Jake’s voice echoes in my ear, and a smile sneaks up on me. “I gotta go. Say hi to your mom for me. Tell her she raised a real peach.”

He laughs. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear your opinion on the subject.”

He thinks I’m joking, because his parents were on the “Beckett Bergen is going to hell” bandwagon long before the rest of the world got on board. But there’s one thing his mom and my mom have in common, both with each other and with every other mother on the face of the planet. They love to hear how great their kids are.

In this case, it happens to be true.

On my way out of the room, I stop and grab the tiny vial of sand on a chain from where it hangs over the corner of the old wooden jewelry box my grandmother gave me years ago. I drop it over my head and tuck the vial into my shirt, where I can feel it against my skin.

My dad may have fallen for the last time here in Tennessee. On the living room floor. But we all know that he really died two years ago in Afghanistan. With the other three men in that jeep.

CRIMSON CRYER

@crimsoncryer · 3h

You guys! The students at @CliffordHSOfficial are raising funds to give little #LullabyDoe a proper funeral! Click here to donate: bit.ly/2HPrzTu

#RIP

#GiveALittle

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Chapter Ten

TEN

“I can’t help noticing that you ate all your zucchini noodles,” Landry says as I stand from my bar stool and take her empty plate.

It’s my night to do the dishes. I think. We’ve kind of stopped keeping track.

“I have to admit, they were not bad. Firmer than I expected. Al dente.” I arch one brow at her. “Can vegetables be cooked al dente, or is that term reserved for real pasta?”

“I have no idea.” She slides from her bar stool and pulls her apron over her head. “Don’t dump the leftovers. Mom thinks she hates zucchini too, so I want her to try this.”

She opens the pantry door and hangs the apron on its hook.

“I’ll save them for her,” I promise as I reach for Penn’s plate.

“Wait!” He stabs at the last of his zucchini noodles, and his fork scrapes the plate with a horrible screech as I pull it away from him.

“You’ve had three helpings! How can you still be hungry?”

“It takes a lot of energy to run five miles a day,” he insists, making a grab for his plate.

And the truth is that with his level of physical activity, he probably needed actual pasta. But he won’t complain in front of the chef. He’ll just carbo-load on his own later.