I now see why she was upset about taking that to school.

“Whoops,” I said.

“I think my mom put fresh sheets in the guest room for you.” Carter shuffled his feet. “Your stuff should still be there.”

So, we weren’t going to talk about Eliza. Perfect.

I puttered to the guest room, past the white wallpaper etched with silver sunflowers in the upstairs hallway. That wallpaper always made me think of the time Eliza had told Ms. O’Connor it was the ugliest thing she ever saw, and Ms. O’Connor had replied, “It’s a good thing you never saw your father naked.”

Carter denies that conversation ever took place.

The light was already on in the guest room, probably from Ms. O’Connor double checking that I hadn’t left anything half-eaten in there after the last time I’d stayed over two weeks earlier. Right before the return of her favorite daughter. Even though they referred to it as the guest room, I was the sole person who ever used it—one of my old duffel bags with some extra shirts and a spare toothbrush sat permanently in the closet. We all pretty much considered it my home away from home.

In addition to a bed so big and comfy it made my bed at home seem like a cheap sheet of sandpaper, the room was decorated with posters of golden beaches that said things like, “Namast’ay at the beach” and “Keep palm and carry on.” And it had bookshelves full of volumes with titles like The Arabian Nights and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

Instagram-worthy for sure.

Stripping off my wet clothes, I tossed them into a pile by the door and wrapped one of the freshly laid-out towels around my waist. I reached under the bed, feeling around the pristine, cobwebless carpet. If Ms. O’Connor hadn’t found it, there should be . . . yes. I pulled out a half-eaten chocolate bar. Score.

“Nick?” Eliza rapped softly on the door.

I jumped, tossing the chocolate onto the bed and quickly pulling on my Cassidy High soccer pants.

“What’s up?”

The door scraped open. Eliza had changed into fresh, comfy clothes. Her hair dripped onto her sweatshirt.

“Whoa.” She pointed to my lack-of-shirt.

“Sorry.” I pulled the towel around my shoulders.

That was one of the good things about playing soccer for Cassidy High: my dad put an extreme emphasis on his athletes’ physical being. The core abdominal muscles did not go overlooked. I liked to flex that when I could. Who wouldn’t?

“As long as I’m apologizing, I’m sorry about earlier,” I said. “I obviously didn’t think it through.”

“Josh deserved it. I was mad about my shirt, but apparently it can get wet, so not a big deal.”

She stood right in front of me and brushed some of the ground off my face. Her hands were freezing. I didn’t dare flinch. “Sorry for throwing dirt at you. Hope I didn’t get any in your eyes.”

“This is making up for it pretty well.”