I turn around and march back to tell him this, to make sure that he understands I don’t accept his half-assed excuses. But then I see Leo walking with the other girl—the hilarious and talented Kayla—and his arm is around her, and he’s clearly trying to talk her down, too. And for some reason I duck behind a car to eavesdrop on them.

“I met her at one of my mom’s art shows,” Leo says as they pass me crouched behind a VW Bug. “I think she got a crush on me because she was obsessed with my mom’s sculptures—and so many of them are of me. She’s a nice girl, but we don’t actually have a lot in common.”

Subtext: unlike Kayla, who clearly has so much in common with Leo. Kayla is likable. A good swimmer. Funny. Athletic. Undeniably attractive.

“She looked upset,” Kayla murmurs. “I felt so bad for her.”

Oh, and great, Kayla is nice, too.

Leo smiles, a kid-seeing-a-baby-kitten type smile, because he’s come to the same conclusion. “That’s so sweet. You’re a really good person, Kayla.”

It’s too much. I stand up. “You know what, fuck you, Leo,” I scream, and everybody in the parking lot turns to stare at us. I shoot a killing glare at Kayla, nice or not. “And fuck you, too.”

I’ve never said that before to anyone: fuck you.

Which is literally about sex.

Which is something I’m not going to be having anytime soon.

Chapter 7

7

When I arrive home an hour later, I’ve calmed down a little, but not a lot. My first stop is the kitchen, where I find Afton and Abby at the table watching Moana on Abby’s iPad in preparation for Hawaii. Pop is out somewhere, thank god, because this afternoon’s developments call for drastic action. I grab a heavy-duty trash bag out of the pantry and head upstairs. A few minutes later I come down again lugging the trash bag, which is now full. I slip out the back door and into the yard.

By the time Afton comes outside to see what’s going on, I’m halfway through the process of building a fire in the large cast iron bowl our family uses as a firepit. I found some firewood in the garage and gathered up dry grass and weeds to use as kindling. Once I have a good fire going, I open the trash bag and pull out a shirt. Leo’s. It’s a blue-and-green-plaid flannel. It’s comfy. Even holding it away from myself I can detect Leo’s boy smell on it, mixed with his musky cologne. Which I used to think was sexy. I used to hold this shirt to my face and breathe in and think about him.

I throw the shirt on the fire.