Violet runs back into the cottage once the car is loaded to grab something she forgot. She comes back holding the orange Play-Doh sculpture with the superhero cape. She hugs it, then tucks it safely into the backseat with a sweatshirt wrapped around it.

“Do you wanna explain that?”

She pats the head. “It’s the Super MC. It’s an homage.”

I shouldn’t ask the next question. I’m almost positive I don’t want the answer. “An homage to what?”

“The near-fatal strangling of Alex’s MC when I made it into a superhero. It’s a long story. I promise you don’t want to hear it, but someone might tell it at our wedding—if we end up having a wedding. I hope I can convince him to elope.”

I was right. I didn’t need to know any of that.

***

We find our way to a hospital in Bracebridge. It’s small compared to the ones in Chicago, but the people are nice, as is typical in Canada. Someone recognizes my name, and Violet knows all the right things to say, so they see me almost right away. Head injuries always take precedence. I’m concussed, but only mildly. My nose is broken, and the gash on my forehead takes six stitches to close. Up until today, I’d managed to get by without breaking any parts of my face since I got my teeth knocked out in high school. Figures it’d be Waters who changed that.

I get the usual spiel about having someone wake me up every couple of hours. A doctor sets my nose and bandages it. The black eyes haven’t appeared yet, but I’m sure they’re coming. While I wait for someone to give me the requisite painkillers and sign off for me to leave, I check my messages. I have emails from Amber that, had I checked them yesterday, would have given me the information I needed about the fundraiser and why it might not be the best idea. I wish I’d read them sooner. Or checked my voice mail, since I missed a call from her as well. Sometimes I feel as dumb as people assume I am.

I’ve got nothing from Sunny. I hope Bushman isn’t consoling her right now. I want to message her, but at the same time I don’t. I’m conflicted, and it sucks.

From the hospital we drive toward Toronto. The canvas of pale blue dotted with soft white turns pink at the edges as the sun starts to sink behind the tall trees lining the highway. It’s already late; by the time we get to Toronto it’ll be dark. I feel bad that Vi has to drive. I’m on pain meds, so I’m not safe behind the wheel.

“I’mma call the airline and see if I can get a flight out tonight.”

“Why don’t you come back to Guelph with me?”

“I don’t see the point. It’s not gonna change anything. Sunny’s still not gonna trust me, and Waters and Lily are still gonna hate me.”

“Lily doesn’t hate you.”

“Randy said the same thing. I have a hard time believing it, though.”

“Even she was trying to get Alex to calm down. Randy’s a whole different story. I don’t know what happened with those two, but man, is she scorned. You’re also lucky I’m the one who went through your bedroom, not Alex. Do you and Sunny even know what a garbage can is?”

“Why were you in Sunny’s bedroom?”

“Alex wanted me to check her poison ivy. Poor thing. Her boobs look bad.” Vi grabs her own boob as if she’s suffering sympathy pains. “Anyway, I don’t want Alex to be a prison wife. If he’d found those condoms after seeing the pictures at the fundraiser, you’d have a lot more than a broken nose.”

I want to mention the lack of fairness, considering what I walked in on with Vi and Waters, but I get that this is a different situation, and my fuck-ups outnumber his.

When we get close to Toronto, I insist she take me to the airport.

“You’re sure you want to do that? Maybe you should get a hotel room for the night and sleep on it.”

“I have things I need to deal with when I get home.”

“Are you still going through with that fundraiser?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I think about that Michael kid and how much harder his life is than mine. “Yeah. I’m still gonna do it.”

“Good. It’s about time you did something that shows people how great your heart is.”

“I hate the interviews.”

“You need to get over that.”

“I have to memorize everything. You have no idea what it’s like to be dyslexic.”

“Nope. I sure don’t. I do know what it’s like to be awkward.”

“That’s not even remotely the same. Speeches were the worst in middle school.”

“Speeches are your beef? You think it was any easier to be in the enriched math classes as a girl? Fuck that. It sucked. Like I wasn’t nerdy enough without that label slapped on me. None of those guys even bathed regularly. And then there was you, needing ‘help’.” She makes air quotes. “When really you were screwing everything with a pulse, getting everyone to do your bidding because you were King Jock of Turd Hill. Being your stepsister was a pain in my damn ass in high school. But I got over it. So should you.”

“Yeah, but you’re super smart and shit’s easy for you.”

“Easy? Because I’m good at math? You do realize I have to work more than sixty hours a week to make less than two percent of your yearly salary, right?”

“Less than two percent?”

“Plus bonuses, but yeah.”

“Wow.”

“It’s cool. I’m marrying a millionaire who likes to buy me ridiculously expensive things. I’m sure I can handle my crappy salary, all considering. This isn’t about me, though. I get that you work hard, too, but come on! You’ve got an incredible skill set that allows you to get around your perceived deficiency, which, if you decided to be more vocal about it, might actually win you some serious points.”

“No one wants to hear about my deficiencies.”

“Are you kidding? People always want to hear about other people’s challenges. It makes them feel like anything is possible. And it makes some people feel better about themselves because they’re assholes.

“If you wanted, you could go into schools and talk about how hard it was for you and how you struggled to pass your classes, but that you persevered. I mean, obviously you don’t want to tell them you fucked all your tutors, and your poor stepsister had to listen to loud music in the next bedroom while it all went down. But you can give millions of kids false hope, and a few awesome kids the inspiration they need to make it to the next level.”

I ignore the part about screwing all my tutors. I’m not going there with her right now. “I don’t know, Vi. That’s like . . . personal.”

“Personal? Are you kidding? This coming from a man who lets his friends take pictures of his balls and post them on the Internet?”

“I didn’t let him do that. And anyway it was to figure out what kind of spider bit me. No one was supposed to know they were my balls.”

“And that makes it so much better.” She twists her ring around her finger. “I don’t get why being classified as a manwhore is so appealing—especially when being the guy who’s overcome challenges and volunteers at camps and even helps kids afford them is so much less offensive.”

“I’m not trying to be a manwhore. I was trying to be Sunny’s boyfriend, and look how that turned out. I spent my teen years dealing with all the shit that came with being the dumb kid; I’m not interested in going back to that.”

“Who says you have to? Come on, Buck. Life is tough. Teenage years suck balls—cheesy ones that haven’t been washed in a week. You make five million dollars a year. You’re not dumb. Relationship-inept maybe, but definitely not dumb. If you want to change how things are going, you need to do something selflessly selfish.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Let me explain. Did you know you’re mentioned in an article recently that has nothing to do with who you’ve boned?”

“The only person I’ve boned lately is Sunny. I mean, had sex with. I’m not boning Sunny. That’s not what you do with someone you care about.”