“When do you want to see me?” he says, putting some extra smooth sweetness in his voice, like he’s spreading a layer of Nutella over his words. I can’t even lie. . . . It’s sexy.

“Like now. Like right now,” I say, and laugh. “But I guess I could settle for this weekend.”

“Look, I’ll drive out there this second if you want me to.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says.

My heart lights up at the possibility of seeing him. “You wouldn’t get in trouble? You can sneak out this late without your parents noticing?”

“I wouldn’t have to sneak. It’s only my father and me, and he doesn’t really care what I do,” he answers in a voice that tells me he doesn’t feel lucky to have so much freedom.

The hurt on his face earlier today jumps to the front of my mind, and I want to ask why his father doesn’t care and where his mom is. But thinking about turning the conversation toward parents is making my own pain feel naked. A dark cloud swoops in, covers it, and I say, “Well, I’d definitely get in trouble. What about Friday?”

“I have a game on Friday. What about Saturday?” he asks.

“That works.”

“Okay, text me your address.”

My address. Dang, that’s what Daddy called about earlier. Cole and I will be staying at his new rental house this weekend. But how can somewhere I’ve never been, somewhere Daddy doesn’t belong, be my address?

Daddy’s supposed to be lying on the sofa in our living room right now, watching SportsCenter. He’s supposed to be standing in front of the stove tomorrow morning, whisking pancake mix in his big plastic bowl (the only plastic bowl in the house . . . Mom’s tea is not the only thing she’s bougie about). I swear sometimes I can still hear him shouting at the TV. I can smell his aftershave when I walk past the stove. But he’s never there to reach out and hug me.

The cloud grows larger, but it’s still not big enough to cover the pain. I put down my notebook and pen and gently reach for the lamp on my nightstand—cover myself in pitch darkness.

“I mean, not right now or anything. I can get it from you later.”

“Huh?”

“Your address. No rush. We have all week,” Rex explains.

“Yeah,” I say, struggling for more words. Lying in bed with Rex on the other end of my phone should feel like heaven. But the darkness all around me, inside me, won’t let me feel anything good. “I’m about to go to bed.”

“Okay, talk tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“And the day after that?”

“Yeah.”

“And the day after that?”

A tiny sun peeks up from behind the cloud inside of me and I answer, “Yeah,” smiling a little.

“And the day after that?”