I laugh. “I meant that I thought you’d have figured that out, because I wouldn’t have kissed you otherwise.”

Her cheeks blaze a darker shade of pink. “Oh. Right.”

I huff out a breath. “This is totally unfair, you know. You can log on to Perez Hilton every time you want an update on my life, but how am I supposed to know what’s going on with you? You don’t even post on Facebook.”

“I mean, phones still work, last I checked? And it’s not like we haven’t talked at all since you moved away.”

“Sometimes I wonder about you and want to know what you’re up to without interfering with your life.” My smile falls away. “I was serious when I told you I didn’t want you changing your plans for me. I couldn’t let you switch to UCLA when you’d never mentioned the school before. You’re living your dreams.”

“I wouldn’t have actually . . .” She blows out a breath and studies me. The silence seems to pulse between us. “Maybe I would have, and maybe it’s good that you didn’t let me.”

But how tempting was it? I could picture her at UCLA, taking classes and visiting me at the Demons’ training facility, coming home to me at night. But how many opportunities was she going to miss? And what about all the days I traveled with the team? I didn’t have any right to fuck with her life like that. Her brothers would’ve hated me for it. I would’ve hated myself. “How’s your family?”

She nudges her food around on her plate again. “Dad’s sick.”

“Shit.” I sit back. It’s hard to imagine Frank Jackson sick. He’s nothing but a pillar of strength and stability in my mind. “Like, the flu or what?”

She shakes her head. “Like, sick sick. He . . .” She draws in a ragged breath, as if she needs to fortify herself, and I know what’s coming. “Cancer.”

That news is a punch in the gut. Frank Jackson was such an important part of my childhood. He was like a father to me. He was the example of a father that my own dad never bothered to stick around and be. “Is it bad?” I know it’s a ridiculous question. If it weren’t bad, she wouldn’t look like the weight of the news was crushing her. I’m just not sure how else to ask it.

“He’s fighting it.” The words sound sticky, as if she has to shove them out around tears she’s too stubborn to shed. “But some days, I’m not sure he’s going to win.”

“I’m so sorry, Shay. I know how close your family is. This must be really hard.”

“I’m surprised Carter didn’t tell you.”