Wondering if he was thinking about Angel, I locked the front door behind us. “True. But my mom is sixty now. I think she thought she was too old to get pregnant again.”

“I don’t know how old my mom is,” he said as we walked down the driveway. There was a frown on his face. “I guess she has to be about . . . forty-three?”

“How old are you?” I asked him, starting to hate his mother. She sounded awful. We got in my car, Phoenix loading the cooler and blanket into the backseat.

“I’m twenty. My birthday is September second.”

“That’s in a week and a half. Do you have plans?”

“I plan to sit outside somewhere and appreciate my freedom. Maybe I’ll buy myself a Dilly Bar at DQ.”

It had been a stupid question. What kind of plans did I expect him to have? A big event at a restaurant? A party bus? “That sounds awesome. Can I steal that idea for my birthday in November? It’ll be my twenty-first, too, and I know everyone is going to expect me to go out and party and get loaded and it just isn’t my thing. Not anymore.”

“It’s your birthday. Do whatever you want. Fuck ’em.”

“I have a feeling you’re better at living that philosophy than I am. I worry too much about what people think.” Part my personality, part the way I’d been raised, I was definitely a people pleaser. I wanted everyone to be happy. To like me. I backed down the driveway and paused at the street, but as I looked left and the right, I saw Phoenix was doing it again, staring at me in a way I didn’t understand.

“We’re pack animals. It’s natural to want to belong. But some of us never will. We’re meant to be alone.”

Was that me now? God, I hoped not. I was so lonely I ached with it. But here, in the hot car with Phoenix, I felt like at least one person understood what I felt like, and I wondered if two loners could make each other less lonely. So far, the answer for me was yes.

“Do you want to drive?” I asked, putting my car in park. I didn’t want to have to focus on the road. I wanted to watch him, and I wanted to feel . . . I don’t know . . . taken care of.

But he shook his head. “I don’t have any insurance.” Then for some reason he laughed. “Actually, I don’t even have a license.”

“You don’t have a license? I thought you said you borrowed Riley’s car. Why don’t you have a license?”

“Long story.” He was smiling. “But the gist of it is you need actual proof of who you are to get a driver’s license. I don’t have any of that. No birth certificate, no Social Security card. Just my criminal record. And I might have possibly been breaking the law in driving up the street, but don’t tell my parole officer.”

It didn’t seem like being unable to drive or breaking parole was all that hilarious, but he looked good smiling. I couldn’t help but grin back. “I guess I’m driving then.”

“Good plan.”

The park was only a few minutes away. I found a spot in the lot, and we climbed out and moved past the reflecting pool where kids were dipping their fingers and dogs were drinking. It wasn’t as hot as it had been, and the sun felt good on my bare shoulders as we staked out a spot and Phoenix spread the blanket. The band playing in the gazebo was some kind of big band–style quintet, and the majority of the guys I knew would think it was seriously corny, but Phoenix didn’t say anything. He just laid down on the blanket and stripped his shirt up, balling it behind his head. His foot tapped up and down to the music and he lounged.

“Look at the sky,” he said.

Using my hands to cradle my head, I lay down on my back next to him and stared upward at the vast blue umbrella of the atmosphere above us. I felt a lazy contentment I hadn’t in months. The breeze ruffled the sundress I had put on, not because it was a fashion statement but because it was loose and easy and didn’t crawl up my ass like all those short shorts I had bought last year. My dress danced over my knees, and my hair ruffled softly, and the sun warmed my skin while the band played something bouncy and retro in the background.

“‘The bluebird carries the sky on his back.’ That’s Henry David Thoreau.” Poetry didn’t always make sense to me, but the American transcendentalists we had studied freshman year told a simple message I could understand.

“‘No one is free, even the birds are chained to the sky,’” Phoenix said. “That’s Bob Dylan.”

Turning my head toward Phoenix, I ran my tongue over my bottom lip, in a bit of awe of the moment, that I was here, like this, with him, someone I hadn’t even known two days earlier, and that the jagged edges of anxiety were being softened. “Poor birdies,” I whispered. “Chained, carrying the sky . . . so burdened.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, and his hand shifted, his fingers entwining with mine. His grip was loose but solid. “Poor birds. Sucks to be them.”

We lay like that, holding hands, staring up at the sky, and for the first time in a very long time, I thought maybe I was going to be okay. Or at the very least like I wouldn’t shatter into a million pieces upon contact.

Phoenix and I spent the whole day at the park. We borrowed a Frisbee from a group of guys and tossed it back and forth. Phoenix played with a random German shepherd in an impromptu game of chase, followed by tug-of-war with a tennis ball. I sketched on the blanket and watched him, enjoying the way he was coming alive, opening up, losing that tight, controlled look. There was a food truck, and I bought us two coneys with cheese. He ate his in two bites.

“I owe you,” he said, sprawling out on the blanket. “As soon as I get paid I’m going to buy you a bunch of groceries.”

“You don’t have to do that.” I managed to eat half of mine before handing it to him to finish.

“And you didn’t have to hang out with the jailbird, but you did.” Phoenix lifted the rest of my coney to his mouth, but before he popped it in, he asked, “Why did you?”

I shrugged. It wasn’t any sort of great mystery. He was offering companionship, and with him, I could be myself. “Because I wanted to.”

“And I want to buy you groceries. It’s simple.”

I nodded. I understood what he was saying. He wanted to be nice to me for the same reason I wanted to be nice to him—because I liked him. It really was that simple and uncomplicated, and it felt relaxing, safe.

How ironic that I felt safe with someone who had just gotten out of jail. That probably made me stupid, but I just felt good. Normal.

I was sketching a bird. It just seemed like the imagery was stuck in my head after our conversation. I didn’t want to draw a phoenix, that was too literal. And drawing a robin would be just conceited or something. So I drew a simple sparrow, pulling up some images on my phone to see what they looked like. I felt more sparrow than robin anyway. Robins were showy. That wasn’t me anymore.

After a while, Phoenix started to sketch, too, and I was curious what he was drawing. I admit to being a total girl and wanted him to be sketching me in a perfect ending to a perfect day. But when he showed it to me, it was a cobra, spreading its hood, looking super pissed off.

Okay, so he wasn’t waxing poetic about my lips or whatever in charcoal.

It was still an awesome day.

Until Phoenix ran into a guy he’d known in prison.

We were cleaning up our wrappers and empty water bottles, and Phoenix had just tossed them in the nearest garbage can when a guy yelled, “Hey, brother, what’s up?” and clamped Phoenix on the back.

He was a big guy, covered in tattoos, including on his face and shaved head, and while his smile looked friendly enough, I saw that Phoenix tensed immediately. “Davis,” Phoenix said, shaking his hand. “Good to see you, man.”

“Yeah, yeah, you too. When did you get out?”

“Tuesday.”

Davis’s eyes shifted over to me, and he gave a low whistle of appreciation that had me fighting the urge to cover a chest that wasn’t even remotely exposed in my dress. “This your girl? Angel? As pretty as her name.”