“Don’t ever change, Bam Bam.” She turns toward the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, “Fair warning: anyone who tries to barge into the bathroom while I’m using it is getting a swirly.” She shuts the door with a definitive click.

I’m the first one to chuckle, and then Carver breaks into loud, snorting laughter while Donovan covers a wide grin with his hand. Abram has taken on the color of a strawberry, but also seems to be fighting a smile while Byron rolls his eyes and deals another hand of cards.

“You want in, Biker Boy?” the guy asks as he pauses in the process of divvying them out.

The offer is tempting. Possibly an olive branch, a door cracked so I could pull it wider and find a place in the Gunner family.

For a second, I consider saying yes. I want Zoey’s brothers to like me. To accept me.

But the sound of a toilet flushing and water running filters through the walls. In a moment, Zoey will be back in her bed, and there’s nothing I want more than to be near her.

“Rain check. I’m going to stay with Zoey.”

The four sets of eyes all come to me again, but it’s only Abram who speaks.

“That’s the right choice.”

47

ZOEY

I pull into a parking spot beside the picnic area, making sure to give Warner’s bike a wide berth. Driving a stick shift with a broken wrist and a sore ankle is not the easiest thing in the world. Just as I turn off the engine, Warner is at my door, frowning at me through the window.

“Should you be driving?”

I tug on the handle, and he steps back enough to let the rusted door swing open before moving in close again.

“Not sure. Didn’t break any traffic laws on the way here though. Wanna help me down?”

I extend my good hand, but Warner leans in to scoop me up in a damsel-in-distress carry. Arguing seems useless, but I do grab on to the armrest before he can walk us away.

“Wait! There’re burritos!”

He chuckles, tilting me back into the cab of the truck so I can grab the paper bag.

“Good to go?” he asks.

“Yep!”

Warner uses his booted foot to kick the door closed, then walks with me toward a picnic table. Normally, I don’t like being babied, but my ankle hurts, even after two days of icing and elevation. Plus, this way, I get to wrap my arm around Warner’s shoulders and fiddle with the strands of hair that curl over his ears. They hang lower today, pressed flat, no doubt by the hard hat he’s had on all morning. A light layer of dirt coats his skin, broken only by trails where sweat traced down his face and neck.