I roll the ring around in my hands. If I turn it the right way, all I can read of the lyrics is When Autumn leaves.

— Chapter 5 —

“We should just go,” I say to Matty. We’re hanging out in his uncle’s deer blind since I’m not allowed at his house anymore and I try to avoid him ever spending time at the motorhome.

“Go where?” he says, blowing into his hands. The blind was a better place to hang in the summer.

“Does it matter?” I jump around to stay warm. “Anywhere. Not here.”

“What’s so bad about here?” He pulls a sloppy hand-rolled cigarette from behind his ear and lights it, coughing. This smoking thing is new. He picked it up from Mark Conrad and now he thinks he’s a badass. I don’t smoke, but his parents will blame me when they find out. They blame me for everything. His mother stopped liking me after mine left. As if me and my dad had a disease her family could catch.

“What’s so great about here?” I say. “We’re dying on the vine, Matty. There’s a whole world out there.”

“What’s got into you, Ape?” He makes a fish mouth when he exhales. Mark Conrad can blow smoke rings, but Matty’s come out like sad little clouds.

I fan the smoke from my face. “Don’t call me Ape.”

“It’s just getting good, you know? I’m almost done with school. We’re almost there.”

“I won’t be done with school.”

“It’s not like it matters. You’ll get a new guitar. You can play at Gary’s until we get married.” He picks a piece of tobacco off his tongue and looks at it. “Not like I want my wife playing in a bar, right?” He starts to laugh, but it turns into a cough. “After that, you can stay with the kids and I’ll bring home the venison.”

The deer hunting obsession is getting way worse. I’m guessing Mark Conrad does that too.

“What if I still want to play at Gary’s when we’re married?” I say, twisting my promise ring around my finger with my thumb.

“Ape—” I give him a look and he quickly adds “—rul. That’s not what married girls do.”

“So what, am I supposed to join bible study and make potluck in my crockpot?”

“Potluck isn’t something you make,” he says, shaking his head like he’s old and wise and I’m so foolish. “You make jello or stew.” He stubs his cigarette out on the bench and slides to the floor. “Come here.” He spreads his legs out. I sit between them and he wraps his arms around me. “It’s gonna be good.” Cold seeps through my jeans. Matty kisses my ear. Whispers like he’s trying to get a baby to stop crying, “You’ll love it. I promise.”