Her expression grew gentle. "There are never any lights on in your house . . . a few other things . . ." She shook her head. "I just guessed really." She bit her lip and my heart did something crazy in my chest. I brought my hand up and massaged it gently as if it was physical. "I'm sorry I was right." She paused. "I just figured if you were alone, you probably didn't have any Christmas here. And so I," she thrust the small tree out in front of her, "brought Christmas to you." She smiled hopefully.

I opened the door all the way and waved my hand for her to come in. Her smile grew bigger, relief filling her eyes as she entered my house. For a minute she just stood looking around and I shoved my hands in my pockets as I tried to see the place through her eyes. It was small and the furniture was old—the same stuff my mama had gotten from my grandma as hand-me-downs after my grandma died, stuff that wasn't nice then and definitely wasn't now—but I kept the place clean and uncluttered.

Tenleigh's eyes lingered on the armchair with the table next to it that held a photo of my mama . . . the one I'd put there initially because I hoped so hard she'd come back . . . the one I'd gotten in the habit of greeting. I really needed to take that down.

Tenleigh turned toward me smiling. "It's nice," she said. And damn it, my heart flipped over in my damn stupid chest again because I could see that she really, truly meant it and that was not acceptable. A girl like Tenleigh should see this place for the dump that it was. And she didn't. And something about that pissed me off as much as it filled me with some strange happiness.

"Can I take your jacket? Your Christmas tree? Your paper bag?"

She laughed and set the tree down on my coffee table as she shrugged off her coat. She flicked a switch on the tree. "Battery operated lights," she said. "We can put it anywhere." She arranged it on the coffee table to her liking and then stood up, looking down at it, that same unsure look on her face again. An awkward silence ensued.

She looked over at me. "I'm sorry, Kyland," she whispered, shaking her head slightly. "I'm barging in on you here. I just . . ." She bit her lip again. "What were you going to do today?"

"Watch some TV . . . study . . . wallow in loneliness."

She didn't laugh. I guessed she realized I hadn't been joking, although it was only her reaction that made me see that, too.

"You have TV?" she asked.

"Sometimes. When I have electricity."

She nodded and we were both silent for a second.

"What happened to her?" she finally asked very quietly.

I paused. I had never told anyone about this. I couldn't tell anyone. I hadn't planned on ever telling anyone. But right then, for some very strange reason, I desperately wanted to tell Tenleigh about it.

"She left us. A week before the mine accident."

Her eyes filled with sympathy, but she didn't say anything.

"My dad was so embarrassed." I shook my head and scratched the back of my neck, pushing those memories away, even as I revealed them. "So ashamed about it. He was such a prideful man. He made us swear not to tell anyone until he was ready. I think . . . I think maybe he was trying to come up with a story that sounded better than, 'she just didn't want us anymore.'" I paused. "Or maybe he was hoping she'd come back. My mama, though, she was never happy with our life. My dad, he didn't even have a high school education, didn't make much at the mine. They fought all the time." I ran my hand through my hair and grimaced. "See, Tenleigh, your dad left you when you were three days old, and that hurts because he didn't want to get to know who you are. But my mama, she knew me—she knew I loved her. And she left anyway."

"Kyland," she whispered.

I shook my head, unable to stop the words that seemed to be flowing out of my mouth of their own accord. "Then the mine accident happened and—" I took a deep shaky breath, surprised I could still get emotional about this. It felt like I'd lived with it for so long. But speaking of it was bringing it to life somehow . . . "They died and it seemed like every family up and down this mountain was grieving for someone. No one noticed that my mama didn't show up to any of the memorial services—or they figured she was sick with grief. Other people were, too. I waited for her to come back. I figured she had to have heard. She had to have. She must have known I was alone. I waited and waited for her to come back for me, but she never did." I took a deep breath. "I didn't want to be sent to foster care. I wanted the chance at that scholarship. I wanted a chance at . . . life. And the only way I was going to get it is if I kept working toward it. And so when people asked, I said she was laid up." I shrugged.

"No wonder," she said sadly.

"No wonder what?"

"No wonder you hate it here so much."

I stared into her eyes.

"You don't have to be lonely anymore." She reached her hand out and grabbed mine, a look of sorrow in her eyes. Her hand was cold and soft. It felt small within my own.

"Tenleigh . . . you don't understand. Whether I win that scholarship, or whether I don't, I'm leaving here. In a few short months, I'm leaving. If by some small chance I don't win that scholarship, I'll sell everything of any value in this house and I'll hitchhike out of here. I'll get a job somewhere and work my way across the country. I won't stay here. No matter what. I can't work in that mine. And I can't be hungry anymore. I'll leave here, and I won't look back. I'll never think about Dennville, Kentucky again."