We’d done a lot of work since we moved in, but it was always with a single-minded focus. We needed to get the house ready to sell. As fortunate as we’d been to get the place after Manson’s mom passed away, his childhood home carried far too many memories for him.

He was braver than me. I hadn’t been back home to see Mama even once since Dad and I left. Even now, years later, I didn’t think I’d have the courage to walk into the house I’d spent the first fourteen years of my life in.

Jess walked into the living room, squeezing a towel on her damp hair. She looked between us, her eyes narrowing as she tried to figure out what we’d been up to. Then she looked down and spotted the drawing on the coffee table.

“I swear I’m not just drawing your house for fun,” she said quickly, as if that would be so awful. “It’s for work. I need to present a project to my boss at my six-month review and your house has a lot of…” Her lips pursed as she pondered. The way her face scrunched up made me feel…hell, it made me feel something. Like an aggressive need to squish her cheeks. “It has a lot of potential. Great character.”

“Why are you drawing a house for work?” I said, wincing when my voice came out far gruffer than I intended. She was dressed in a big t-shirt and leggings, her smeared mascara washed away. She had so many freckles on her cheeks that I hadn’t noticed before, and her eyelashes were almost as light as her hair.

“I work in architectural design,” she said. “I’ve been interning with this big company in New York City. If I prove myself, the boss says she’ll take me on full time. Then I’m out of Wickeston for good.” She smiled, draping her towel across the back of one of the kitchen chairs before she headed for the fridge. “We have wine if you guys want some. Mom doesn’t keep beer in the house though.”

Damn, we really had fucked the sarcasm out of her. Was this all she needed? A hard fight followed by a harder fuck and suddenly she was looking a lot more worthy of Manson’s little pet name for her. Manson, of course, jerked his head toward the kitchen to get me to follow her. I swallowed down my groan, but went along. Hell, if I was here, I could at least try.

Besides, maybe he was right about the drop. The more time went on, the more I felt it — a tightness in my chest that quivered like anxiety but swayed with exhaustion, raw and uncertain. I wanted to settle down somewhere quiet and chill.