Mitchell is the nineteen-year-old pretty boy with less charm than Davis but more brains, so he’s fucked. I’d like Mitchell more if he didn’t act like Davis and Hunter rode golden chariots.

And me, Garrison Abbey, I’m the seventeen-year-old degenerate who skips class more often than he goes, who’s yet to find a meaning in being here—in life. If I don’t follow their footsteps, then I see nothing else I could do right, but I can’t follow them and stomach it.

“Dude,” Mitchell starts in. “Mom wanted this to be a family dinner.” College summer break ended today, so they have to go back to the University of Pennsylvania.

“Sorry,” I say dryly, scratching the back of my head with mock regret. “I guess I missed the part where we break bread, hold hands and sing hallelujah—maybe next time.” I try to take a step forward, and Hunter puts his hand on my chest to stop me. I slap it off and back up immediately, my stomach knotting. “Don’t touch me, man.”

“Then don’t make Mom cry, dipshit.”

I stare at the night sky for a second and feel my eyes roll. I also feel Hunter let out an agitated breath and try to step closer to me, but I back up again, about to head for my bike.

“Hey.” Davis grabs my shoulder and spins me around, his fingers digging in. He raises the football near my head like he’s going to suggest a quick game. Instead he sniffs, and I turn and try to jerk away from him, my tousled hair falling in my eyes.

He grips harder.

“You smell like weed.” His annoyance only grows, probably thinking how badly I’m hassling our parents. I’m not easy like my brothers. I don’t know how to be and still retain a fucking soul.

“Really?” I feign surprise. My only real defense is dry sarcasm. “I thought I smelled like your girlfriend’s p—”

Davis slaps the back of my head, and I almost fall forward. And then he shoves the football in my chest. “Like you’d know what pussy smells like.” He messes my hair with a rough, irritated hand.

They treat me like a little kid. Like a little brother. I get that. I am one, but as I stand up and face Davis, Hunter, and Mitchell, I feel more like a toy they play with, one they’ve constantly broken.

I clutch the football. “You didn’t really stay up to play football with me.”

“Sure we did,” Mitchell says with a shrug and looks to Davis and Hunter for confirmation. Neither says a word in agreement. Their hard gazes just drill into me.

I don’t want to be here, so I drop the football and I turn around again and go grab my bike that lies sideways in the yard. Hunter chases after me, and I barely have my bike upright before he pushes me.

I drop the handlebars and stagger back. “What the fuck?” I sneer, my pulse quickening.