I tell Trey all about it. I talk about the years of verbal abuse, the way he “spanked” Ryan for the slightest thing, how even after my mom packed us into the car along with all the clothes and food that could possibly fit, he continued to harass us with phone calls and e-mails. I talk about the restraining order that finally started us down the path of getting him out of our lives for good. And how even though I liked my new stepdad, part of me was terrified of him until the day Paul showed up to my first game as a varsity starter, his face painted in school colors, waving those stupid pompoms. It was a big deal. I was starting point guard as a freshman; everyone in school just knew me as “the tall girl,” and several of my teammates and their parents resented me deeply at first. But Paul made friends with every single person in the stands that year, and by the end of the season, his friendliness and grace and enthusiasm had somehow extended to me, like an umbrella of protection.

Trey brakes as something furry scampers out of our way. A raccoon maybe. “Is that how you met Shawntelle?” he asks.

“We met in seventh grade, played middle school ball together. One day our coach cut practice short again. I was complaining that no one was taking our team seriously enough. . . . I was really loud and obnoxious about it. Coach suspended me from the next game for back talking. Shawntelle snuck over to me after and said she had a couple of balls at home, and if I wanted, I could come to her house and we could do drills together. So that’s what we did. After a year or so, we practically lived at each other’s houses. My mom kept her favorite Pringles flavor in the cupboard. Shawntelle’s mom kept microwave popcorn for me. . . .” I pause a long time. He wants me to talk. Needs me to, but the lump in my throat is so huge—

“You miss her,” Trey says softly.

“Yeah,” I choke out.

“The person I miss most is Teena,” he says, understanding that he needs to be the one to fill the space for a minute or two. “She was so soft-hearted, wouldn’t even let me kill a spider we found in the house, always made me take it outside and set it free. She loved royal blue. Almost everything she owned—her phone, her sunglasses, her sneakers—she decorated with bright blue glitter. And she was smart, way smarter than me. Curious about everything. Always making up stories. I thought she would be a famous author someday, probably win the Pulitzer or something. And even though I always imagined myself going to the NFL, I knew that eventually I would just be known as ‘Teena Dawson’s big brother.’”

I can’t help chuckling.

“What’s so funny?”