I think about how his dad is at the pub, his mom just a memory. My parents got taken from me, but his parents chose to leave him. I suddenly get why he deals, why he wants a role. He’s like me—he just wants someone to see him. I hand Drew the Chariot card, and a little jolt goes through me when his fingers brush mine.

“Keep it,” I say. I’ll have to find another card to replace it, but this is the kind of stuff I’ve seen Mom do, and it feels right. “Whatever this thing you want is, Drew—go for it. You told me that day we ditched that you’re going to end up like your dad, but I don’t think so.” I hold up my velvet bag of magic. “The cards see what you can’t. And I agree with them—you’re passionate, driven, creative.” I smile. “Entrepreneurial. Someone like you can do cool things in the world.”

He blinks. Looks around his kitchen like he’s never seen it before.

“Did I blow your mind or weird you out?” I say. “Because I’m thinking this reading could go either way.”

Drew slips the card into his front pocket, then reaches back into the fridge and pops the cap off another bottle. He slides it toward me across the counter.

“Definitely blew my mind.” He takes a long swig of his beer.

“Is your dad gonna notice all this beer disappearing?” I ask.

Drew shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. We Nolans, we take the whole drunk Irish stereotype pretty seriously. My uncle owns a frickin’ pub. I’ve been drinking since I was eight. Come to think of it, I think it was my father who gave me that first beer.”

“Damn. I cannot imagine my dad ever letting me—”

I stop, the word stuck in my throat. I couldn’t have imagined Dad cheating on Mom, either.

“I’m sorry,” I say, as my eyes fill. “I’m a lousy drunk. I always get emotional. Either I’m too happy or I’m too sad.”

Drew reaches out and wipes away the tears that spill down my cheeks with the backs of his fingers. I really like when he touches me, and that makes me cry more. I am such a piece-of-shit girlfriend. And sister. And daughter. All I’ve done since the wave is get wasted and sleep and yell at people and want to cheat on my boyfriend.

“Nothing to be sorry about.” He leans against the counter, blows out a breath. “So … tonight was my last night as a dealer.”

I pick at the label on my bottle. Try not to panic. He’d said he wasn’t giving me any more anyway. I shouldn’t care.

“Why?”

He looks down at his scuffed-up leather boots. When he speaks, it’s so soft, I almost don’t hear the words.