“Those kids are teasing her and putting their hands on her and the principal won’t do shit about it,” I say. “So I told her to hit those snot-nose asses back.”

What Rylee doesn’t know is that the kids found out how Ellis died, and Cora doesn’t want her to know because she doesn’t want her to worry.

“I don’t condone violence, Gunner. Why would you encourage her to fight?” Rylee’s voice is mousy.

Is she fucking serious right now? “If she doesn’t stand up for herself, then no one else will.”

Rylee shakes her head at my answer, but I don’t give a fuck if she doesn’t agree. I’m not going to watch Cora grow up without a backbone. Fuck that.

My eyes venture to Cora, who’s wearing a Sailor Moon swimsuit. Her hair is the same shade of auburn as mine. She’s a spitting image of Alana when she was twelve years old. Same button nose. Same full lips. The only difference between the two is Cora has chocolate eyes, and Alana has mismatched colored eyes. Cora’s complexion is olive like Rylee’s and Alana’s is tan. She’s even into anime and video games like Alana was. Cora is a chatterbox—one time she talked herself to sleep—and she’s a whiner.

Cora runs to the ocean and splashes her feet into the calm teal water as seagulls screech, hovering in the inky sky. The stars hang out with the full pale moon. The summer wind breezes lazily in the air and sprouts of grass grow in the golden sand.

I sit in the rocking chair next to Rylee on the white porch. I bought this beach house for them ten months ago.

Rylee grabs my hand, and I glance at her heart-shaped face. Her eyes are the same color as a gray sky right before a thunderstorm. She’s staring at me like she wants me to fuck her like I did when we first met. In my defense, we were both drunk, and I was dealing with some fucked-up shit I did. She was nursing a broken heart. Both of us were at a shitty place in our lives. Quickly I remove my hand. It would be nice to try to fuck Gia out of my system again, but I can’t use Rylee like that—she deserves someone who will give her a white picket fence lifestyle. My morals are jacked up as dressing a tree in a T-shirt, but my conscience is still intact and alive.

She’s as beautiful as the sun shining on a bright day. Tattoos of each Disney princess smile at me on her right arm, and she’s sporting a black tank top with the Paramore logo on it while bleached shorts ride up her olive legs. You can’t tell she’s ten years older than me.