“Thanks for the ride,” I say, laughing slightly when I realize how simplified that sounds. “And saving my mom. And me. And for beating my father’s ass.” My laughing picks up a little more, but it’s a nervous laugh, so I suck it in and try to hold myself together.

“Mind if I tell people my brother James did this?” he says, pointing to the now puffy cheek just below his bruised eye socket. “If people know an old man did this, that won’t be good for me.”

He doesn’t laugh at first, so I just nod yes, and start to say I understand.

“Kens,” he says. “I’m kidding. I just meant I won’t tell anyone. And Andrew won’t either.”

“Oh,” I say, biting my lip and smiling briefly before sliding a step or two away from his truck.

“I’ll see you later. I’ve got some things, okay?” he says, his brow pinching while he looks down to his lap, the light from his phone illuminating the cab of the truck.

“You shouldn’t text and drive,” I say, causing a whisper of a laugh to leave his lips, and a smile to creep up the side closest to me.

“I wouldn’t do anything dangerous,” he says, winking and tossing the phone into the empty seat beside him. His tires kick up gravel as he pulls away, and I wait at the front of the school until his taillights are so far away that I can no longer tell if they’re his.

Chapter 9

I woke up instantly. That sound—it was better than an alarm. That sound was the one noise my subconscious had been on the lookout for—the one thing my ears have been begging to hear.

The bouncing was methodical, and then the clanging of the metal against the eave of the garage was undeniable.

I speed from my room—dressed in only sweatpants and an extra-large thermal shirt— stuff my feet into my boots and race down through the front door and down the porch stairs. My expectations are stunted the second I see a guy, not quite as tall and not nearly as muscular as Owen, tossing a ball up at the hoop—and missing. Repeatedly.

Andrew.

“Oh, damn. I’m sorry. That’s…that’s probably loud, huh?” he says, looking at his watch and then to me, realizing I’m in whatever I slept in.

“Yeah, it’s…it’s okay, though. It’s eight. I should be up anyways,” I say, pulling my arms close from the chill, also trying to bluff the disappointment no doubt painted all over my face.

“You put the hoop back up?” he asks.

That means he knows it was down.

“Yeah, my dad…he was the one who took it down the first time. I felt bad,” I say, but I don’t know how to finish, so I leave it at that.

Andrew bounces the ball a few more times, then turns to take another shot, this time the ball ricocheting off the eave of the house, missing all traces of the rim and backboard. “I suck at hoops,” he says, his sideways grin matching his brother’s. I step closer and pick up the ball. Bending my elbows, I push the ball as hard as I can toward the hoop, and it falls about two feet short, clanging off of the metal of the garage door.

“Me, too,” I laugh.

Andrew kicks the ball up gently a few times until he gets it back in his hands. “Soccer,” he smirks. “I always played soccer.”

“Ah,” I say, holding out my fingers and wiggling them. “Piano. I always played the piano.”

He nods with a quick smile before looking down, an awkward silence settling over both of us. I shiver once, a breeze rustling the newest bronze and yellow leaves in our driveway.

“He likes you,” Andrew says, his words like a blanket of warmth, instantly heating my entire body. My eyes are wide, but I keep my gaze at the ground, away from his.

“Ha,” I let out a quick, sharp laugh.

“No, really. He hasn’t flat-out said it, but he won’t tell me he doesn’t,” he says, and the chill creeps along my skin again.

“That’s nice of you to say, Andrew. But I’m pretty sure your brother would have been happier if this house sat here empty,” I say, kicking at the ground, and moving my hands to the inside of the sleeves of my shirt.

“Maybe at first. But not now,” he says, tossing the ball in the air a few times, then catching it and setting his sightline on me. “He’s heard you play. And he says you don’t anymore. Just…he noticed. And he’s always leaving his window open and shit, even though it’s cold as hell. He listens for you.”

I chew at my bottom lip, every muscle in my mouth working to keep myself from smiling.