“Classic Sterling,” my old friend said finally. “You like something, you take it. Doesn't matter what the world will think, or how it will affect anyone else.”

“Dude. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You seriously think dating your stepsister is a good idea? By anyone's estimate? I don't care if her nipples taste like beer and her pussy like honey, you're seriously gonna walk onto that field tomorrow and try to convince some representative from the NFL that you're a squeaky-clean, scandal-free candidate for a new standard in American football?”

“Where the fuck are you getting this, man? People date all the time! And if you're so concerned with the moral code of the NFL, you're really gonna hate this story about Ray Lewis that the whole world must've forgotten to tell you.”

“Is she even eighteen, Landy?! Christ!”

“Oh, my bad. I'm thinking of Michael Vick. Oh, I'm thinking of O.J. Simpson. Oh, I'm thinking of –”

“Will you cut the crap? For once?” In a fluid, furious gesture, Denny slammed his helmet down against the dirt so hard he drew a divot on the green. Across the field, our coaches looked up and shaded their eyes.

“Fine. Forget I said anything.” Feeling petulant and confused, I started to amble away from the fucking Tasmanian Devil. What had I even been thinking? Denny was a piece of shit, everyone knew it. Who needed him?

“Landon! Landon, listen!” I didn't turn, just kept walking—but his words carried. “You're so hard to be friends with, man. We all just watch you making these stupid fucking mistakes, over and over and over. You don't like Zora? Well, then why didn't you fucking break up with her when you had the chance? You really hate football so much, you hate this team? Well, no one is keeping you here! Your Dad messes you up? Then stop taking care of him! Don't let him leech off you like this for your whole fucking adult life!” I began to break into a run. Denny's words seemed to fall like raindrops on my back. “And for God sakes, man! You could have any girl in the whole state and you want your step-sister? Why do you make everything so goddamned hard for yourself?”

The locker room door clicked behind me with a metallic thud. For the first time all practice, I was seriously winded. It felt horrible.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Ashleigh

September 26^th

Like an asshole, I watched Mr. Dempsey slump back to his car from Carson's porch. I was crouched down in the window seat in the upstairs turret, so only a slice of my hair could be visible from the street. My face was hot with shame, watching him turn and look up at the house. And yet, at the same time, I was a little peeved. Why couldn't he read the signals? It seemed so clear to me that there was nothing between us, and yet he was coming over to Carson's every other day, lingering on the porch like some sad sack while she puttered unawares by the pool.

“Hey,” my mother crowed, surprising me so I fell off the bench with a clatter. “None of that now. I know you get this 'urge to run-away' thing from me, but it's not cute. If you don't like a boy, you need to tell him.” I nodded dully, chastised. Then I paused to consider. This was one of our exceedingly rare mother/daughter moments, in which Anya was playing the mother. I smiled. I liked it.

Her face was healing nicely. It had been a relief to discover last week that the bruises on her skin were light—the Pastor's wounds had been more psychological than anything else. Yet Mom had been drifting around Carson's like a ghost for days now, appearing in doorways when you didn't expect her. She couldn't lie down. She couldn't watch TV. She was eager and antsy for some peace, some structure—for the walls of her own home.

“Come here, baby,” she called to me. I went, allowing myself be folded up in her cool, fragile touch. I had to resist the urge to nestle my fingers into her back, like she was a tree I could climb. My mom. Flawed, but lovely. Weird, but wise—in her way.

“We haven't gotten a chance to talk about boys in ages,” she said, leading us back towards Carson's communal kitchen. The infamous roommate, Gonzo, was propped against the kitchen island with a ukulele strapped across his chest. He didn't acknowledge us as mom drifted towards the kettle on the stove.

Luckily her back was turned, so she couldn't see me blush something fierce. Though the word 'boy' didn't seem suitable for Landon, he still managed to appear in my memory. This was happening all the time lately. In my worst moments, during the most tedious parts of my day, there he'd be—the memory of his morning face fluttering awake against the pillows, or the musculature of his chest, rising and falling as he slept. We'd been talking for hours and fucking for hours, and well...time was a blur. There were apparently Mondays and afternoons and events and classes to attend, but lately, for me, the world was divided into time spent with Landon and waiting to spend time with Landon.

“I know that face,” Anya smirked, over the rim of a chipped teacup. I tried to duck my head, but I knew it was too late—the typical big red blush was probably splattered all over my cheeks.

“Mo-om!” I trilled, enjoying the word. Anya sipped her tea and raised her eyebrows.

“Well! Tell your poor old nutty ma all about it!”

I wanted to, was the funny thing. I looked into her hopeful eyes and tried to imagine how the truth would sound. You know him, actually. He's tall, dark and handsome, even if his family is a little...freaky. I found the beginnings of the words on my tongue, but when I opened my mouth they seemed to evaporate. I couldn't do it. I couldn't possibly tell Anya that the man I was falling in love with was the son of the person who had hurt her the most.

“He's just a boy,” I said instead, brushing past her to the cabinet with its assorted mismatched crockery. “I dunno. It probably won't go anywhere. He's a senior, and he's really...well, he's nice.”

“Nice is good!”

“He's an athlete. Kind of a jock type, actually.”

“That doesn't sound like you,” mom said. She set her cup down on the counter, and the sound of clinking seemed to set off the listless ukulele man. He drifted away into the living room.

“It's not so bad.”

“Well, here's my spiel. You want to be with someone you know will be kind to you.”

“I know that, mom.”

“No, honey.” She took a deliberate step towards me. “I'm not talking about someone who can talk a good game and be sweet. I'm not talking about constant fireworks, either. Someone who is kind and good and knows how to treat women. You want to look at his history, too. Don't wanna be surprised a month in with someone's demons.” These words—the first direct mention my mother had made of the incident with the Pastor—hung between us in space like a bad smell. In one swoop, Anya's caution neatly destroyed my image of Landon, splayed sweetly against sweaty pillows. There were tears hovering on my mother's eyelids. And I knew, with a pang, that she was right.

“Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry. Don't mind me. It's just—you never know about people. Sometimes they seem great, and...” She clapped her hands together, violently. “I couldn't take it if you fell for a bad man. I would feel like I'd failed at the only job I've managed to hold on to.”

Outside, the crickets had begun their evening concert. Carson would be home soon from the guitar store, where she'd taken up a few extra shifts to help pay for Mom's expenses as she lobbied for paid medical leave. My phone blurted out a text in my pocket. I knew who it was from before I checked it. Hey, baby, he'd written. Meet me at our place later? Wanna talk. XO—L.