“Shit,” I whisper. “Shit, shit—oh my god!”

Ryan’s in my bedroom doorway.

I clutch my heart as my pulse slows. How long was he there? Did he hear me say his name?

But all I see on his face is that same gentle concern.

“Sorry,” he says. “Everything okay?”

My throat is tightening up. “I—I need to figure some things out.”

“Can I help? If nothing else, I can listen.”

Part of me wishes I could pour my heart out to him, but that would mean revisiting the whole messed-up saga, and Ryan hates complicated stories with sad endings. He said so himself. He prefers the ones that end neatly, tied with a bow, happily ever after, the end.

He wouldn’t want to touch this situation with a ten-foot pole.

Ryan is still waiting, his forehead furrowed. “Josie,” he says gently. “What can I do?”

I sigh—a deep, defeated sigh from the bottom of my exhausted, eldest-daughter soul. “Nothing. I’ll handle it. Thanks for helping me bring everything home.”

“Of course,” he says. “But you’re sure I can’t do anything to help?”

“I’m sure.”

He stares at me for a moment, his mouth opening and shutting, then turns and goes.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I immediately regret it. Why did I tell him to leave? The last thing I want is to be alone with my spiraling thoughts. What can I do but wait until my mom or sister contacts me? Nothing.

That’s when I walk back into my kitchen and see that Ryan’s taken all the dishes out of the box, washed them, and set them in the drying rack.

If I wasn’t so upset about my mom, I’d melt. Now all I can do is berate myself: A kind man with huge hands, who’s a good listener and gives wonderful hugs, offered to stay and I told him to leave.

What’s wrong with me? I’m so tired of carrying this by myself, this heavy burden of responsibility, worry, and shame. Maybe I couldn’t have found the words to explain, but at least if Ryan were here, I wouldn’t be alone.

And then I realize: I don’t need to be alone.

I pick up my phone and send a message to RJ.

24

Ryan

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was looking for the bathroom when I heard Josie say my name. It stopped me. Not just that she said it, but how. Almost with a sneer, like she was talking about something—someone—she despised.

If this had been a month ago, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But earlier tonight, when we were dancing in the back room, when her head was on my chest and her hand was in mine…her breath actually hitched. A person can’t fake that.

And yet.

He doesn’t matter.