I look across the table where Iron has taken a seat next to Dallas. I know I told Trace I could take care of the tires, but it wouldn’t have been that easy. “You didn’t have to do that,” I tell Iron. “I appreciate it, though. Thank you.”

  “We can be gentlemen from time to time,” Army adds next to me.

  I look up as he holds a loaded plate out for me, his smile unusually soft. “Sit.”

  A hickey mars the skin under his ear, the red-purple mark fresh. My heart kicks up a beat, and I stare at it, trying to remember if I kissed the man’s neck last night. I absently take the plate and sit down in the empty seat at the foot of the table.

  “Eat,” Iron tells me. “The car has a few issues you need to have a mechanic look at. I’ll walk you out when we’re done.”

  I nod, but I can’t eat. My stomach is doing somersaults. No one speaks, and I look over, seeing Dex smiling at me. I wink at him, remembering my brother and sister. Pulling out my phone, I tap out a text to Mars, letting him know I’ll be home soon.

  But when I look up, I see Trace watching me. He looks away when I meet his eyes.

  Then I spot Dallas casting a sideways glance, followed by Iron and Army. Their bracelets catch the sunlight coming in from the windows. Leather and iron. With the same symbol that’s tattooed on Iron’s neck and on the left side of Dallas’s chest.

  I float my gaze from one wrist to another as if I’ll recognize the feel of the skin or the wear on the leather by sight. Which wrist did he wear his on last night?

  “Did you find the gator?” Army suddenly asks.

  I look up, noticing Macon entering the kitchen. The oldest and the head of the house.

  He pulls off his greasy, sweaty T-shirt and tosses it into the laundry room. I watch him fill a glass with water, his broad back tanned and toned, and it does that thing where his muscles bulge on each side of his spine, making it look indented. His jeans hang low as he watches the water fill the glass like none of us are here.

  There’s a three-inch vertical gash on the right side of his back—an old wound—and another small one on his upper arm. And those are just the ones I can see. Macon doesn’t have tattoos. He has scars. Maybe from when he was a Marine. Maybe from here in the Bay. He’s thirty-one, and the only one, other than Liv, with brown eyes. They got them from their mother.

  I catch Dallas watching me, and he just shakes his head.

  Macon sits at the head of the table, Army placing a plate in front of him.

  “You should’ve let me come with you,” Army tells him. “You wouldn’t have been able to handle it on your own anyway.”

  Macon says nothing, just starts eating.

  Dallas opens his mouth, but Macon cuts him off before he has a chance to speak. “Shut up and eat.”

  I cast Dallas a look, trying to hide my amusement, because I know he was going to bitch that I was at the table.

  But when I look away, I catch sight of Macon’s wrist.

  And his bracelet.

  My smile falls, and I raise my eyes, watching him ignore us as he chews.

  It couldn’t have been him. It wouldn’t have been him.

  My stomach swims. It’s on his right wrist. Same as Trace. Same as the guy last night on the couch.

  I float my eyes around the table. They all wear theirs on the right wrist.

  “I called Collins and Barrow,” Iron tells his brother. “Asked if we could wait till midday for the grass to dry a little.”

  Macon nods, the rain last night throwing off their schedule, but I’m sure they’re used to it. Florida has weather. “Swing by Trade Winds a day early, then,” he says, “and do the maintenance in the solarium.”

  Iron shifts in his seat.

  “And wear a shirt this time,” Macon gripes. “I don’t ever want another phone call from those fuckin’ people.”

  I bite back my smile; all the places they’re talking about are in St. Carmen. The Jaegers will let us pay them for landscaping, gardening, pool cleaning, and carpentry, but other than that, they don’t want to be reminded that we exist.

  “Mariette phoned,” Army tells him, finally taking his seat. “Her latest hire already quit, and no one wants the day shift.”

  Macon scoops up more food onto his fork. “Call Aracely.”

  “No answer.”

  “Just deal with it,” Macon mumbles.

  Bags hang under his eyes, and his arm looks like it weighs a hundred pounds when he picks up his coffee cup. He pushes his plate away, barely eaten, and rises, leaving the room. Back into the garage.

  Don’t worry, Dallas. Pretty sure Macon didn’t even notice I was at the table this morning anyway.

  I stand up, setting my plate down next to Trace, because I know he’ll eat it. “I’ll wait outside,” I tell Iron. “Take your time.”

  * * *

  —

  Sanoa Bay never seems to sleep. Kids run around where their older siblings and parents played last night, and I can never tell if people are just getting in or just going out for work. There’s always music drifting from someone’s garage or someone’s house. Always from Mariette’s Restaurant, and always from the bar next door to it after 4:00 p.m.

  It’s a community in the way my neighborhood isn’t. The only thing I hate over here are the dirt roads. They’re a reminder that the Bay is just the poor part of St. Carmen and not its own town. If it were, it would have autonomy over its own revenue and be able to afford the bare minimum. Like streetlamps and sidewalks.

  Iron leans under the hood of my car next to me, and I hear him talk, but I don’t know what he’s saying.

  He’s been kind this morning. Really helpful like he never has before.

  But my grandfather is sending him to prison for three and a half years, so maybe he thought seducing me last night would be a great way to get back at my family? And now he feels guilty about it? Was it him, then?

  Army was attentive at breakfast, too. He’s usually rushing around, overwhelmed, because he’s running a business and trying to shield Macon from whatever will set him off, and I’m eighteen, so what do I matter to a twenty-eight-year-old single father? But he was calm this morning. He smiled at me. Why?

  Dallas was as angry as ever. It can’t be him.

  Trace looked guilty when he saw me on the couch, too.

  But he did walk that girl out, so I doubt he came down after me last night and left her in his room. It wasn’t him. Definitely not. I know what he feels like, and that wasn’t it.

  Macon’s the only one who acted typical this morning.

  And I don’t think it’s his style to sleep with his little sister’s friends, either. He’s way older than me.

  “Krisjen.”

  It had to be Army or Iron. Right? I mean…

  “Krisjen!”

  I blink, coming back into focus. Iron still leans under the hood, but he’s staring at me. Oh my God. Was I thinking out loud?

  But he just smirks in that way that makes the color in his eyes look like a shamrock. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” he asks.

  Talking? What? Oh, the car.

  I shrug a little. “Could you write it down? I’ll pass it on to a mechanic.”

  It’s not like I’m fixing any of this myself.

  He laughs under his breath, standing up and closing the hood. “I’ll give you a ride home. Just leave it here for a few days. I’ll fix it.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I say it as gently as possible. “I won’t be back.”

  He looks at me, and I don’t mean that to sound insulting. Last night ended much better than it started, but I need to focus now. If I don’t get ahead of my mother, she’s going to have my future figured out for me.

  But he just slips my keys into his pocket. “I can drop it off when I’m done, then.”

  “Why do you want to fix it?” I study him, definitely having an idea why but deciding not to press it. If he’s not going to talk about last night, then it’s either not him or it wasn’t a big deal, so I play along. “I’ll put in a word with my grandfather, but all you had to do was ask. Not that my input will help you anyway. He barely knows I exist.”

  “I don’t want to hear about your grandfather, and I don’t want you to talk to him for me.” He takes a T-shirt hanging off the handlebar of his motorcycle and pulls it on. “He warned me the first time I was busted and the second, and I didn’t listen. Not sure I still would if I could go back and do anything differently.”

  He’s not lying. My grandfather gave him chances.

  But my grandfather also knows, as do I, that if Iron’s last name was Ames or Collins or Price, his punishment would be no more than being the butt of a joke within his father’s circle as he smokes a cigar on the golf course while they all complain about their kids.

  Prison rarely makes a person’s life better. It’s more likely than not that Iron will be perpetually in and out of jail.

  He steps up to me, takes my backpack, and slips it into his saddlebag. “I would like you here after I go away, okay?”

  I hesitate.

  “You don’t have to fuck Trace to be his friend.” Iron looks over at me. “He’s lonely. Dallas is always in a bad mood, Army is a lot older and has a kid, and Macon doesn’t talk to anyone. It would be nice for Trace to know you’re around. I know he acts like a tool, but he’s twenty.”

  I always liked Trace. But I don’t want to be walked on. He and I started at the wrong place. We can’t just be friends now.

  “His only memories of our mother were after she’d gotten to her worst,” he tells me. “He was never nurtured, not the way the rest of us were or how Liv was, because she was the only girl. Trace missed out on a lot. He needs a woman in the house.”

  After she’d gotten to her worst…

  Their mother died by suicide more than eight years ago. Two months after their dad died of a heart attack.

  She’d been depressed long before that, though. That’s about all I know. Trace doesn’t talk about it, and I never pressed Liv for details. They were so young, I doubt they really knew the full measure of what had happened with their mom. Macon and Army will remember the most.

  I just shake my head. “I can’t pay you for the car,” I admit. “And I’ve got my own problems, Iron. Trace will be fine. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “Nothing has ever been okay,” he whispers, looking down for a second. “I’m used to it. Trace is still young.”

  I watch him, both of us falling silent.

  He’s worried. He knows he probably wouldn’t have avoided this if he could go back and do it over, because Iron lives for people to give him a reason to hit them, but he doesn’t feel good about what he’s done, either. Did it just finally dawn on him that his family needs him, and in a week, they’ll be without him for years?

  He clears his throat, digging out a set of keys, and I see they’re not mine. “Do you have another car at home?” he asks.

  “My dad’s old Benz.”

  “Does it run?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “It should.”

  He sighs, gesturing for me to climb on his bike behind him. “You don’t have to pay me,” he says. “I need something to do this week.”

  He starts the bike, and I take the helmet he hands me, pulling it on and fastening it as I sit down behind him. Wrapping my arms around him, I hold tight as he takes off, through the green and shade of the swamp, over the tracks, and onto the two-lane highway as his tires finally touch pavement.

  He revs the gas, sending the bike lurching, and I squeeze my arms around his waist, pressing my body close to his.

  He’s warm. And tight under my hands.

  My friend Amy said he was good. She said he and Dallas didn’t let her get any sleep.

  Thoughts of how he might’ve been with her versus me—if it was him last night—hit me, and I push them away.

  It’s not worth dwelling on. I won’t be going back over there.

  We cruise into the main village of St. Carmen, a street sweeper cleaning the spilled palms and flowers from the storm last night as potted ferns and perennials swing from hangers under streetlights. Shops begin to open, and I unlock my fists, pressing my fingertips flat against his stomach. The wind blows my hair over my back. And while thoughts creep in that I’m practically doing the fucking walk of shame when Clay and the rest of my friends are busy with classes, making something of themselves, I force myself to appreciate this moment. It feels better than school. Better than home.

  I wish he’d keep going. Down the coast. To the Keys. Cuba. Anywhere.

  I always feel too much guilt. I should be doing this. I should be doing that. I shouldn’t sit down. I shouldn’t wake up late. I shouldn’t drink or party or skip a workout. I rest my cheek against his back, close my eyes, and fly through the wind.

  Before I know it, he pulls up to my house, and I see the gate is open.

  My mother is home. Great.

  He slowly pulls down my driveway, and I spot my mom’s new Maserati parked off to the right. She bought it, because she’s still married to my father, and while I’m sick of her, I’m kind of excited to see my father react when the first payment comes due.

  Iron stops behind it, out of direct view of the front of the house. It’s nice how he’s trying to save me from getting yelled at, because he knows no parent wants their daughter getting brought home—in the morning—by a Jaeger.

  I sit there, not letting go, though. “Is it weird I’m enjoying this town more with all my friends gone to college now?” I ask him.

  I feel him take something out of his pocket.

  “I mean, Clay is still in town,” I say as I climb off the bike, “but she’s busy. I don’t have to see too many familiar faces from high school. It’ll only be embarrassing when they come home for the holidays and I’m still doing nothing.”

  He flicks his lighter, mumbling over his cigarette as he lights it. “At least you won’t be in jail.”

  Puffs of smoke rise into the air. I don’t remember that smell last night. Iron doesn’t smoke a lot, but he smokes every day.

  “True,” I say.

  If I were him, I’d be depressed, knowing where I was going to be in a week. It’s almost better to just get arrested and go, without the opportunity to dread it.

  “It can always be worse.” He peers over his shoulder at me. “And once in a while, it will be. Stay in the moment. This could be it, right?”

  This could be it. The Tryst Six motto. A reminder that time is the most valuable commodity and no one can buy more of it.

  We can try, but the clock ticks and it never stops. It never slows.

  “For what it’s worth,” I tell him, “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I know. I just…” I’m not sure what I’m trying to say. He did the crime. Multiple times. Blew the chances he was given. He chose this. “I just know you’re good. A good person.”

  Despite his troublemaking.

  His eyes soften, and I can see the wheels turning in his head as he looks at me. Finally, he gets off the bike and digs into the saddlebag, the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “I know how you can pay me back,” he tells me. “For fixing your car, I mean. Mariette needs help at the restaurant, and you don’t seem to have a job.”

  He pulls out my backpack.

  But I shake my head. “I told you. I’m not going back over there.”

  “Done looking for love in all the wrong places?”

  “Isn’t that a song?”

  He comes around and holds out the straps of my bag. I slip my arms through, feeling his fingers graze my skin. My skin tightens, tingles spreading.

  “I enjoy this town more this time of year, too,” he says in a low voice. “The college kids are gone, and the snowbirds haven’t arrived yet. For a little while, it’s just ours. Nothing else really changes. It’s always summer here. But the nights do cool down a little, and the streets are quiet enough that you can hear the wind in the palms. The air smells better. We finally come outside. It’s the locals’ turn to play.”

  A taunt laces his tone, and I swear I feel his breath on my neck.

  He’s right. I never really thought about it like that. Saint or Swamp. We’re both still locals.

  “I’ll kind of miss you, kid,” he almost whispers. “I hope you had some fun in Sanoa Bay at least. While you played.”

  A jolt hits me low in the belly, and I turn around, but he’s already climbing back on his bike. I watch him speed off, and for a second, time slows as he leaves, turns, and disappears behind the hedge wall.

  A knot twists in my stomach for just a second. I said I was done there, but it suddenly hits me that I don’t know when I’ll see him again. I almost take a step as if I’ll catch up to him, but I shake it off and head inside.

  I’ll miss him.

  I step into the house, hearing the buzzer on the stove going off, and rush into the kitchen. Bateman, Paisleigh’s nanny, pulls a sheet of fresh-baked pastries out of the oven, and I exhale. I forgot he was going to be here today.

  “Morning,” I call out, dumping my backpack on the chair next to my sister as she sits at the island. I lean over her. “What are you working on?”

  “Drawing dinosaurs.”

  Her hair, just a shade lighter than mine, is styled in two reverse French braids that Bateman undoubtedly did when he got her up this morning. I think my mother stopped doing her kids’ hair with me.

  I peek at the triceratops walking underneath a rainbow. “Nice,” I tell her. “You know they weren’t purple, though, right?”

  “We don’t know for sure that they weren’t,” she replies too assuredly for a five-year-old. “No one is actually sure what they looked like, just made guesses based off nutrients they found in the bones and other things like climate and vegetation at the time.”