“Nah, I’m weird every night. You’ve just forgotten because you barely ever see me anymore.”

“True.” She motions me to follow her, and when I freeze, she says, “I’m not going to jump you if you come into my room, weirdo.”

Damn shame.

I swallow hard and step inside “her” bedroom. This isn’t the Jacksons’ full-time home, but their vacation place. They rent out this cabin to tourists—a ten-year plan to get it paid off sooner, Carter told me—so it’s definitely not as personal as her room at home, but it is hers. As the only girl, she’s the one Jackson sibling to get a room of her own, and there are little decorative touches in here that show this room is truly Shay’s. The bookshelf overflowing with well-loved paperbacks, the map of Paris that hangs over the queen-sized bed, and the glasses that sit on the bedside table—no doubt for reading after she takes her contacts out.

I remember when she got glasses for the first time. She was so excited. But then some jerk at school teased her about them, and she came home with them tucked into her backpack and told her mom she wouldn’t wear them anymore. She lost that fight, of course, and wore glasses until her mom relented and let her get contacts when she started middle school.

“I can’t keep much here,” she says as I look around. “We still rent it out sometimes. Less now, though.”

“Carter used to be jealous that you got your own room.”

She shrugs. “Well, I used to be jealous that my brothers had each other and I didn’t have a single sister.”

“And now?”

She sweeps her hair over one shoulder and starts braiding the wet locks. “Now I’m grateful to be the only girl. I get along better with boys than I do with girls anyway.” Her fingers work efficiently, and she ties off the braid at the end.

“Maybe that would be different if you had sisters.”

“Maybe, but I think my family is perfect just the way it is.” She makes a face and seems to rethink her words. “No, not perfect at all. Just perfect for me, I guess.”

A pang slices through my chest. Jealousy. Their family is incredible, and somehow they all know it. I don’t have any siblings—none that I know of, at least, though there’s no telling how many kids my father has brought into this world and walked away from. I don’t even have a dad who gives a shit. Just Mom, and I’m grateful for her every day. Mom and I are partners; the Jacksons are a team. When life feels like a constant blitz from the defense, it’s hard not to be jealous of the people who are making plays with a solid O-line—even when your partner is the best in the game.