else.”

“Want to help me bake something?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t like it when you bake.”

“You don’t? Well, that’s silly. Who doesn’t like cookies and cakes?”

I shrug.

“Well, what would you like me to make you then?”

“Nothing,” I say. Because I know whatever she would make would become something I hate, too.

“How about we go inside and play Scrabble?”

I nod. “Okay, Mommy. But don’t let me win. I don’t like it when you let me win.”

She studies me, probably reading more in my eyes than she ever has before. I’m almost ten. I’m growing up. I see things. I get things. And maybe she’s beginning to understand that.

“We’ll be okay, Sawyer,” she says. “Everything will be okay.”

“Nothing will be okay!” I yell at her. “Nothing will ever be okay!”

“Sawyer, don’t yell at me.”

I look at Mommy, but it’s not Mommy. It’s Aspen. And she’s beautiful. Just like a butterfly. I brush a hair from her face and notice my hands are big. Big like a man’s. I’m a man.

Then someone else walks into the room. “Penny is mine,” Bass says. “She’s always been mine and she’ll always be mine.”

I step across the room and punch him. “She’s mine!” I yell, as he falls to the floor.

“Sawyer, stop it!” Aspen shouts, running over to help Bass.

“You love him, don’t you?” I ask. “You lied. You said you loved me, but you really love him. You’re a liar. Just like my mom was when she said she loved my dad.”

Then Aspen hits the floor, falling on top of Bass, blood trickling from her mouth. She looks up at me and smiles. “I told you you were just like your father.”

I look at her swelling face and then at my hands.

I look at myself in the mirror and then I fall to my knees, knowing she’s right. I’m not only just like him – I am him. And I know for sure I can never, ever have her.

“Sawyer!” someone shouts.

I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I wake up and look around my dark bedroom. I let out a sigh. “What is it?”

“I think you were having a nightmare,” Aspen says.

I try to shake off the dream. The vision of her on the floor, swollen and bleeding from my fist. I close my eyes, willing myself to speak without my voice cracking. “I guess I should start sleeping with my door shut.”

“No. It’s okay. You didn’t bother me. I’m sure all our talking earlier brought a lot of stuff to the surface.”

“I’m fine. You can go back to bed.”

She climbs into bed with me, sitting up against the headboard. “I’d rather stay in here.”

“Suit yourself,” I say, turning away from her and lying back on my pillow.

“Is that really how you’re going to play this? I’m not her, Sawyer. You’re not him.”