Leaning my head to the side, I look my mom in the eyes and say, “I like her.”

  She purses her lips, trying not to smile. “Okay.” She’s pained, holding back her glee, but I don’t allow her to let it out. It’s her punishment.

  “And things are weird with us. We’ve talked about being friends and we’ve grown this strong relationship, something I’ve never felt before. It almost feels like a stronger friendship than what I have with Hartley and Asher. I go to her for everything and every Sunday, we hang out. Doing stupid shit like playing games and watching movies. It’s our day to relax since we both have Sundays off; at least for now we do.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “It was. Everything was good.” I press my hand to my forehead, still trying to figure out what was going through Indie’s mind. “Indie had her conference championship and of course, the boys and I went down to cheer the team on. She was incredible out there, Mom. Mesmerizing. Light on her feet, quick with the ball. She scored the winning goal. And after the awards and celebration, she came up into the stands and gave me a hug. It was so natural for her to jump into my arms and have her wrapped around me. And then . . . her mom cut in.”

  “Beth was there?”

  “Yeah. Indie didn’t think she was going to be there. It got increasingly awkward after that. Indie tensed up and that night, at the baseball loft where we were celebrating the conference win, Indie was a completely different person. I had to find her first and when I did, she tried to hook me up with a freshman on her team.” My mom winces and looks down at her hands. “It was as if going to dinner with her mom flipped a switch. We haven’t been physical with each other. The closest we’ve ever gotten to something is holding hands.” I don’t mention cuddling in bed because that feels weird to confess. “I thought maybe we were just taking things really slow, moving toward that direction of crossing the line into relationship territory.”

  “Do you want to cross that line?”

  “I did,” I say on an exhausted breath. “I didn’t want a relationship. I didn’t want to start anything serious, but the more I got to know her and hang out with her the more attached I’ve become. I was uh . . .” I scratch my head, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I was going to kiss her the other night, see if it was an okay next step, but then she tried to set me up with someone else and went off to talk to a guy on the basketball team.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. And I don’t want this to sound rude, but what does Indie’s indecision have to do with me?”

  “What you told Beth, about leading me on, all that bullshit. Beth told Indie, and I think it freaked her out. I didn’t even recognize her. Then she was asking me about the last time I had sex and telling me I needed to get laid.”

  “Oh jeeze.” My mom bites her bottom lip. There’s something she wants to say, but isn’t.

  “What, Mom?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not my business to say and if I do talk about it, it would only be adding to the gossip I shouldn’t be spreading.”

  “What are you talking about? Is it about Indie?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s about Indie’s parents.” She squeezes my hand. “I’d cut her some slack. Try and talk to her.”

  “I really don’t want to talk to her right now.”

  “Lies.” My mom pokes my side.

  “She’s the one who hurt me, Mom.”

  “I understand that, but sometimes the person who does the hurting, is actually the one hurting inside. She might be feeling too broken to try and fix things between you two. She might not really know where to start, and as I know you well, you may not be willing to listen.” Fuck. I didn’t. I wasn’t willing to listen.

  My chest grows tight from the thought of Indie holding something in that could be hurting her.

  “If she’s hurting about something, she should have told me.”

  “Probably, but she could also be in denial. It’s up to you, Linc, but I’d reach out, especially right now, when she’s back home. She probably needs a friend more than ever.”

  Mom pats my leg and stands, leaving me there to stew in my own thoughts.

  Is she broken? Am I really that unobservant that I haven’t noticed she’s hiding something painful?

  I think back to our interactions and the only thing that stands out to me is how desperate she is to be cuddled at night, how she wants me to hold her close and not let go. Does that have anything to do with what my mom is talking about?

  The idea that Indie could be hurting, that maybe I’ve missed something, burns terribly. She’s not very open about her deeper feelings, although I suspect she shares everything she wants shared with Scarlett, but there have been moments I’ve wondered if she’s happy. I haven’t seen the angry girl from our initial interactions for a while. But that doesn’t mean she’s been okay.

  And that means I need to push my pain aside and listen to what's going on for Indie. I also need to be honest with myself.

  The truth? I hate that Indie attempted to push me into the arms of another girl . . . when all I want is her.

  I know what I have to do. Just hope it won’t backfire stupidly.

  * * *

  Nerves. That’s what I feel as I stand outside Indie’s home. Which is ridiculous. It took me a few wrong turns in her neighborhood to remember where she lived, but I finally made it. However, all the wrong turns made me increasingly nervous about what I’m going to say to her.

  Hell, it took me all day to set aside my anger and to gain enough courage to make the twenty-minute drive. Well, and a push from my mom out the door with a plate of more freshly baked cookies. She apologized for talking about my personal life, something she swore she wouldn’t do again, unless it was with Mama. After the apology, she told me to talk to Indie.

  Here I am.

  At her doorstep, still unsure about everything.

  But when the door opens and Indie appears wearing one of my Brentwood baseball hoodies with puffy and red eyes, that anger disappears as my heart lurches.

  “Lincoln,” she says in surprise and then quickly wipes at her eyes. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

  Oh shit.

  This is not my Indie. My strong, iron-willed girl.

  This Indie is . . . pained.

  Vulnerable.

  Miserable.

  Fuck. What’s going on?

  Whatever it is, I will shoulder this pain with her.

  Because that’s what I should have been doing already.

  “Put your shoes on. You’re coming with me.”

  “Lincoln, I don’t know if that’s—”

  “I’m not taking no for an answer. Shoes. Now, Indie.”

  She wavers for a second before reaching behind the door and slipping on a pair of UGGs. She pulls her phone out of the pocket of the hoodie and says, “Let me text my mom real quick.”

  When she’s done, I head down her driveway to my Jeep where I open the door for her. After she gets in, I shut the door and steady my breathing. Soon, with the roar of the engine, I’m taking off down the street to a nearby park that I realize I’ve been to multiple times.

  It feels so weird knowing that Indie grew up only twenty minutes away from me and yet we’ve never run into each other.

  I park my Jeep so we’re overlooking a small lake, then step up onto the tailgate.

  “Are you coming?”

  She’s slow moving as she makes her way to the back of my car. Hopping up, our shoulders brush as she sets her hands in her lap, her head turned down.

  We sit there, silently, the wind lightly kicking up the water off the lake, sloshing it against the rocky sides. Thankfully it’s not too cold tonight given it’s fall in Michigan—the perfect night, actually.

  Unsure how to start this conversation, I stare at the lake, which reminds me of something growing up.

  “I used to play on the field behind the lake. It became a pitcher’s embarrassment and a hitter’s dream. Since the fence lined up against the lake, you never wanted to give up a homerun because you would see the plop of the ball in the water. I was solidly the only pitcher who didn’t get the dreaded plop, until Hector Valdez stepped up to the plate in eighth grade. Dude looked like a college kid. I hung a curveball right over the plate, he cocked his bat back, and the ball sailed far into the lake, making for a huge splash. Hell, it was embarrassing. After the game, I went to the lake and fished out the ball, kept it for a really long time to remind me to never hang another curveball again.”

  “Have you?” she asks, her voice shaky, weak.

  “Of course, but it was a good reminder that I’m never too good, and there is always room for improvement.”

  “Yeah, I get that.”

  I turn toward her and with my fingers, I move her chin so she’s forced to look at me. Her lip trembles, her eyes water, and then she breaks down.

  “Lincoln, I’m sorry,” she cries into her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

  I scoot further into the trunk, thankful for the headspace, and pull her onto my lap so she’s straddling me. Her head goes straight to my chest as sobs wrack her body. I rub my hand up and down her back, trying to calm her body. It takes a few minutes, but she finally calms down and only has tears falling from her eyes.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking. I was just . . . overwhelmed and being stupid. I never should have insulted you the way I did. It was uncalled for and I was battling my own demons and projected them onto you. I never should have done that. I’m so sorry, Lincoln, please forgive me.”

  “Shhh,” I say softly into her ear as she grips my shirt, holding tightly. God, it feels good to have her in my arms again.

  “You matter so much to me, Lincoln.” She looks me in the eyes, tears filled in hers. “You’re my person.”

  I grip her cheek and wipe away her tears with my thumb. “You’re my person, too, Indie.”

  “Please tell me I didn’t fuck this up, that we can still be friends, that we can still hang out and go back to normal where Sundays are our days and Mondays we awkwardly shower together after a hard leg workout. Where you sit next to me in class and share coffee.” She grips me tighter. “I need to know everything is going to be okay.”

  “Of course it’s going to be okay.”

  What doesn’t make sense is why she’s so . . . desperate for that. What she did really wasn’t that dire. I was just pissed and probably overreacted. So why has it affected her so badly? “Why?” I ask softly. “Why is that so important to you?”

  She leans back, her eyes searching mine. “Be-because, I miss you, Lincoln. It’s been so painful . . . not having you.” I shake my head.

  “No, I want the real reason.”

  “That is the real reason.” She stares at me, confused.

  I’m frustrated. I want to ask her about her parents, but I also don’t want to piss her off even more when it comes to her mom. The only reason I’d know something was wrong would be because of the mom grapevine, and I don’t want to succumb to that again.

  “Do you not want things to go back to normal?” she asks, her voice shaky, ready to break, the worry in her eyes slicing right through me.

  “I do,” I answer, then see her shoulders relax. “But I also want to be real with each other. There’s something that’s bothering you, something that happened after your game and you’re not telling me about it. I think that’s the real reason I got so mad. I mean, yeah, sure, it felt like a slap to the face that you were trying to hook me up with someone, but it was the change in your personality that caught me off guard, and instead of talking to me and telling me what was going on, you pushed me away.” I tip her chin up and ask, “What’s going on, Indie?” When she doesn’t answer, I lean my head back and let out a sigh. “Hell, Mayhem, if you can’t fucking talk to me about the important stuff, then what are we really doing here?”

  Her head bends forward, and I watch as she plays with the fabric of my shirt. I don’t think she’s going to say anything, but she quietly says, “I haven’t told anyone. Scarlett doesn’t even know.” She looks up at me, more tears fill her eyes, and she finally says, “I found out that both my parents were cheating on each other during the summer.”

  Oh fuck.

  “Indie . . .” I grip her hip tightly. “I’m so sorry.”

  Tears cascade down her cheeks and onto my shirt, I try to swipe them all away, but they’re too fast.

  “I caught my dad with another woman first. Saw them together, holding hands, and kissing in a parking lot. I’ve never wanted to throw up so quickly in my life. It took me five days to gain the courage to tell my mom and when I did, she said she knew and that she was seeing someone herself.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Yeah. Apparently, they’re together because my mom needs the health insurance from my dad’s plan. She has a thyroid problem and her medicine is vital. They’ve been seeing other people for a while and just put on a show of being a family when I’m home. But it explains why my dad has checked out.” She shakes her head. “It really fucked with my head. I don’t understand why they wouldn’t work on it, but instead just accept it was over and agree to date other people. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Hell, Indie, that is so fucked up. I wish you’d told me sooner.”

  She shakes her head. “I think I’ve been in denial.” She swipes at more tears angrily. “I want to ask my dad why when he checked out of life with Mom, he checked out of life with me too. Why I’m held at arm’s length, even though I’m his flesh and blood. I hate that. And sometimes, I think I hate him too.” Shit. I’m not surprised.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s just . . . hypocritical, you know? My mom trying to hook me up all summer made me more bitter, which is why I was so angry when I met you. As if all I was worth was a setup. I mean, who is she to insert herself into my love life when she’s completely botched her own? How can she endorse a solid relationship when she’s living with a man she’s married to on paper only?”

  “Yeah, it’s fucked. I get why you were so angry now. I’d be the same if my moms did something like that.”

  “Talking to her the other night, watching her smug smile about how right she was about us, it made me angry. I wanted to prove her wrong.”

  And there it is.

  “And it was stupid. Because the one person I should be keeping close, I pushed away.” Her hands travel up my chest. “I’m sorry, Lincoln. Please tell me we’re going to be okay.”

  Her eyes are pleading, begging, looking for reassurance, and I can’t deny her any longer. I want things back to normal just as much as she does.

  Hell, I want more. But I don’t know how to cross that bridge, not yet at least, and definitely not now with how emotional she is.

  Smoothing my hands up and down her sides, I say, “Everything is going to be okay, Mayhem.”

  She sucks in a shaky breath and asks, “Really?”

  I nod. “Really.”

  And then she crashes into my arms. Her head to my shoulder, her arms wrapped around me. I grip her even tighter as she sobs into my arms.

  “I’m sorry, Lincoln. I really am.”

  “You don’t need to apologize, babe.”

  “But I—”

  “But nothing, Indie. It’s not as big a deal as I made it out to be. I was hurt and lashed out. Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

  We sit like that, in my Jeep, cookies uneaten, her holding on to me, curling into me, using me as a lifeline, while I soak in every second of it. If I know two things, it’s that my mom is a wise woman, and I care so much for this girl, that even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to stay away for long.

  Indie is no doubt in my mind long-term. Someone I’m always going to need in my life, even if it’s only friendship.

  * * *

  Indie: I’m going to throw up.

  Lincoln: Why? Where are you?

  Indie: In my car, in your driveway, contemplating throwing up in my passenger seat or driving away.

  Lincoln: How about neither but instead, you come inside the house?

  Indie: Your moms are going to hate me.

  Lincoln: Or they will love you. Come knock on the door.

  Indie: I can’t move.

  Lincoln: You’re going to make me come get you, aren’t you?

  Indie: I’m in a fragile state. My parents went to their respective lovers’ for “dessert.” Struggling here, Castle.

  Lincoln: Be right there, babe.

  I slip on my moccasins, the same present my moms get me every year. I don’t really like them, but I wear them anyway. I don’t have the heart to tell my moms that I’m not a slippers kind of guy. Pretty sure it would break their generous hearts with the number of pairs they’ve bought me. And don’t worry, I have a pair for when I’m home and a pair for when I’m at college. They’ve got me covered.

  I open the front door and am blasted by a gust of fall wind, leaves from the ground kicking up and swirling around my feet as I jog toward Indie’s red Mazda. I spot her staring at the steering wheel, still looking a little different than I’m used to—more . . . reserved—and that’s when I see how hard it is for her to be home. And she’s told no one.

  Her downcast appearance reminds me of when I first met her. Angry. Over life. But once she was back at school, away from the drama of her parents, she thrived. And I got to know the beautiful and cool girl that she is.

  I’m hoping I can bring that girl back.

  I open her car door and squat down to her eye level. I hold out my hand and smile at her. She takes it and gets out of the car, but before we walk back to the house, I pull her into a hug and she wraps her arms around me, her head falling to my chest. I cup the back of her head and press a kiss to her smooth hair, which is straight and styled over her shoulders.

  When I pull away, I take in her outfit and smile to myself. She dressed up.