“I’ve decided they’re just intimidating to outsiders. They seem like good friends.”

“They are. They’ve always been there for me when I’ve needed them.”

“It’s good that you have that. I’m kind of jealous of you.”

“Of me?”

I twist in the chair, facing her. “Yeah. I just think it’d be nice to have friends I could tell anything to without worrying about them making fun of me.”

“I don’t tell them everything,” she utters softly. “Not because I think they’d make fun of me or anything—I know they’d never do that. There’s just some things I’m embarrassed of . . . like the thing you saw me do the other day.”

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed about that, especially around me. I really do get it.” More than I want to tell you.

“Why I stole . . . It’s not as simple as you think it is.” Her head angles to the side as a contemplative look crosses her face. “Can I . . . ? Do you care if I . . . ?” She looks away from me. “Never mind.”

“No, go ahead. Say what you’re going to say. The guy who runs this thing is going to be here soon, anyway, and he’s going to ask everyone a shitload of questions.”

She immediately frowns. “Really?”

“But you don’t have to answer all of them if you don’t want to.”

“I wish I didn’t have to talk at all.”

“I think a lot of people here are the same way. It’s hard talking about problems, isn’t it?”

She nods, chewing on her bottom lip, bringing all of my focus to her mouth. Her lips look soft and natural, and I think I prefer the look over Piper’s heavily done lips. Every time we kiss, I end up getting lipstick all over, and it’s a pain in the ass to get off.

“How long have you been coming to these things?” she asks.

“A few weeks.” Should I say anything about why I’m here? Fuck it. She’s going to find out sooner or later. “I was caught stealing from Mountain Ridge Grocery, and the owner—Larry—said he wouldn’t press charges just as long as I came here.”

Her eyes widen in astonishment. “You were caught stealing?”

“It was really stupid. I don’t know why I thought I could get away with it. My shirt looked so bulky.”

“What’d you take?” she asks, mildly curious.

I pick at a tiny hole in the knee of my jeans. “Soda, chips, and a steak.”

She seems unfazed by my confession, which makes me wonder just how many times she has stolen.

“Is it . . . ? Was it the first time you ever stole?”

I nod. “What about you? Was that day at Benny’s your first time?”

She shakes her head with her lips fused.

“I’m sure you have a good reason for doing it, though,” I add.

She looks sad and regretful. “I think you think too highly of me. Everyone does. I’m not as good of a person as everyone thinks I am.”

“Or maybe you just don’t see yourself clearly because of other stuff.”

“What kind of other stuff?”

“I don’t know, like things your parents have said to you.” That my friends and I used to say to you. Why can’t I say it aloud? Just say, I’m sorry.

She opens and flexes her fingers as she stares down at the scars on her hands.

I open my mouth to apologize, but I can’t figure out the right words or if there are any right words. A simple sorry doesn’t feel right, not after all the stuff we did to her, the things we said. Logan even spread a rumor that her body was covered with the same scars she has on her hands. He never explained how he would possibly be able to know that, but no one cared. They only believed it.

“What happened?” I ask, grazing my fingers along her palm.

She shivers as her hand trembles.

“Sorry,” I quickly apologize, pulling away. “Do they hurt?”

“No, they’re just a little sensitive.” She stretches out her fingers. “Our house caught on fire when I was four, and I was stuck in my room for a while. I got them when I was crawling across the floor, trying to get out. There are a couple on my knees, too, but they’re really hard to see.”

“Holy shit! That had to be scary.”

“I can’t really remember what happened that well. Sometimes, when I’m asleep, I can remember crawling across the floor and someone scooping me up, but that’s about all.”

I reach out and trace my fingers along the scars again. “Did it hurt? I mean, when your hands were burned?”

“Yeah, it did. That part, I do remember.” She shudders from my touch again, but this time, I don’t pull away.

It’s not like I’ve never touched a girl like this before. I used to flirt a lot and was known as a touchy, feely kind of guy. Usually, girls flirted back. But Luna remains still, staring at my hands with a combination of fascination and tension.

I stroke her palm, wondering how long she’ll let me touch her like this before she pulls away. Hopefully, not for a while because I find the movement comforting, like we’re connecting somehow. Or maybe it’s because I’m having an actual, real conversation.

I ask, “How’d the fire start?”

She rips her gaze off my fingers on her palm. “From what my parents say, someone started a fire in the fireplace that spread through the house.”

My jaw drops to my knees. “So it was started intentionally?”

“That’s the story. The police never did find out who did it, though.”

“You say that like you don’t buy the whole story.”

“Sometimes I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know . . .” Her forehead furrows. “When I dream about what happened, I can sometimes remember being carried out of the house. The thing is, my parents say a fireman rescued me, but I swear it feels like I knew the person . . . I felt so safe in their arms . . .” She shakes her head. “But anyway, I’m probably just remembering things wrong because I was so little.”

I trace the tip of my finger down one of the longer, angular scars. “Have you ever told your parents about it?”

She nods. “They’re the ones who told me I’m probably remembering wrong. They said there was no way I could possibly remember something that happened when I was four years old and that I should just be glad the fireman pulled me out of the house. They do that a lot, though—try to tell me how I think.”

“I’m not surprised,” I say. “Have they always been that way? So . . . intense?”

“Pretty much.” She rotates in her seat so we’re both facing inward and our knees are only inches apart. “One of the first memories I have is of them collecting all my toys, bagging them up, and throwing them in the trash can. Then I got this big lecture on how I was too old to play with toys, and it was time to grow up and start learning to behave properly. I was five when she did that.”

“You were five? That’s fucking crazy. My younger sister’s eleven, and she still has a toy box and everything.”

“That’s just one of the many stories where I felt like I had to grow up too fast.” Her expression unexpectedly fills with worry. “I’m sorry for yammering your ear off. I don’t even know why I’m telling you all of this. I don’t usually talk about it with anyone except my friends, and that’s only because they’ve seen my parents do . . .” She flicks her wrist, motioning behind us where her parents reamed into her moments ago. “Well, what you saw them do.”

“I told you that you could talk to me. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it. Besides, I like listening to you talk.” I like having an actual conversation that carries depth.

“Really? Why? My stories are so . . .”

“Real? Honest?”

“I was going to go with messed up.”

“Still, they’re real. I haven’t had a real conversation in a long time.” Since my father died. “Whenever I’m with my friends, they always want to talk about sports or who they screwed around with at last weekend’s party. And Piper . . . All she wants to talk about is the dance and what party we’re going to hit up—” I stop myself as Luna’s demeanor shifts. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She tries to shrug it off, but I can tell that she’s lying and that something is bothering her. My bet is Piper did something to Luna. I wouldn’t be surprised since I’ve seen Piper do a lot of messed up shit to people over the last year while I was dating her, and I just stood by and watched.