We lean back and I sip on my beer, which I’ve never really cared for, but tonight the crisp frothiness of it feels just right, and I think I might be getting a contact high from the cluster of stoners. Being here with all of these people makes me feel microscopic. Almost like I did at the Hideaway. Like I’m a tiny part of something much bigger.

“I have an idea,” I say after a few minutes of staring at the canopy of lights until they become one massive starry blur. “I think we should dedicate one whole wall on campus to truth. A place where anyone—absolutely anyone—can write a secret or a truth or a wish or a hope.”

Tucker swings forward so that he’s straddling his lounge chair and raises his soda can. “Okay . . . that could work. We could even have a group of students sign up every semester to repaint the wall.”

“A clean slate,” I say. “And you can write anything. A misconception about yourself. How you wish people would treat you. Who you really are.”

“Yes! We gotta get with Mrs. Leonard on Monday. I love this idea. It’s so simple.” He clinks his can against my cup and then takes a drink. “Cheers to us.”

“To us,” I say. The word us catches in my throat.

“About last night,” he says, his voice fragile. “I’m sorry if my dad was rude. He’s not himself when . . .”

“It’s okay. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“He hasn’t been himself since . . . you remember that my mom died back in middle school, right?” he asks softly, and almost like he’s a little embarrassed to be doing this at a party. “I always expect people to just know and sometimes they don’t, so it’s easier when I ask even if it’s a little awkward.”

“Oh,” I say, suddenly remembering him being gone for a few weeks and a few different churches in town raising money for expenses and Mom signing up for meal trains. “I do remember now. . . . Wait,” I say. “It was a car wreck, wasn’t it?”

He stares down into his soda can, swishing it around, and his lips curl into a sad smile. “Eighteen-wheeler swerved. She died instantly. He lived.” He sighs and his jaw twitches. “And because he feels so bad about the living part, he’s slowly drinking himself to death.”

I swallow. The air between us is heavy, and I want more than anything to reach across the distance we share and hug him. I’ve never wanted to touch someone so badly that it made my fingertips hurt. I wonder if Tucker even had time to grieve his mom before he was faced with the reality of an alcoholic father. “I’m so—”

“Please don’t say you’re sorry,” he interjects.

My mouth snaps shut and I nod like a fool.