However, that gaze of hers … it ping-pongs around the room like it’s too much to look at me for more than a few seconds. This intensifies the pain in my chest. Deedy gave me Avery’s new phone number. My thumb has hovered over the call button a hundred times. I’ve driven past Sydney’s house at least another hundred times.

Words.

So many damn words.

I can’t find the right ones. When I think I’ve figure it out, this little voice in my head convinces me to find new ones, better ones. But right now, I can’t find a single one.

“Or … do you not have time for us?”

“What?” I shake out of my Avery daze and refocus on Deedy. “Real funny. Yeah, I do happen to know a place. Hey, Seth. We’ll be upstairs. Can you please bring up an assortment from the menu?”

“You got it.”

“Upstairs? Did you finish repainting?” Deedy asks.

“Yep, last week. Follow me.”

I lead them up the backstairs to my apartment. At the top of the stairs, I hold open the door for everyone. Avery is last in line. She risks a quick glance at me while bending down to slip off her platform sandals. I give her my best smile. Maybe it will help me channel the best words.

“This table is amazing!” Sydney runs her hand along my irregular-shaped table made from several old tree stumps.

“Thanks. It was custom made from an eco-friendly furniture store up in San Francisco.”

“And your view. Ocean, come look at the surfers.” Sydney waves Ocean toward the wall of windows.

Avery takes slow steps around my studio apartment with her fingers dipped into the front, shallow pockets of her miniskirt. She says nothing but seems to give everything a thorough inspection.

“Can we walk down to the beach?” Ocean asks.

“Maybe after lunch.”

“You guys surf?” I get everyone glasses of fresh citrus water.

“Ocean and Lautner surf. I take pictures.” Sydney sits at the table, running her hand over the glassy-smooth surface again.

“Ave, do you surf?” I ask like she’s a recent acquaintance, not like having her here, in my space, has my heart hammering against my chest because all I want to do is go back in time and change how I reacted to her confession.

She cocks her head at a black and white photo of me from my very last fight. I was more ripped then, my head shaven, one eye swollen shut. Unrecognizable to anyone who didn’t know me then, except for my tattoos. It’s not a glamour shot. But … I won.

“Sometimes,” she mumbles, cocking her head to the other side.

“Rarely.” Sydney rolls her eyes.

“More than you.” Avery’s tone remains even, like she’s answering on autopilot, not at all bothered by her sister challenging her.