Cassia is looking for an excuse to talk to me alone, something I’m fully on board with. My dad will be home this weekend, the first weekend in many weekends. She won’t be sleeping over, and there will be no opportunity to take advantage of her being across the hall.

I toss the rest of the green beans in the pan without bothering to trim the ends, then head for the stairs.

Steps follow me. Cassia’s steps.

Once we’re in my room, I turn. “We don’t have English together. Or an English textbook, even.”

“I know.”

I wait for more of an explanation, but it doesn’t come. And I don’t need one. I’ve given up on fighting the pull toward her. It might last or fizzle. Be love or lust. I’m worried I could accurately predict each choice.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

She smiles. “Happy Thanksgiving.” Cassia is wearing a dress with a sash.

I use the ribbon to pull her closer to me, so her lips are mere breaths away. “I wanted you to be in my bed when I woke up.”

“I was worried Sydney might wake up.”

“And you don’t want her knowing about this.”

Cassia’s eyebrows rise. “I don’t even know what this is.”

I don’t either.

I think about her constantly. I haven’t been with another girl since she crawled into my lap in my driveway, weeks ago.

But all the reasons I decided to stay away in the first place still exist. I’m still selfish. She’s still leaving for a brighter and bigger future.

I don’t think love is supposed to hurt. To limit someone.

I don’t want to love her if it will hurt her in the end.

So I step away, instead of closer. All of my school books are stacked on the desk. “You should take one of these. Dad and Sydney might notice.”

Cassia nods, then reaches for the composition notebook next to the stack. “What about this? I can—”

I grab it before she can make contact. “This is for basketball.”

“What? You record every box score?”

I don’t answer. Don’t lie.

The notebook I’m holding has everything to do with her and nothing to do with basketball. But that’s the last thing I can tell her, when things are so uncertain between us.

“Here.” I grab a random textbook and hand it to her. “Use this.”

“Thanks.” Sarcasm saturates the word, then she turns and walks out of my bedroom. I hear her steps echo down the stairs. Her goodbyes to my dad and Sydney.

When I return to the kitchen, my dad is the only one there. He’s spinning the roast pan around and checking the temperature of the meat. “Sydney went over to the Nolans’ for a bit.”