"Can I hear you play?"

Adam straightens up from where he was digging out a clean pair of socks. "What?"

"I've never gotten to. Casper talks about it all the time, so..." I gesture at his guitar, hopeful.

He studies me, the guitar, me again, lips drawn tight. "I'm not any good."

"Casper says you are."

"Casper doesn't know music."

"I do."

"Exactly." He turns away. End of conversation.

I don't push him because I wouldn't know how. Besides that, I think I hear a car out front, and a quick look out the window shows a blue SUV pulling into the driveway alongside my crummy old van. "I think your mom is home."

Adam freezes, jaw clenching, and quickly shoves his clothes into his bag. Then he's hurrying me out of the room and downstairs. "Let's get out of here before—"

Mrs Rockswell is just stepping inside when we round the corner for the entryway. She stops in the middle of taking out her earrings. She's pretty. Adam has her cheekbones and nose. She's dressed in office attire, complete with pearls and a red blazer that matches her heels. And she looks as startled to see her son as she does to see me.

"Adam, I thought we'd talked about you having guests over without asking first," she says in a patient, saccharine tone like she's chiding a seven-year-old for not eating his vegetables. I imagine I don't look so hot, standing in her spotless house with my rumpled shirt and three-day-old jeans. I think one of my sneakers is coming untied, too.

"Sorry," Adam mutters. "We were just grabbing some stuff and leaving. Come on, Vince."

I think it might be the first time he's ever directly spoken my name to me. For some reason, it makes heat rush immediately to my face. Would he find it weird if I asked him to say it again?

We start to move around her but Mrs. Rockswell sighs, plucks out her other earring, and gives Adam a withering look. "No, I don't think so."

Adam frowns. "Why not?"

"You didn't ask me about going anywhere."

The look Adam gives her is beyond dubious. "Since when do you care where I go?"

"Watch your attitude, young man." She turns her attention to me, still smiling. "Sorry. Vince, was it?"

"Vincent," I say, because I don't think I like this lady and I don't want her soiling my name when it sounded so nice on Adam's lips a minute ago. "I, um. I can give you my address and all that. If you want. I don't live that far and—"

"No, that's all right." Mrs. Rockswell moves past us, going so far as to tug the packed bag out of Adam's grip. He doesn't relinquish his hold immediately. They stare at each other, and I think they're having this battle of wills wherein neither of them says a word with anything but their eyes.

Mrs. Rockswell wins.

Adam lets go of his bag, but doesn't look at me. "Sorry. Maybe next time."