“Alright,” I say. “I’ll go.”

“Great—anywhere you want to eat? There’s a good brick oven pizza place that just opened up.”

I shrug. “That’s fine.” Maybe it’s a dick move to let him buy me dinner. At this point, the distraction and the company alone are enough for me to accept his invitation.

Jeremy starts talking about his favorite kinds of pizza and how his old hometown had the best meatball subs, and I try exceptionally hard to pay attention, to laugh at the right spots and nod at others. I ignore the niggling fact that conversations shouldn’t be so high-maintenance.

Unfortunately, my lack of social skills follows me all day, even to dinner at Holly Fields. As we eat, Dad rambles on about how glad he is that my student teaching is almost over, and I can only manage to chew and swallow.

“Princess, all I’m saying is that I’ll feel a lot safer when you’re out of a school that requires police officers on campus.”

“Gary, I think she likes it there,” Rocky drawls, stirring a spoon through his mashed potatoes. “Give the girl a break.”

“Please,” Dad snorts. He holds his fork up and points at me. “This girl’s too good to be associating with criminals.”

Finally, I manage to speak up.

“Daddy, they aren’t criminals—most of them are just kids. In fact, I’ve seen many of them really flourish in the last few months—you’d be surprised. You should give them a little more credit.”

“Well, whatever,” he sort of grunts. “I’ll just be glad when you’re out of there.”

After dinner, I walk Dad back to his room and watch a half hour of the History Channel while he gets his blood sugar measured by one of the nurses. Once I’m sure he’s settled for the night, I slip out and let the door shut behind me with a quiet click.

“Cyn?”

I turn to see Wyatt wheeling his way down the hall. He smiles up at me, fiddling with the handbrake on his wheelchair as he comes to a stop.

“You leaving?” he asks. I nod.

“Yeah—Dad needed some blood work done tonight and you know how he feels about needles.”

Wyatt laughs. “Did he squeal like a little girl again?”

“Nah—it wasn’t that bad. Shots are worse.”

He shakes his head, still chuckling.

“Listen, I was wondering if we could chat for a minute.” I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s already past nine and I need to wake up tomorrow at five a.m. Still, when I look back at Wyatt, there’s something about his expression that makes me think whatever he has to say to me is important.

“Sure,” I finally say. “What’s going on?”

“Let’s go sit.”

He takes his time moving his hands to the wheel guards and pushing himself along the hallway. I walk slowly, a step or two behind him, and watch his arms as they flex and straiten with each rotation of the wheel. His biceps are huge now, although his arms were always pretty muscular—probably from drumming. He’s made so much progress in the last few months. It’s amazing to watch how much physical therapy can actually do.

Wyatt turns into one of the common areas, a living room-like set up with couches and a TV. A few people are sitting on one side of the room, playing cards, but the rest of the space is empty. He wheels over to an armchair and gestures for me to sit.

“So, I need to ask you a favor,” he says when I’m seated.

“Oh—okay, shoot.”

He lifts a hand to his lap, flexes his fingers, then clenches them. He seems to take his time formulating the words he wants to say.

“I want to get out of here.”

My brow furrows. “Like—tonight? You want me to take you out?”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean move out of here. Permanently.”

I blink at him.

“What do the doctors say about that?”

Wyatt lets out a hard, choppy exhale.

“They say I’m physically doing very well, but they’re still concerned about the brain swelling and what could happen if I were alone and there was some kind of flare up or something. They don’t want me to leave for at least another six months. Maybe longer.”

He reaches up now to run a hand through his hair.

“I can’t stay here,” he says, so softly that I almost don’t hear the words. I shift forward and reach out to take his hand.

“Wy, I don’t know what I can possibly do to help you. I’m sorry.”

“Well, that’s where my favor comes in.” He looks down at his lap, at our clasped hands, then back up at me. “I need a tutor.”

I blink at him. “A tutor? For what?”

“Maybe tutor isn’t the right word—I need someone to . . . assist me. At the time of the accident, I was about halfway through my fall semester at community college and I didn’t get to finish my classes. I want to complete the course work, but I’m going to need someone to help me.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “So, what exactly would you need me to do?”

“Mostly it would be as a liaison between me and the college. I don’t want the doctors to know I’m doing this. My plan is to finish the classes by the end of the summer and prove to them that my brain is perfectly capable of completing college courses, so it can do the daily tasks required if I were living on my own.”

“So, I’d need to go see your professors, get the course work, that kind of stuff?”

He nods. “Right. Then, I’d need you to help me with some of the logistics. Submitting assignments, but also typing them. My typing is still shaky and I hate those dictation programs—saying words like ‘comma’ and ‘space’ out loud is just fucking weird.”

I grin at that—I hate those programs, too.

“Listen, I’ll pay you if you can do this for me. I just need your help. I don’t know who else I can ask.”

I bite my lip. “When would you want this started? It sort of sounds like you’re on a deadline.”

“Immediately. Well, actually, yesterday—or last week—or a month ago, depending on when you ask me.”

I shake my head. “Shit. I’d like to help, but I have the end of my student teaching and my portfolio presentation to put together. Not to mention, I’ve got to write a twenty-five-page thesis paper before graduation to finish off my spring credits.”

Wyatt nods, but he looks completely crestfallen. “I understand—don’t worry about it.”

“Wait.” I sit upright, then smile. “Carson.”

“Who?”

“Carson—my best friend. She’s a private tutor—for high school kids, mostly, but some college students now, too. I’ll bet she could help you. She . . . pushed graduation back a semester, so I think she’ll be able to start right away. I’ll have to talk to her about it, obviously, but it should work out.”

Wyatt’s eyes light up.

“You think she’d be up for it?”

“Yeah. I really do. I’ll talk to her tonight and have her give you a call.”

“That would be great, Cyn. Thank you—so much. Seriously.”

I squeeze his hand before letting go. “I want to see you happy, Wyatt.”

“I want to be happy, Cyn,” he says softly.

I give him a rueful smile.

“Don’t we all.”

Chapter Fifteen

Eyes Wide Shut

On a regular day, the gymnasium at the Franklin School smells a little like rubber and a lot like sweat. Tonight, there isn’t even a hint of the rubber scent—there are far too many bodies packed into this place, and I’m feeling claustrophobic already.

All around me, fans are stomping their feet on the old wooden bleachers and sending out brief but horrifyingly loud air-horn blasts—all of it reminders of why I don’t go to sporting events.

“Having fun?”

Jeremy grins over at me and I force myself to smile back. I don’t know what I was thinking coming here tonight. Sure, I got out of the house. Sure, I’m being social with my colleagues. Sure, I ate some pretty decent brick-oven pizza.