The microwave beeps. I pull out the steaming pasta and dig in, not even waiting for it to cool.

“What is all that”—I wave the fork at Sydney—“about?”

“Graham invited me to a party tonight.”

“On a Monday?”

Sydney glares. “It’s a study party.”

“What the hell is a study party?” I glance at Cassia. She shrugs.

“It’s just a casual thing,” Sydney tells me. “He invited me and I’m going.”

“Who?”

“Graham! Keep up, Holden.”

“Graham who?”

“He’s not on the basketball team, so you wouldn’t know him.”

I smirk at that. This is more snark than I’ve seen Sydney display…ever. She must really like this guy. “What is not-on-the-basketball-team Graham’s last name?”

“Warner.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Shocking,” Sydney drawls.

“So, you’re going to some random guy’s house?”

“You do it all the time, Holden.”

“Yeah…but it’s different.”

“Why? Because I’m a girl?”

Sydney’s tone makes it clear yes is the wrong answer here. Unfortunately, there are things that happen to girls at parties—even study parties, whatever the hell that really means—that guys just don’t have to worry about. I don’t feel like getting into an argument about that reality. “Because I’m older,” I say instead.

She huffs and flounces out of the kitchen.

I glance at Cassia. “What’s wrong with Sydney? She’s acting weird.”

“She’s nervous, Holden. She really likes this guy. I’ll keep a close eye on her tonight. We’ll be fine.”

“You’re going?”

“Yes…”

Cassia is looking at me strangely, which makes absolutely no sense. I’m not the one acting differently. Sydney has never gone out to a party because a guy invited her.

Most of the time, it feels like she’s the older sibling. But I’m suddenly very aware of the fact our dad is hundreds of miles away. If anything happens to Sydney, I’m the one who is responsible.

And I’m equally unenthused by the revelation Cassia is going. But I have no right to be. She can spend her night however she wants. One look at her was all it took for me to forget everything I told myself this weekend about her being a dangerous distraction. I tore up the mental list of reasons to pretend nothing happened on my couch as soon as I caught a glimpse of her brown curls in the hallway this morning. Some space is probably a good idea.

“Do you know this Graham guy?” I ask before polishing off the rest of the pasta.

“Yeah, sort of. We’ve had a few classes together.”

“Sort of?” I shake my head and set the empty container in the sink. Then, realizing Cassia just cleaned, I rinse it and stick it in the dishwasher. “I’m going.”

“You’re what? Why?”