I felt a slight twinge of panic seeing him there. His hands were stuffed into his pockets and his nose was turning pink as he halfheartedly kicked his boot into a pile of slush. I hadn’t really spoken to him since Griffin Tomlin’s funeral.

He’d come a few minutes into the service and stood in the back of the church, since all the pews were full. He’d been supposed to sit with the Tomlins, because they said Kolby was like a brother to Griffin, but when he hadn’t shown up, my mother took his place beside Mrs. Tomlin, squeezing her hand. A part of me wondered if he was late so he wouldn’t have to sit with them, so close to the open casket, and listen to the overwhelming sound of Mrs. Tomlin trying to stifle her sobs or Mr. Tomlin constantly clearing his throat.

He’d left soon after the funeral too, lingering only for a couple of minutes to give Mrs. Tomlin a quick and awkward hug. He nearly bumped into me on his way out, and I mumbled a soft sorry I don’t think he heard. If I had known then, I would’ve apologized for more than just getting in his way.

I barely knew Kolby. He was always with Griffin, like they were a package deal or something, and while he wasn’t really shy, he didn’t speak much either. I didn’t really know that much about him, except that he and Griffin had become friends on the baseball team in middle school. They were on the high school team too, but after Griffin died, Kolby quit.

I never really spoke to Kolby unless Griffin was there between us, like some sort of bridge.

Except for the night of the Tomlins’ Super Bowl party. And now, apparently.

Kolby had taken off the beanie I’d seen him wearing earlier, and a few snowflakes were caught in his hair. His eyes were a deep shade of brown, the kind that reminded you of coffee with cream and sugar. I had always thought his eyes fit with Griffin’s, which were a remarkable ocean blue—and that if irises were elements, then Griffin’s were water and Kolby’s were earth.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

I unlocked the passenger door and tossed my backpack inside, glancing at him over the hood of the car as his eyes focused on the tires, and I felt the urge to say something. Like I should apologize because now he has to walk to school in the middle of January. Or that my sister killed his best friend. But instead I asked, “Admiring Black Beauty?”

“The car’s red,” he said, his voice flat.