A spicy vanilla aroma followed us. When I was younger, I used to be jealous of Carter and what seemed like having the best, most fun family. As I got to know them better, I realized the baking and wafting smells were there to fill the extra emptiness in their house, left over from when Mr. O’Connor went out for cigarettes, found a new European family somewhere in the chip aisle, and never looked back. His dad was still around when they first moved to North Cassidy, though he’d left pretty soon after. I’d met him a few times, but I didn’t really remember him. No great loss if you ask me. But it wasn’t my dad. They kept his last name—apparently “Olivia O’Connor” was too quaint for her business to give up.

Despite the IMAX theater in his basement, Carter’s room was where we hung out the most. Until late afternoon, sunlight flooded through several tall, bay windows making it impossible to sleep past 7:00 a.m., but also so you could never be unhappy. The walls that weren’t taken up by the windows were covered with autographed posters of his favorite basketball players and shelves holding an endless supply of gummies and pineapple juice.

Carter’s pineapple juice addiction had started before he moved to North Cassidy, so I never got the full story—but if a normal human’s body is 60 percent water, Carter’s was at least 50 percent pineapple juice cocktail. Maybe that was why the girls loved him so much after soccer practice—even his sweat made them want to be around him.

Carter’s hamburger-shaped beanbag chair made a satisfying crunch as he melted into it, clicking feverishly on his video game controller. I took the Oreo beanbag chair beside him and waited for him to fire up the game.

Three rounds of Fortnite later, I assassinated his lameness and the screen went black.

“And that’s how it’s done,” I said. “C’mon, man, you were practicing all afternoon and that’s the best you can do?”

“I know how you get when you lose.”

“Fine. I’ll let you have another rematch.” I thought Carter would have learned by now to not mess with my competitive side, though he was almost as competitive as I was. (But not quite.)

“Don’t cry when I shoot you.” Completely focused, Carter held his finger over the start button. “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

“Carter?”

He pressed pause. There were two things that we’d stop gaming for: an alien attack (awesome) and Eliza interrupting us (sometimes awesome), though it hadn’t happened in a year.

Stop it, Nick. I commanded myself to be cool as I took in her appearance. Anyone but her. Eliza hung in the doorway, glittering like a firefly in dusky July twilight. The pale glow of the TV still revealed her tight leather pants and a flouncy top that could definitely be featured in some fashion magazine, and makeup that made her brown eyes flare. Where is she going, and can I come?