“I’m only asking you to think about it,” Carson says.

I want to laugh. Like I can do anything but think about it.

“By the way, what time are we going to Holly Fields?”

“Five.” I roll my eyes. “They eat early. It’s an old people thing.”

She nods. “That’s cool. And you’re sure you want me to come to dinner? I really don’t mind dropping you off and picking you up.”

I shake my head.

“No, I want you to come. You didn’t get a chance to talk to Wyatt at the hospital, and I promised him I’d hook you all up for the tutoring thing.”

Carson clears her throat. “We actually did talk a little at the hospital—he was sort of a dick, Cyn.”

I blink at her.

“For real? Wyatt’s, like, the nicest guy ever. Maybe you just read him wrong.”

“I don’t think so.” She shrugs. “I mentioned tutoring him and he snapped at me. Said something about not needing help. It was weird.”

“Huh. That is weird.” I think back to my conversation with him about finishing his college credits. “Well, I’ll talk to him about it tonight. And, yes, you’re still coming to dinner. If I get to experience the Holly Fields turkey sandwich tonight, I want you to be doing it with me.”

“Fantastic,” she mutters as she walks into the kitchen.

I chuckle, then groan, putting a hand against my left ribs. They’re really tender, especially when I laugh.

Or move.

Or breathe.

My right wrist is still in a brace, too, but the doctor said I’ll probably be able to take it off next week. Most of the bruises and cuts have healed, save a persistent purplish mark on my right cheek. Aside from the wrist brace and a really gnarly case of bedhead, I look pretty normal. Not like someone who got hit by a car. Not like someone who just had her heart broken.

In the end, I do actually shower and change my clothes before leaving with Carson for dinner with Dad. I figure it’s the least I can do. Well, actually, it’s literally the least I can do. I certainly don’t bother with makeup or a blow-dryer.

“So, did you hear?” Rocky asks me once we’ve settled down at the cafeteria table.

“Hear what?”

“About the charges—there was a big press conference on the news this afternoon.”

I blink over at him. “What charges?

Dad and Carson share a look.

“J. D. Fenton was charged today, princess,” Dad says, reaching over to pat my hand.

“Apparently he and a few other Franklin students were selling drugs at the school for a larger kingpin based in the city. There are about eight or nine people they’re trying to take down, I think. It was all over the news this morning.”

“Oh.” I stare down at my sandwich and pick up my apple instead. “So, was it just drug charges?”

Dad nods. “The hit-and-run will be a separate trial, so you won’t have to worry about testifying at this one.”

I nod, still staring at my apple. Wyatt, who’s sitting on my right side, pats my arm.

“Eat, Cyn. The apple isn’t going to hurt you. And you look like you’ve lost about ten pounds since the accident.”

I shrug, but take a bite anyway. Across the table, Dad is grilling Carson about what her parents are up to and how her brother’s doing. I clear my throat and glance over at Wyatt.

“So—Carson said she talked to you at the hospital about the whole tutoring thing,” I say quietly.

In an instant, Wyatt’s eyes sort of shutter themselves closed. He shrugs and takes a sip of his water.

“She did. It—uh—isn’t going to work out.”

I frown at him. “I don’t get it—you were so gung ho before.”

He swallows hard. “I know her brother.”

“Huh?”

He glances across the table at Carson, who is laughing at something Rocky is saying, then back at me.

“Her brother, Lennon. I know him.”

“Uh . . . so?”

Wyatt scrubs a hand over his face.

“So . . . I sort of punched his fucking lights out the last time I saw him. It was before the accident, but there’s some bad blood between us. I’d seen Carson with him before, but they don’t look anything alike and I thought she was his girlfriend or something. I had no clue she was his sister.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Lennon’s a pretty big dude—what’d you punch him for?”

He looks down at his tray and fiddles with his fork.

“For sleeping with my wife.”

My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. Wyatt looks up at me and gives me a rueful smile.

“Wow.” I don’t know what else to say. “You’re married?”

“She’s my ex-wife now.” Now it’s his turn to raise his eyebrows. “Why can’t you believe I was married? Am I repulsive or something?”

“No, of course not!” I punch his arm lightly. “I just never pictured you in a serious relationship like that. You always hear that musicians aren’t exactly big on monogamy.”

He shrugs. “Not all musicians.”

“Hmm. Clearly.”

Wyatt takes a bite of his salad, then glances back across at Carson. She’s watching us now and I give her a little thumbs-up that’s hidden from Wyatt’s view.

“You really just need to give her a chance. She’ll help you out. You don’t even need to say anything about her brother.”

He sniffs. “Maybe.”

“Good.” I take another bite of my apple and swallow, even though it still pretty much tastes like nothing. “I think you’re making the right choice.”

“I guess we’ll see,” he sighs, then looks at me with a sad expression. “I think I’m just used to people hiding their shit—I didn’t want to become that kind of person.”

I huff out a little laugh.

“If I’ve learned anything in the last month, it’s that everyone hides their shit. You can think you know someone and then find out they’re someone completely different.”

***

I don’t really intend to follow the trial. I just do.

It’s big in the Baltimore news. Eight men—one of whom is J. D.—are charged with drug trafficking and transporting narcotics over seven different state lines and on school property. The news touches on the fact that J. D. was a senior at the Franklin School and that police were able to establish contact with him through his time there. It’s a pretty vague way of saying they had someone on the inside, but I guess the semantics matter with something like a drug trial.

Most of the time, I make it through the day without watching the updates—it’s when Carson’s out tutoring and Rainey’s still at the YMCA in the late afternoons that I find myself glued to channel 13, waiting for even a glimpse of Smith in the courtroom and cursing myself for it the whole time.

It’s been almost a month since the accident.

It’s been over a month since I saw him in person.

I have so many things I want to ask him. But instead, I just watch the television and hope to get a glimpse of him, even for the briefest of moments.

It’s a Wednesday, the day the defense delivers their opening statement, that I finally see Smith. It’s just not on television. It’s at Franklin High.

While I was at the hospital, I’d written thank-you notes to Caroline and Mr. Weathersby, which I decide I should deliver to the school myself rather than send them. Despite having to end my student teaching two weeks early, they both gave me glowing recommendations to my thesis advisor, so I feel like a card and an in-person visit are the least I can do.

I have to say, of all the things I missed, I think driving was at the top of the list. Being able to get behind the wheel and leave when I want to is a luxury I’ll never take for granted again. I don’t think my roommates will, either, considering that they’ve had to cart my ass around for six weeks.

But when I pull up to Franklin High School, I sort of wish I hadn’t come here alone. This place reminds me of things that happened the past few months in a way that’s both haunting and painful.

The main office is quiet when I slip inside, save a few voices coming from the conference room and the ever-present whirring of the copy machine. I walk to the wall of cubby-style mailboxes and find Caroline’s mailbox, then slide the card inside. I look for Mr. Weathersby’s name and find his mailbox stuffed to the gills with papers and folders. I can’t even fit the corner of the envelope into the space. Sighing, I glance back at his office. I could just slide past the conference room and slip it under his door. Assuming that I won’t be seen as I walk by the open conference room door.