I shrugged uncomfortably, feeling his gaze on me as I started to brush the snow off the windshield with my hand. Kolby paused before taking his hand from his pocket and brushing the snow from the driver’s window, his fingers ashen as they glistened with snow. Every few seconds he would stop to shake his hand, as if to warm it up. I wanted to say he didn’t have to clean the snow off with me, but whenever I tried, I’d look at him and lose my nerve.

“Emily named it that. Something about a horse—I don’t know.” I did know, though, but I wasn’t sure if this was okay, talking about Emily, especially to him.

He nodded, the muscles in his jaw clenched as he shoved his pale, wet hand back into his pocket. The prickling feeling of disquiet intensified with every second as he stood only a few feet away from me.

“Did she . . . has she ever said—?”

“No,” I interrupted, shaking my head and looking away, already knowing what he was about to ask. His eyes held a sense of vulnerability in them that made my chest ache out of guilt for lying to him. But if I couldn’t even tell my mom, then I definitely couldn’t tell him.

“No,” he repeated, the word almost a sigh.

“No,” I reaffirmed.

The clouds concealed the blue sky, turning it a shade of white that made me feel heavy and tired as I pulled into the driveway. Shouldering my backpack, I caught a glimpse of something in the rearview mirror. Standing in front of his mailbox, in a pair of plaid pajama pants and snow boots, was Brandon Tomlin. His back was turned to me as he grabbed the mail; the same tousled curly black hair that Griffin had had reached his shoulders now.

Brandon was five years older than me and acted like he thought he was cooler sometimes, even though he was twenty-two and still living with his parents, working at the local movie theater. I’d seen him at the funeral, sitting beside his father, rubbing his eyes throughout the service. When our family was about to leave and we’d hugged the Tomlins good-bye, his breath stank of something sickly sweet as he wrapped his arms around me. He was wobbling, teetering on his toes, and I held on to him tighter when I caught Mrs. Tomlin looking over at us, not wanting her to know her now-only child was drunk at her youngest son’s funeral.

Now, he shoved the mail under his arm and swatted his hand against the mailbox lid to close it before heading back up the driveway.

I almost wanted to tell him why she’d taken Griffin away from him and his parents. But I knew none of them would believe me about what happened between Griffin and me.

I never would’ve believed it either.

© Deanna Cameron 2019