“I can go, if you want. I don’t want to make you feel . . .”

“I don’t want you to go.” He summoned up a sweet, sad smile. “Come on in.”

“Evening, Ash,” said Connor’s father, when we walked past the kitchen. He stood at the counter, reading a newspaper.

“Hey, Mr. Barrett.”

Solomon and I had both been crushed out on Connor’s dad, back in the day. He’d had the same broad shoulders and bright brown eyes as Connor, the same fair hair and unblemished skin.

We walked past the room that had been Solomon’s, before he ran away. The door was shut. It was always shut. Like they were trying to lock the memory of him away.

Connor’s room was superclean. The kind of clean that makes you feel bad about yourself, because you look like a slob by comparison. Like the guy had an undiagnosed disorder. He sat down on the bed with a helpless look on his face and I sat down beside him, feeling like I was taking advantage. Which I guess I was, except that Connor enjoyed it as much as I did.

“What’ve you been up to?” I asked, because it felt rude to cut right to the part where we made out.

“Football practice, football practice, and, sometimes, when I have free time, more football practice.” He tugged off the T-shirt he wore, which fit him disturbingly well. “You?”

“Trying to figure out what I’m gonna do for my photography project.”

He sat there, shirtless. Defenseless.

“Is there something going on, with the football team?” I asked. “I talked to Sheffield, and he seemed real weird. Even for him. Especially about the graffiti stuff that’s been going on. Do you—”

“I don’t want to talk about Sheffield or any of them,” he said, and it was only the kiss that made me ignore my curiosity about the look that flashed on his face. A look that wasn’t guilt exactly, but was certainly something like it.

Afterward, we spooned. I’m taller than him, but his arms felt so strong around me. Out the window, I could see the treehouse. Solomon’s favorite place, when he lived here. Connor never had much love for it.

“What can we do for him?” Connor asked. “For Solomon?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Did you talk to your dad about him? He’s gotta know some people. Maybe—”

“Solomon’s mom really fucked my dad over. He’s still super–pissed off about it. So, whenever I bring up Solomon, he’s not in too much of a hurry to discuss it.”

“Solomon’s not responsible for what his mom did.” I scowled.

“No, but it goes both ways. Solomon’s just as angry. He’s not rushing over to sit down and have a heart-to-heart with my dad, either.”