Kincaid shrugs, stopping beside our table, looking at the flowers painted on our salt and pepper shakers. “I always do that. Stay in one place too long, somebody will figure out you’re sleeping there.”

I swallow, working up my nerve. “Do you know how that made me feel? After what we did, and then you were just—gone?” He’s still not meeting my eyes, not getting it. I press my hand to my chest. “Did you plan it that way? Hook up with me, then drop me?” Kincaid’s gaze lifts sharply, eyes widening. “Or was that, like, payback for trying to get you to fix things with your mom? Trying to be a part of your life?”

“No. Clara.” He shakes his head, hard. “I heard what you were saying that night.”

“Did you? I let you know that I care about you, and you can’t get rid of me fast enough. Right?” He opens his mouth, doesn’t speak. “You’re pissing everything away. Your whole life. And it kills me, because you’re smart, and talented, and it’s like you don’t even know it. How bad did your mom screw up that you don’t even know that?”

“I told you. We fight. It doesn’t work, us living together, and I said some stuff—”

“She kicked you out of your own house. She changed the locks. I don’t care what you did, that’s a shitty thing to do to your kid. She’s supposed to look out for you—”

“You don’t”—tone the sharpest I’ve ever heard it, raising a hand to his brow, clamping down on his words for a second—“you don’t know her. Okay?” A pause. “It’s not all on her.” A pause. “I made things hard.”

I stare at him, breathing hard, arms still crossed tightly over my chest. “Sounds to me like she matters to you.” He frowns, looks at the floor. “Kincaid. She’s your mom. We can fix it. I know you guys fight, but we can talk to her together.” More silence. “You can’t tell me that she wants you sleeping outside in the cold, especially if there really is somebody out there in those woods, going after kids. And I don’t think she wants you flunking out and not being able to graduate this year.”

He turns away, gripping the top of a chair. I go over, touching his back gingerly. “It’s just . . . you can’t go away like that. I couldn’t find you. I couldn’t reach you.”

“I know.” His voice is quiet, and he closes his eyes, moving into my touch as I stroke his cheek. “Sorry.”