“Bree having jackholes for parents has nothing to do with Kincaid liking you. Okay? There’s no cosmic connection there. Trying to find one isn’t going to make things any better with her. Sometimes you come out on top. Next time, maybe it’ll be Bree’s turn.” Sage rests back against the seat. “End of speech.”

“Any idea what I can do to make things better?”

“Um. You can’t make Bree do or feel anything. And I’m saying that as her best friend. Sorry.” She turns to Moon. “Don’t you repeat a word of this.”

He laughs, switching radio stations. “I didn’t hear anything.”

Twenty-Five

I’M HOME BY myself when somebody knocks so quietly that I don’t move right away, paused over my homework, listening.

Another soft knock, almost like a branch tapping in the wind. Ma left me her phone so I could call Dad in case anything happened, and I bring it with me as I go to the window, peeking out at the back stoop.

Kincaid stands on the top step. Relief has me pulling the chain off the door, and the chill air is in my face before I can process anything but his expression, guarded, like he wasn’t sure if I’d be the one to answer. I put my arms around him immediately, squeezing; somehow, his body feels fragile to me today, impermanent, and my anger and confusion only come back as I say, “Where have you been?”

He hugs me, gaze moving over the doorway—wondering if there are parents lurking back there—then going to the scrape on my chin. “No place. Hanging around.” He gently runs his thumb over the scab. “I heard about yesterday. You okay?” I nod. “Want me to kick their asses? Aidan and those guys? I’m not buff or anything, but I’ll do it.”

“Nah. I’m sure they crapped themselves when the cops tracked them down.” I get quiet, looking at him. Remembering how it felt, running down the trails searching for him, realizing I’d been dropped. Feeling like a fool. How it made me question everything, doubt myself. My tone is flat when I speak again: “Better come inside.”

He steps through the doorway, taking a quick survey of our kitchen, a glance at the hall. Tea—I know he likes that, and we have it, so I put the kettle on, grab a mug just to keep busy. Everything we did in his bedroom—it’s vivid, present, a third party listening in on us. I drop the bag of Lipton’s into the mug, then turn to face him, my arms folded. “Why’d you ditch me?”

He looks back. “I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You moved your shelter.” My voice is tight. “I looked everywhere for you.”