“Do you ever want to do the same?” he asks suddenly, slowly gliding his eyes my way. “Buy a one-way ticket to the bottom of the ocean?”

Panic wraps around my shoulders, tightening, squeezing at his reminder that I angrily shared more than intended.

He’s not supposed to remember.

To bring it up.

To ask.

I lift my chest from the board, ready to push off, but his leg meets mine, his shin gliding across my skin.

Something in his gaze holds me still, but my throat remains thick, my mind guarded, though my mouth decides to open, a low ‘no’ leaving me.

It’s the truth.

I haven’t, but I have wondered that if something were to happen, how long it would take my mom to notice—probably whenever the next Sunday rolled around. I wonder if I would be missed, truly missed, for me, not for what’s needed of me.

Monti would miss me, wouldn’t she?

A pontoon boat blaring Taylor Swift cruises by, the wake wobbling the board beneath us, and snapping me from my thoughts.

I sit up, swing a leg over and straddle the board, glaring at Ransom who still has his head rested on his hands, eyes on mine, though they did flick to where my swimsuit bottoms have met the hard epoxy.

“Who was it?” he asks, guessing when I don’t answer. “Your bio-mom or bio-dad?”

Angry, I set it straight. “My dad.”

“She kept his name, didn’t she?” He eyes me, a tortured look in his. “Filano was his last name?”

“She made her name as a Filano, she had to keep it.” I frown, a deep twist behind my ribs. “Why?”

“That’s why you’re so quick to help her, to be what she wants. To help hold on to the name. To your dad’s name.”

“No, it’s not.” My spine shoots straight. “I didn’t know the man; all I know is he was weak. Why would I care?”

“You try not to care, period, because of what he did, but even cutting off your emotions can’t erase the fact that your name is the only piece of him you have. You want to hold on to it.”

My stomach leaps then drops. “What are you doing?” I snap.

He pushes up, confused, so I clear it up for him. “You’re asking questions you shouldn’t.”

His eyes narrow. “And why shouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s none of your business.”

He lifts, swinging one leg over, so he’s straddling the board, the paddle laying across his lap. “So, you don’t understand.”

My head pulls back. “I don’t want to understand. I want you to stop talking, or better yet, start talking.”

He raises a brow.