The weight of the air between them was smothering. Kincaid didn’t know the whole story, but she knew Ash didn’t talk to his parents, didn’t visit. When he came to the Lowells’ for the holidays, they were under strict orders not to post photos of him on Facebook.

“What are you doing here?” his mother asked, bewildered.

Ash didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“Ash is getting some peace and quiet to write his new book,” Kincaid blurted out.

Ash’s head swiveled her way and gave her a really? look.

She winced inwardly. Dammit. Shut up, Kincaid.

“You’re staying in town?” The hurt in his mother’s voice twisted Kincaid’s heart a little. She knew Mrs. Isaacs had let Ash down in so many ways, but Kincaid couldn’t help but have some sympathy for her. The grief on her face was raw.

“Not for long,” Ash said, his grip tight on the food tray. “Just in between trips.”

His mother looked down. “Right.”

A boisterous laugh sounded behind them, and Kincaid and Ash turned automatically. Only then did Kincaid realize that the high school boys at the big table weren’t alone. Coach Isaacs was at the far end, his arm around one of the kid’s shoulders, a big smile on his face. He looked like a father congratulating a son. Her attention shifted back to Ash, her heart splintering for him.

Ash’s jaw was locked, expression stony.

As if feeling the chill of his son’s hate, Coach Isaacs looked over, his attention zeroing in on Ash. His dumb smile sagged, and he released the kid he’d been embracing. He put his hand on the table and got up from his seat.

Ash set his tray down on a table that hadn’t been cleaned off yet and cupped Kincaid’s elbow. “Let’s go, KC. I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Okay,” Kincaid said, willing to do whatever he needed.

“Ashton,” his mother pleaded. “Don’t go. Please.”

Kincaid could see the push and pull on Ash’s face. But before they could make a move, Ash’s father was in front of them. He was still a big man, broad and strong, but time had turned his hair gray and his skin lined. Kincaid saw him around town often enough, but he’d learned not to acknowledge her. He knew whose side she was on. The one time he’d greeted her, bringing up something about how she used to be on the dance team, she’d given him an eat-shit-and-die look that cleared up any gray area.

Coach Isaacs looked through the two of them to the woman standing behind them. “Denise.”

Ash’s mom forced a smile. “Look, honey, Ashton is in town.”

Coach Isaacs eyed his son, his expression revealing nothing. “So I see.”

“He’s here writing a book,” his mother added, her upbeat tone like an out-of-tune song.

“Heh.” Coach’s lip curled. “Which means he’s broke. Probably mooching off the Lowells. He can write a book from anywhere.”

Ash’s fists curled at his sides and his skin flushed. “I’m doing just fine.”