We talk about his childhood a little more. How it was overshadowed by the constant reminder of his mortality. How his brother was discarded at their grandparents’ house, sometimes for weeks at a time. How Dom is still guilt ridden about what he put his family through. Then Dom takes a deep breath and says, “And what brought you to 7-Eleven at two in the morning, young lady? I’m assuming your night has been as shitty as mine.”

“Not anymore.” I let out a soft chuckle.

He poured his heart out to me. Now I owe him at least a fraction of my truth.

“Family stuff.” I wave my hand. “My dad wanted me to come home to San Francisco for Thanksgiving. I dodged it.”

“Why?”

Deciding I don’t want to tell Dom too much, I explain: “I can’t look at my family again after I broke it into a million pieces.”

“So I’m not the only one with a guilt trip. Interesting. How did you break your family into a million pieces?” he asks patiently. I get the feeling that he truly wants to know. That I’m the center of his attention.

It feels new . . . and not unwelcome.

I wiggle my toes in my boots, frowning at them. “I . . . my mom died.”

Silence engulfs us from all angles. Finally, Dom says, “I’m so sorry, Lynne. How is it your fault, though?”

“It is. Trust me. It’s a long story, but it is.” I’m not exaggerating. It’s not me being melodramatic. I really did cause it. And I know Dad and Renn think so too. It’s something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.

“Let me get this straight.” He rubs at his jaw. “You think you caused your mom’s death, yet you’re not in prison, so I’m going to go ahead and assume it was an accident. Your solution is to deny the rest of your family a daughter and a sister too?”

I know he has a point, but it’s not that simple. I can’t look at Dad’s and Renn’s faces without feeling like the Grim Reaper, who slunk through the crack of their door and stole their joy. Plus, it’s not like they’re so hot on getting back in touch with me either. Renn is cordial at most with me. Mostly, he ignores my existence. Dad treats me like a long-distance cousin he feels obliged to text every now and then.

Shaking my head, I push away from the hood and round the car back to the driver’s seat. Dom takes my cue and does the same. The drive back to the 7-Eleven, where he left his car, is silent but not uncomfortable. It feels like we’re both processing what was said tonight.

I park behind his red convertible Mazda MX-5 Miata. It’s such a Dom car I want to laugh. He likes big shiny things in bold colors. A part of him must always be that five-year-old kid who almost died.