Layne thought of her mother, of how much she hated the woman for abandoning her family—but how much she blamed herself for not being a more perfect daughter. “Trust me. I can play the blame game all day.”

Gabriel didn’t say anything. The silence suddenly had a weight to it.

She understood only a fraction of what he was talking about, but details could come later. This was the first time he’d come close to saying anything at all, and she didn’t want him to stop.

“Have you tried to talk to Nick?” she said.

Gabriel fidgeted. “Yes. No. It’s complicated.” He rolled up on one arm again, until the line of his body was almost against hers. She could feel his warmth through the material of her jacket. She wanted to hold her breath, as if one small movement would spook him and send him bolting down the path again.

“I just snapped, I guess,” he said. “Sometimes I wish I’d never started that fight, but then it feels like some bizarre turning point.” He was closer now, his voice gaining momentum. “You know how you can trace back moments to one action that didn’t feel important at the time? But then later, you go back and think about it, and you realize one little decision turned your whole life upside down. If I hadn’t been so angry, we wouldn’t have fought. If we hadn’t fought, I never would have driven out of there the way I did. If I hadn’t driven out of there, I wouldn’t have—” He faltered.

Layne stared up at him. His eyes were wide, his breathing a little quick.

“Tell me,” she said. “Just tell me.”

He flinched and looked away. “It was the night I drove you home,” he said, his voice rough. “I was furious. I wasn’t thinking straight. It wasn’t . . . I can’t . . .” He swallowed.

“Please,” she said.

“I don’t want you to hate me.”

Hate him? What could it be? He wouldn’t have what?

He’d been angry. Driving. Layne knew too much from her father’s profession, and her imagination was getting carried away again. “Did you hurt someone?” she whispered.

“No.” He made a choked sound. “No. Just the opposite.”

Well, there went her theories about hit-and-run accidents. I wouldn’t have . . . been with another girl? Her own throat felt tight. “Is there . . . someone else?”

“What?” His eyes snapped to hers. “What? No. No, Layne, there’s no one else.” He leaned down to brush his lips against hers. It brought him even closer, his chest weighing on hers.

“Please,” he said, kissing her again. “Please. I would never hurt you like that.”

His kisses felt light but heavy: desperate, as if he worried she’d pull away any minute.