“The fact you’ve stirred curiosity is a good thing,” Abby says. She rolls to her side to face me and begins twisting pieces of my hair.

  “How is that?” I don’t know why I’m asking. I guess maybe there’s a little part of me that’s hooked on the drama. That’s painful to admit to myself, so I tuck that thought somewhere deep and pretend I never had it.

  “People like a good story.” She shrugs her top shoulder and lets go of the twist of my hair she’s been holding. It unravels like silk.

  “I don’t like being the story.” I glance at her sideways and she gives me a crooked smile.

  “Yeah, you do. Just a little.” My friend tucks in her knees and rocks herself back to a sitting position. I stay where I’m at, pondering her words and feeling a little guilty about the dash of truth to them.

  “I miss Lucas,” I admit. It’s strange how light my chest feels after saying that out loud.

  My friend swings her backpack over her arms and stands from my bed.

  “You should try really talking to him, and then tell him that,” she says with her back to me.

  “Probably,” I agree. I do a sit up on the center of my bed, then scoot my feet to the floor to hug my friend good-bye at the waist. Maybe next time I’ll tell her about the affair I witnessed and she can help me figure out how that secret fits in with me and Lucas having a real conversation.

  I follow Abby downstairs, answering a call from my mom as I wave bye to my friend.

  “The tow should be there in an hour. Can you hang around the house to sign for it? They have my card on file.” There’s chatter in the background.

  “Sure. Where are you?” My eyes tail my friend’s car as it rolls down the street, switching focus to an unfamiliar red sports car that passes her on the way and slows at Lucas’s driveway. There’s a blonde woman driving, her hair cropped bluntly at her shoulders and oversized black sunglasses shading her eyes.

  “I think I found a space!” My mom’s excitement draws me back in, but from the side door of our house I spy on the stranger pulling slowly up the Fuller driveway. The garage opens, unveiling Lucas’s mom’s car, and his mother guides the red car into the space where her husband usually parks.

  Divorce attorney? This is how rumors start.

  “That’s awesome, Mom. Are you gonna get it?” My attention is split in half.

  “Negotiating now,” my mom says. She mentions a few other things, and I hear the words dinner and order, but I don’t retain much else. I end the call with her and close the side door most of the way so I can spy the proper way.

  My mind spins with these clues, rearranging them to make sense, and then the roar of Lucas’s truck grinds up the driveway. I slam the door closed, eliminating the slight crack I was peeking through and move to the kitchen window, slitting the shutters enough to hide my profile.

  Lucas should be at practice right now. He pulls his truck in close to the house, slipping out the driver’s side and rushing around the back of the house as if he forgot something. He’s wearing his gray practice shirt and his football pants, halfway dressed out for a practice, so I wonder if he did forget something at home. The longer he remains inside, though, the less likely that theory holds.

  Almost thirty minutes pass with me staring at Lucas’s truck and the closed garage door hiding some strange visitor’s car. I have to pee, but I’m so afraid I’ll miss something and waste this time I’ve invested. My persistence pays off a few minutes later when the garage door opens and the red car’s reverse lights glow bright. Lucas walks out through the open garage along with his mom, and they both wave to the blonde woman backing out. I’m too far away to discern whether they’re scowling or smiling, but they don’t linger. Lucas jogs backward to his truck and his mom gets in her own vehicle, and they both disappear in less than a minute.

  An hour of my life is gone.

  It’s almost seven at night by the time the tow truck driver rings our bell. My mom’s words are starting to make more sense now, since it’s dinner time and she isn’t home. I ordered a pizza from Rudy’s twenty minutes ago, and the delivery man shows up while I’m guiding the tow up my driveway. I pay for the pizza and hold the box at my hip while the tow driver disconnects my car from his bed.

  As the tow truck leaves, I plop a seat on the trunk of my car and open up the piping hot box of pizza next to me to let it cool. I should call Abby or text the other girls to see if they want to come over and share. I pull out my phone to do just that, but stop short when Tory pulls up at the end of my driveway. I tuck my phone in my pocket and lean back against my rear window while he walks up my driveway.

  I’m fanning the rumors.

  “What’s up, Mabee?” His gray shirt is drenched with sweat and his hair is damp and twisted in various directions from wearing his helmet.

  “To what do I owe the honor?” I gesture to the pizza at my side, offering him a slice. He doesn’t hesitate, pulling a piece free, the stringy cheese threading through the air.

  “I’m starving, thanks,” he says, blowing on the end for a few seconds before taking an impatient bite. He waves his hand at his mouth and chews with it open.

  “It just got here. Might be hot,” I say, wincing with guilt.

  “Ya think?” He laughs while he chews, but goes in for more, not deterred by the burn I’m sure that left on the roof of his mouth.

  “You waiting on Lucas?” I glance to my right, to the driveway still empty after all the activity it held earlier.

  “I came to check on you,” he says, moving the pizza box closer to me and taking a seat on the back of my car. It dips with his weight.

  “Really?” There’s a twist in my chest from his answer. I’m not sure I want him checking on me because that lends credibility to the rumor, and we aren’t dating. It makes me think maybe he thinks we are, though.

  He leans back on the rear window and holds the slice at an angle, guiding the rest of it in his mouth.

  “You ate that in three bites,” I observe.

  He chortles with his cheeks puffed out, full of crust.

  “Like I said”—he muffles out the words—“I’m starving.”

  He pulls out another slice and hands it to me. I test the temperature with my palm. It’s cool enough to nibble. Tory doesn’t waste time with small bites, devouring a second piece in the time it takes me to get through an eighth of my first one.

  “So. Abby . . .”

  I’m chewing when he hits me with the awkward transition. That’s probably for the best because the little pause I’m forced to make helps me put things together. He has a thing for my friend.

  “What about her?” I smirk to myself.

  “You think she really hates me?” he asks.

  We’re both leaning back on the car window, staring up at the dimming sky and eating pizza. I can tell he’s trying to keep this casual, to not assign it too much meaning. Somehow, in the first two weeks of school, this obnoxious twin has become one of my best friends. I breathe out a little laugh at that thought.

  “Sometimes it seems she hates all of us,” I say, rolling my head to the side and squinting at him with one eye.

  He pulls out another slice, this time folding it in half and biting from the crust end. He nods slowly and glances at me sideways while chewing.

  “Sometimes isn’t all the time, so that means there’s a shot.” He winks and his coyness sparks a warm feeling in my chest, making me grin.

  “There is always a shot,” I say.

  He turns his head to face upward and nods, smiling through another bite.

  “Speaking of . . .”

  The rumble of a truck breaks up our quiet. I will myself to not glance to the right, even as the driver’s side door opens and slams shut.

  “Hey, Princess!” Tory teases, holding up his hand in a wave as he lies next to me. I eye him from the side and notice he’s not looking Lucas’s way. He’s taunting him, maybe for sport . . . maybe for me.

  I let him.

  There’s no immediate response from Lucas, only the slow shuffling of his feet drawing closer. Nerves make me want to fill the silence, but I’ll only say something I’ll regret, or something that will push this game between us to a new level. I can’t judge Lucas for being hurtful and taunting if I do the exact same things.

  “You got your car back,” he says.

  Yeah, guess you don’t have to worry about me begging for rides anymore. I let that thought pass through, discarding it. It’s not the right thing to say.

  “I did.” I pat my hand against the metal and roll my head to the side until my gaze lands on him. He’s trying not to say the wrong things, too. I can tell by the tightness in his neck, the way his shoulders are high despite the bag of gear dangling from his right arm and heavy backpack pulling down the left.

  “That’s good.” He takes a few steps closer, stopping just short of the place where his driveway blends into the shared grass between our yards. My gaze flits down to his feet, his socks rolled down to expose the difference between the clean skin on his legs and the dirty. He’s wearing the same Nike slides he’s had since junior high.

  “Your feet never grew after that big burst, huh?” I nod toward his shoes and he lifts his right toes. This natural conversation feels so strange but so nice. I’m a little sad Tory is here to witness it, because his presence keeps things from getting too deep.

  “Yeah, well, it took me a few years to grow into my size thirteens.” His laugh is raspy. It’s real. I trace his body up to his face, catching a glimpse of his mouth before he raises his head to look at me. He’s biting his lip like a child, amused by his own giant feet. When his eyes meet mine, there’s a softness there that’s been so fleeting. It’s the same face he wore in the truck on the way to the hospital and when he sat next to me in the ER.

  Such sweetness ruined in a blink by the sound of his father’s truck pulling in the driveway behind him. Lucas looks down and to the side, his muscles automatically growing harder and his attention shifting. He takes a few steps back as his dad stops just short of pulling into the garage.

  “Lucas?” He slams the door closed behind him and takes a few long strides in our direction. I swear Lucas swallows hard.

  “I was just talking with Tory,” he says, leaving me out of the picture. Tory’s elbow moves into my side in acknowledgement and I swallow down the hurt feelings.

  “Mind telling me why Coach called me tonight?” His dad couldn’t care less that Tory and I are feet away from them.

  “Well, I wasn’t on that call, you were, so . . .” There’s an edge to Lucas’s voice.

  Sucking in my lips, I make myself quietly invisible as I look to my left and meet Tory’s heavy stare. He shakes his head slightly, a hardness to his jaw and sadness in his eyes. This is something we aren’t supposed to see, a moment Lucas would rather keep from my view.

  “Tory, do you know why my son skipped out on an hour of practice today?”

  Tory’s eyes don’t immediately shift from mine, and I keep my head turned to face him, not wanting to be questioned next or see the look on Mr. Fuller’s face that matches his tone. Tory blinks his gaze up a notch and casually shrugs his shoulder.

  The quiet brews thicker, so much so that there’s almost a smell to it—a choking thickness with the scent of iron.

  “Thanks, Tor. You’re a real fuckin’ help,” Mr. Fuller says.

  Tory’s eyes dim and a heavy grimace glues his lips shut.

  “Let’s just go inside,” Lucas says, his shoes rubbing along the pavement with belabored steps that scratch and pull, as though he’s trying to drag every ounce of this topic and conversation somewhere private along with him.

  “This a joke to you, Luc?” The sound of his steps halts with his dad’s accusation.

  I shouldn’t get involved.

  “Maybe Mrs. D’Angelo knows.” The words come out without a plan or a filter. My voice is loud, and my eyes scan the stars above my head in an effort to seem indifferent. Tory snorts a laugh at my side, because he thinks I’m saying random snarky shit to help Lucas out. There’s nothing random about the words I chose.

  With a deep inhale, I sit up and slide from the back of my car, my stare finding the one I knew would be waiting for me. Todd Fuller has always had a heavy brow. It’s a little gray, a peppering that matches his short, well-trimmed beard. He wears a suit well—the look of a boss with expensive ties, his gold watch exposed when he raises his arm. His glare is purposeful, meant to intimidate me, but it also hides some major fucking fear. I shot close to home, and he knows there’s no coincidence in anything I said.

  A menacing grin flashes across his face, wicked like his eyes, and then he resumes his act, shaking his head and waving his hand at me, dismissing my words as garbage.

  “Get inside,” he finally huffs, marching past his only child, his golden boy who I’m starting to think only ever played football to make his old man happy. Pity they’re both so miserable.

  Lucas stays put until his dad climbs back into his truck and hits the button to raise the garage door. His mom’s car is already parked inside, and I can’t help but believe Mr. Fuller is taking this inside because he doesn’t want her overhearing.

  “I gotta go, Mabee.” Tory squeezes my shoulder from behind, then leans to grab one more slice of pizza as he heads back to his car. “Call if you need me, Luc.” He holds up a peace sign and Lucas does the same. His gaze follows his friend’s path until he pulls away in his car, then it flits back to me, a deep crease cut between his brows.

  A few wordless seconds pass, and my need to fill silence gets the best of me.

  “I’m sorry,” I croak out. I feel a heavy coat of shame, and I don’t know whether it’s my empathy for Lucas or for what I know but don’t fully disclose.

  “Don’t be,” he says, no bite or warning in his tone. His mouth forms a tight line, a forced smile meant to cover serious hurt and pain. He glances to the side of me and nods. “Glad you got your car back.”

  I nod, keeping the details of the blown engine and my lack of transportation to myself for now. This isn’t the time for favors, and my ride is covered. Plus, I can tell Lucas wants to get whatever is waiting for him in the garage over with; I’d rather not have to look him in the eye.

  This is a good place to leave things.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was an impulsive decision. Almost as knee-jerk as when I blurted out Mrs. D’Angelo’s name in front of Lucas’s dad. Whatever it was that made me go through with it, when I walked into school on Tuesday morning after Abby drove me in, I went straight to the office and begged my counselor to put me in an independent study for my physics credit. As much as I want to have forced interactions with Lucas every day, I haven’t wanted them for the right reasons. Starting every morning like that, so negative and contentious, won’t get either of us anywhere healthy. I might not see much of him anymore, but I’d rather have rare, meaningful interactions that he chooses to be present for than ones where we show up for attendance.

  I easily got my mom to buy off on the plan. I’m good at physics, and I did most of the work my junior year in other ways. I just need the official credit. I took advantage of my mom being busy and distracted, trying to get out of the house with arms full of gear and her phone on speaker while she spoke with her broker about the studio space she’s renting in Old Town.

  I miss our angsty morning battles—little pushes and shoves and biting comments—but the void is the kind a druggie has when going through withdrawal. Maybe that’s why I agreed to the game tonight—a little taste of Lucas from a safe distance.

  Controlled abuse.

  As the fourth quarter ticks down, I don’t feel any giddiness at all over the sight of him. We’re down by two touchdowns. I’m not much of an optimist, but the small fraction of me that is knows that even the great Lucas Fuller can’t close that gap against Pinewood Crest in less than two minutes. Their defense is rabid, borderline on sportsmanship, and twice the size of our offensive line. Lucas has been sacked three times this half, two the first half. His dad left at the end of the third, forcing his mom to leave her spot in the away stands so he could drive them home. He didn’t even stand during the game like he normally does. He was disappointed, and he wanted to make sure anyone looking knew he was not proud of his son’s performance.

  As if anyone gives two shits what middle-aged Todd Fuller thinks.

  “Hey guys, the party got moved to Sammy’s garage. I’m still in if you are,” Abby says, glancing over her shoulder at me with puppy eyes. I sigh and picture my evening, sitting on some metal chair in a garage while people drink and play beer pong.

  “I’m down.”

  “Me, too.”

  Lola and Naomi sell me out quickly. I laugh under my breath and close my eyes as I lift my shoulders.

  “Fine,” I say in one long breath.

  “You don’t have to,” Abby says, and I open my gaze on her, expecting to see the opposite message in her expression. She seems genuine.

  “Are you sure?” I tilt my head, waiting for her to smack my leg and tell me to get my ass to the party.

  “Yeah, I mean it’s Sammy’s garage. It’s not an epic moment.” I’m not sure whether she classifies it that way to let me off the hook or she’s strategically saving up my party attendance requirements for better, bigger blowouts ahead. Regardless, I’m thankful for the break.

  “Ohhhh!” The collective moan in the small crowd left on our side sends my attention back to the field, just in time to catch Lucas pulling himself to his knees.

  “Line isn’t doing their job tonight,” some old man commentates behind me.

  “Bullshit. QB’s head isn’t in this one. Sucks to lose to them, too. We might not make playoffs because of this.” I recognize the second voice as Mr. D’Angelo. He doesn’t make it to many games because his work puts him out of the state a lot. Tory mentioned something about him getting home for this one, though. At least his son looked good tonight, as good as anyone can look losing twenty-one to seven.