“But what if the truck won an award the same night as the charity dinner?” He was trying to make me laugh again. It kind of worked.

“The truck would be out of luck.”

“And the truck would have a right to be pissed.”

I laughed louder this time. “Really? In this fake scenario you’ve presented, you think my parents should pick the truck’s award ceremony over my brother’s charity dinner?”

“Well, no, but in my head that was a much better metaphor where I was making you the truck and telling you that you have a right to be pissed.”

I smiled. “Yeah, I got that.”

He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Did you? Because, Moore . . .” He met my eyes. “You have a right to be pissed.”

“I am.” I pressed my palms to my eyes, even though I knew that was just going to make a bigger mess of my mascara. “But mostly I’m just sad.”

I brought my knees up on the seat with me and hugged them against my chest, resting my forehead on them while more tears fell. This was so embarrassing. “You have to promise me this doesn’t leave your car.”

“Nobody would believe me anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Moore. Tough, competitive, stoic swim star. You’re kind of known for walking through the halls in the zone. Your headphones in. Your game face on. Your veins pumping chlorine.”

“Okay, I get it.” I had been shutting out my problems, and apparently people, for years, trying not to think about how I felt second-best in my home.

Jackson moved next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. Because of my compact position, I fell against him. I thought about pushing away but I was already there and it felt nice, so instead, I turned my upper body toward his, wrapped my arms around his torso, and didn’t try to stop the tears.

His hands went to my back, where they softly ran up and down. Soon they were the only thing I felt, his hands, sending tingles along my spine. I had to remind myself four times that he was still annoying. Very, very annoying. This changed nothing.

He cleared his throat, and as if to prove me right, said, “It’s kind of nice to know you have weaknesses like the rest of us. I mean, your problems aren’t as bad as most people’s but you do actually cry over them.”

I let out a single laugh and shoved away from him. “You know, you’re really cute when you keep your mouth shut.”

His half smile, the one he wore a lot, came onto his face. “You think I’m cute?”

“No, because you can never keep your mouth shut.”

“Fair enough.”

He was cute, getting cuter by the second, it seemed.

“So does this mean we’re friends now?” he asked.