Making my way to the edge of the yard, I stop near a hedge where it’s dark and I can observe without being spotted.

People are dancing, shouting, laughing, drinking. Some guy does a keg stand, much to the delight of the onlookers, and then when he is deposited back on his feet, he immediately turns over and pukes.

I guess this is fun?

Fitz is talking to some guys in one corner of the yard. I watch him for a few minutes, remembering our brief accord earlier today.

He’s laughing with some other guys, enjoying himself. He no longer has that kicked-puppy look like he did immediately after the whole Abby thing. As a matter of fact, he’s seemed okay the past couple of days, except for the conversation I overheard with his momma. Is everything okay with his dad? Has he told his parents about Abby yet?

Not that it’s any of my business.

And then as if I’ve conjured her with my thoughts, Abby spills out from the house onto the back patio.

She looks . . . trashed.

Horrified fascination fills me as she stumbles into people, nearly yanking them down in an attempt to remain upright.

I want to hate her. I should hate her. She was terrible to me, and living with her was as easy as pissing up a rope. But seeing her here, now, like this? I feel nothing but pity.

She grabs on to a guy dancing near the DJ and yells, like she’s trying to get the attention of everyone in the yard.

Then like a switch has been flipped, her glassy-eyed glaze turns into a laser the exact moment she spots Fitz. The laughter abruptly ceases and her lip wobbles and her eyes fill.

Her mouth forms his name.

Then she’s stumbling in his direction.

9

Close the door on the past. You don’t try to forget the mistakes, but you don’t dwell on it. You don’t let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space.

—Johnny Cash

Fitz

When Reese steps into the backyard, I’m almost immediately aware of her presence, despite the fact that there have got to be a hundred people milling around between us, and that’s just in the backyard.

Maybe it’s because she’s not like anyone else. She’s not dressed up, not calling attention to herself. She’s just wearing a plain blue T-shirt and jeans. She’s so clearly not trying to impress anyone.

In fact, it’s more like she wants to hide.

As I’m having that exact thought, she scurries like a rabbit into the dark shadows by the fence line and I try not to laugh, forcing myself to pay attention to the conversation with some guys from track.

It’s hard. I want to see what she’s going to do next.

My focus is split between the discussion and keeping tabs on Reese, so I don’t notice Abby until she’s latched on to my arm like a piranha.