“If it’s any consolation,” I told her, “I’ve spent the summer trying not to be like mine. I saw her fall head over heels so many times, to no avail.” I closed my eyes. “So I spent this summer not falling for Nick. He accused me of living life with one foot out the door. He said that I was the runner, and that you’d be fine.”

“Guess we showed him,” Lily said, in a laugh-or-cry kind of way. “And besides, Mama never ran away. She didn’t find herself. She’s been pretending all these years.”

I tried to think of something I could say that would make the evening’s revelations hurt less. “It wasn’t all pretend, Lily.”

“That’s the kicker, isn’t it?” Lily said. “Because she really does love me.” Lily paused. “She wouldn’t have hurt you or Sadie-Grace or Campbell, even if Lillian hadn’t shown up. I believe that, Sawyer.”

“She hurt you,” I pointed out.

Lily was quiet for just a moment. “They all did.”

Her father. Aunt Olivia. Ana, who’d birthed her and taken money in exchange.

I wanted to say the right thing, but I couldn’t even begin to imagine what that might be, so instead, I opted for: “There’s a club.”

Lily arched an eyebrow at me.

I elaborated. “The ‘I Owe My Entire Existence to a Stupid Teenage Pregnancy Pact’ Club. I’m the founding member.”

And Lily was member number two. I’d wanted someone who understood. I’d wanted someone to process this with. And all along, it had been her. Nick was right. I’d never needed a backup family, or an exit plan, or ten layers of protection around my heart.

I was done knowing better, when I didn’t really know anything at all.

“Does the ‘I Owe My Entire Existence to a Stupid Teenage Pregnancy Pact’ Club have an initiation?” Lily asked me, after several minutes of silence. “Because you’re still wearing that stupid robe.”

FOUR MONTHS LATER . . .

CHAPTER 61

Catcalling Lily was a mistake that most customers at The Holler only made once.

“Do I come to your place of employment and make rude noises in your direction?” she asked the man leering at her over the bar. “No. No, I do not. And would you appreciate someone talking to your daughter or sister that way? No. No, you would not.”

“Honey,” the man drawled. “You’re wound awfully tight. How ’bout I loosen you up?”

“Want me to take this one?” I offered.

Lily shook her head. “My parents raised me to be a lady,” she told the man primly. “And now I’m a lady who knows an awful lot about a whole range of medieval torture techniques. . . .”