She was good, just like this Mountain Dew.

I tip back the can, then crush it and sit up. I’m in a random white t-shirt that I’m pretty sure at one point I stole from Ambrose’s clean laundry—and a pair of black sleep shorts that you can barely see, thanks to the t-shirt.

I stare down at my bare feet and then lean back on the couch further. Maybe I should paint my toenails? I wonder if Ambrose’s mom left behind any polish?

“You alive?” Ambrose’s voice sounds, and then he’s shoving my legs off the couch so he can sit.

I roll my eyes. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Does death include you in the afterlife?” He winks. “If so, maybe.”

I stare a little too long before answering. “Stop being too nice. It’s weird.”

“Hmmm…” He pulls a black sharpie out of his pocket and taps it against his chin. “I can’t be nice, and I can’t be mean, is that it?”

“Normal.” I scrunch up my nose. “Just try normal.”

He reaches into his pocket, his smile wide, and pulls out a piece of notebook paper. “Normal’s hard for someone so perfect.”

“Wowwwww.” I kick him with my foot.

He laughs. “What about the whole twenty-four-hour cease-fire?”

“It slipped.” I cross my arms and sit up. “Are we doing homework now or what?”

“Yes, because I’m always known for doing homework on the weekends when a hot girl’s sitting next to me.”

I gasp.

He shrugs and leans forward; I swear I can taste his lips and confusion in the air. “What? It slipped.”

I feel my cheeks heat and look away. “Seriously though…”

“We fight,” he says clearly. “And we’re sometimes better at fighting than anything, so I figured I’d write some house rules for the next twenty-four hours, and if we can actually make it through without shoving each other off the roof, we can maybe discuss making it permanent.”

I’m suspicious by nature, but I’m also curious. “Make what permanent?”

“This.” He spreads his arms wide. “The living situation, the way I see it, if we can make it for twenty-four hours and take a few slow steps toward progress, then maybe when you graduate, you don’t have to grab another black trash bag and dump your shit into it. Maybe instead, you can live with an abandoned perfect kid in his giant house with all his memories and no parents.”

“Very depressing sentence,” I say.

My throat nearly closes as he asks, ”The trash bag?”

“The no parents,” I whisper, then tuck my feet under my body and scoot toward him. “What sort of rules would we put on here anyway?”

Subject change. I need a subject change.

He grins down at the piece of paper then bites off the cap of the sharpie, not really giving me an answer as he writes down a number one. He spits out the lid and looks over at me. His amber hair is still damp, sticking to his forehead, and his strong jaw seems almost more pronounced for some reason. Maybe the lighting, maybe I’m going crazy, maybe it’s the way he smiles at me like he means it, like I’m important to him when I know I’m not. How could I be?