"Right." She nods once. "Cameron." She crosses her arms over her chest. "What do you want?"

"I told you yesterday. I want to help."

Her eyes narrow. Her teeth clench shut. But somehow she manages to get out, "And I told you yesterday that I didn't need your help."

I shrug. I have no clue what the hell else to do. I'm nervous. And she terrifies me.

"Why?" she clips.

"Why?" I ask incredulously.

"Yeah. Why?" She takes a step forward, dropping her arms to her sides. "Are you one of those church people... or are you trying to redeem yourself to make up for some sin you can't shake? What is it, Cameron? Do we look like we need help? Do you think I need help?"

"Yes," I say before I can stop myself.

Her shoulders sag and for the first time I see something in her beyond strength, or sadness. Vulnerability. And fear. She's afraid.

"Honestly, yes," I repeat, testing the waters. I open my mouth to continue but she cuts in.

"Okay," she sighs. Then turns and walks toward the house. I slowly follow her, knowing too damn well that I have no fucking clue what the hell I'm doing.

***

The next three days she completely ignores me. She doesn't greet me. Doesn't talk to me. Never says my name. Never acknowledges me. I should be pissed, but I'm not. Because in those three days, I've realized something. I wasn't just there for her anymore; I was there for her brothers too. And regardless of whether she shows it, or whether she wants to admit it, she needs the help.

They all do.

On the fourth day, she does something I never expected. "You're welcome to stay for dinner, I made too much." That's it. That's all she says. And even though she says it in passing, I know the effort it takes for her to offer it.

We sit at her giant dining table while the boys talk among themselves.

She reads, and I read her.

And that's how I spend the next few weeks. Each day, she speaks a few more words to me, and each day I find myself caring more than I should.

***

I dry the last pot from the sink before she takes it from my hands and places it on the stovetop.

Clearing my throat, I say, "So I wanted to run something by you."

She nods, her gaze never lifting.

"I was wondering if I could bring my Xbox tomorrow... see if it might entertain the boys for a little bit." I curse myself for my nerves coming out in my voice. "It's just that I'm falling behind on my homework and I thought—"

Her eyes dart to me. "You don't have to come every day. No one makes you."

Frustrated, I let out a breath with a grunt and tilt my head back, looking to somewhere else for a patience that I'm lacking. "I don't mind coming here. It was just an idea. I'll just stay up later and do it when I get home." I sigh, too tired to contain the hurt in my voice. "I'll see you tomorrow, Lucy."

I start to walk away but her hand on my forearm stops me. "I'm sorry," she says so quietly I almost don't hear her. "I just don't want you to feel like you have to be here." She tries to smile but fails. "Bring the Xbox. They'll love it."

"Okay." I turn to leave but she stops me again.

"I really am sorry, Cameron." And hearing her say my name without anger or aggravation makes my breath catch. She chews her lip, her eyes wandering back down to the floor. "I don't know why you're here but I don't want to question it. I just want to appreciate it." Her gaze lifts. "Thank you."

***

"The prodigal son returns," Mom giggles. She's sitting on the couch in the living room with her boyfriend, Mark. He looks away from the TV when I enter the room.

"Hey Mom." I walk over and kiss her on the cheek. It's been a few days since I've seen her. She spends most nights at Mark's house or he's here.

I reach out to shake his hand but he slaps it away. "What? No kiss for me?" He puckers his lips and waits. I try not to laugh, but I can't help it.

"Maybe you're just not pretty enough," Mom mocks.

He wraps an arm around her shoulders. "Lucky you're pretty enough for the both of us," he says, kissing the side of her head.

"That was lame, Marky Mark," I joke.

His eyes narrow at me. Then he smirks. "You know what else is lame?"

"What?" I lift my chin toward him in challenge.

"Your season's batting average." He tries to kick the back of my knee so it gives out but I step back too quickly. He comes to a stand, the smirk still in place. "My grandma hits balls better than you do."

I laugh. "Oh yeah, I bet she loves hitting them balls."

His features drop. "What are you saying about Nanny Tallulah?"

"TALLULAH?" I break out in a fit of laughter.

"You can talk," he shouts over my cackle. "ALADDIN."

Now my face drops. I look over at Mom, so does Mark. "Who names their kid Aladdin?"

Mom sits up and throws a leg out, kicking Mark in the back of his knee. He falls to the ground before he can save himself. Then she quickly turns to me. "Get him, baby."

So I do.

Within seconds we're on the ground wrestling. Neither of us knows shit about wrestling so we're just rolling on the floor play punching each other. "When the hell did you get muscles, kid?"

"I've been working out." I try to kick him in the nuts but he pulls back.