If he were here, he’d follow the sound of our voices into the kitchen. Dad always chased the crowd—loved the house to be full and was happier in the middle of chaos than alone with a good book, like me. He’d go straight to Mom, like always, as if he needed to touch her and convince himself she was real, because a lifetime together would never be enough. Then he’d sit down at the table and listen. That was what he liked best about big groups. He didn’t want to be the center of attention or talk constantly, but he loved hearing everyone’s stories. And when he did speak, you listened, because you knew whatever he gave you would be good.

“Are you okay?”

I didn’t even realize I was staring into space, but I blink away from the alternate reality and turn toward Easton. His eyes are so gentle, his hand warm as it cups my shoulder. I nod. “I think it might take me ten years to accept that he’s gone.” I say it softly, knowing the words might send any number of people into another crying jag if they overheard them.

“I get that.” He points to the back doors. “Some fresh air?”

“I’d like that.” I grab a couple of beers from the fridge and follow Easton outside. It’s dark, well past sunset, but we don’t bother with the lights. He stops on the patio, but I shake my head and lead the way to the treehouse, climbing the old ladder one-handed until I reach the privacy of the fort my father built for us.

I’m sinking to the floor and pulling the bottle opener from my pocket when I hear Easton’s feet scraping against the rungs and spot his head poking into the tiny wooden house.

“I don’t think I’ve been up here since I was ten,” he says, pulling himself inside. He’s too tall to stand, so he stays on his knees and crawls to the wall opposite me, extending his long legs so they’re next to mine.

“You probably haven’t fit since then,” I say, squinting at him through the dark and smiling. I grab the battery-operated lantern from the wall and click it on. It’s not much, but it’s enough to cast a warm glow around us—enough so I can see his face. “You hardly fit now.”

He glances up at the ceiling, way too close to his head, even seated. “Eh, there’s plenty of room.” He nods to the two beers beside me. “Is one of those for me?”

“If you want.” I open them both and hand one to him.

His sigh fills the space a beat before his sadness. “This is the first time since I was drafted that I’ve had more than a single drink during the season.”

“Your body is a multimillion-dollar temple.”