‘Jeez.’ I yawn, dragging my notebook and laptop over. I open the book to numbers and calculations marching across the lined pages. Measurement error and wind shear and precipitation swim before my eyes.

‘MAYDAY!’ my dad’s voice yells from downstairs. ‘Don’t worry about the fence, mija, it’s fixed! Finish your homework!’

‘Thanks, Papa!’ I yell back, still on the verge of slumping over all the math in front of me. I love what I’m studying – it’ll set me up for a fantastic career either after graduation or after lacrosse, whatever happens this year with my precarious situation on the team – but these numbers are a colossal struggle. I need all my attention for this stuff, and it’s just not there.

Clear as day, I still remember him walking backwards and waving as he disappeared down the gym hall of Prosperity High School to cheers and chants. That’s the crap everyone else saw: the man, the myth, the legend. When someone asks me what I last remember of CJ Bradley, I don’t tell them about his triumphant send-off. I tell them about the text. And the strawberries. I refuse to glorify him the way the rest of this sleepy lacrosse town does.

‘Where you going?’

I grab my purse off the hook by my vanity and shoot a smirk my mom’s way. ‘Meetin’ up with my sneaky link.’

‘Your who?’ Mumma’s jaw goes slack for a minute before she detects the fact that I’m clearly working overtime to not laugh my ass off. ‘You’re gonna give me a stroke, May.’

‘It’s what I do.’ I grin. ‘I’m going to Moonie’s. Feed the cows tomorrow morning, I know. I’ll be back by midnight.’

‘Mm-hmm.’ Mumma doesn’t look convinced, but she cracks a smile, patting my cheek. ‘Have fun. Be smart.’

I often hear people tell me I’m 100 per cent my mom – down to the types of jeans we both wear, currently different fonts of the same Wranglers – but I like to think the bit I didn’t inherit was her sense of responsibility (and her unfaltering kindness). I have my father’s snark and penchant for poor decisions. Like the decision I made regarding Colt today.

‘I will.’ I give my mom a little hug, and her quiet chuckle tells me she knows as much as I do that ‘smart’ is probably the least apt word to describe some of my choices.

I say a little prayer as I get into my truck and do the short drive over to Eagle Rock’s only bar and dance hall. My toes feel stiff in my boots, as if I’ve just thrown on a brand-new pair without properly breaking them in first. Why am I nervous? I shouldn’t be nervous. He should be nervous.