“Why did you follow me to my car at the grocery store?” she asks.

I shrug. “Like I said, I thought you were someone else.”

“I know,” she says. “But who?”

Maybe I don’t want to play this game. I’m not ready to tell her about Hope. I’m definitely not ready to tell her about Les, but there’s no way around it because my answer just dug me into a hole. I shift in my seat and reach for my drink, but she snatches it out of my hands.

“No drinks. Answer the question first.” She sets my drink back down on the table and waits for my explanation. I really don’t want to go into my screwed up past, so I try to keep my answer simple.

“I wasn’t sure who you reminded me of,” I lie. “You just reminded me of someone. I didn’t realize until later that you reminded me of my sister.”

She makes a face and says, “I remind you of your sister? That’s kind of gross, Holder.”

Oh, shit. That’s not at all what I meant. “No, not like that. Not like that at all, you don’t even look anything like she did. There was just something about seeing you that made me think of her. And I don’t even know why I followed you. It was all so surreal. The whole situation was a little bizarre, and then running into you in front of my house later . . .”

Should I really tell her how that made me feel? How I thought for sure Les had something to do with it or that it was divine intervention or a freaking miracle? Because I honestly feel like it was too perfect to be chalked up to coincidence.

“It was like it was meant to happen,” I finally say.

She inhales a deep breath and I look up at her, afraid of how forward that might have been. She smiles at me and points to my drink. “You can drink now,” she says. “Your turn to ask me a question.”

“Oh, this one’s easy. I want to know whose toes I’m stepping on. I received a mysterious inbox message from someone today. All it said was, ‘If you’re dating my girl, get your own prepaid minutes and quit wasting mine, jackass.’”

“That would be Six,” she says, smiling. “The bearer of my daily doses of positive affirmation.”

Thank God.

“I was hoping you’d say that. Because I’m pretty competitive, and if it came from a guy, my response would not have been as nice.”

“You responded? What’d you say?”

“Is that your question? Because if it isn’t, I’m taking another bite.”

“Hold your horses and answer the question,” she says.

“Yes, I responded to her text. I said, ‘How do I buy more minutes?’”

Her cheeks redden and she grins. “I was only joking, that wasn’t my question. It’s still my turn.”

I drop my fork onto my plate and sigh at her stubbornness. “My food’s getting cold.”

She ignores my feigned irritation and she leans forward, looking me directly in the eyes. “I want to know about your sister. And why you referred to her in the past tense.”

Ah, shit. Did I refer to her in the past tense? I look up at the ceiling and sigh. “Ugh. You really ask the deep questions, huh?”

“That’s how the game is played. I didn’t make up the rules.”

I guess there’s no getting out of this explanation. But honestly, I don’t mind telling her. There are certain things about my past I’d rather not discuss, but Les doesn’t really feel like my past. She still feels very much a part of my present.

“Remember when I told you my family had a pretty fucked-up year last year?”

She nods, and I hate that I’m about to put a damper on our conversation. But she doesn’t like vague, so . . . “She died thirteen months ago. She killed herself, even though my mother would rather we use the term ‘purposely overdosed.’”

I keep my eyes locked on hers, waiting for the “I’m so sorry,” or the “It was meant to happen,” to come out of her mouth like it comes out of everyone else’s mouth.

“What was her name?” she asks. The fact that she even asks like she’s genuinely interested is unexpected.

“Lesslie. I called her Les.”

“Was she older than you?”

Only by three minutes. “We were twins,” I say, right before I take a bite.

Her eyes widen slightly and she reaches for her drink. I intercept her this time.

“My turn,” I say. Now that I know nothing is off limits, I ask her about the one thing she didn’t really want to talk about yesterday. “I want to know the story about your dad.”

She groans, but plays along. She knows she can’t refuse to answer that question, because I just completely opened up to her about Les.

“Like I said, I haven’t seen him since I was three. I don’t have any memories of him. At least, I don’t think I do. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

“Your mom doesn’t have any pictures of him?”

She cocks her head slightly, then leans back in her seat. “You remember when you said my mom looked really young? Well, it’s because she is. She adopted me.”

I drop my fork.

Adopted.

The genuine possibility that she could be Hope bombards my thoughts. It wouldn’t make sense that she was three when she was adopted, though, because Hope was five when she was taken. Unless she’s been lied to.

But what are the chances? And what are the chances that someone like Karen would be capable of stealing a child?

“What?” she asks. “You’ve never met anyone who was adopted?”

I realize the shock I’m feeling in my head and my heart is also registering in my expression. I clear my throat and try to regroup, but a million more questions are forming in my mind. “You were adopted when you were three? By Karen?”

She shakes her head. “I was put into foster care when I was three, after my biological mother died. My dad couldn’t raise me on his own. Or he didn’t want to raise me on his own. Either way, I’m fine with it. I lucked out with Karen and I have no urge whatsoever to go figure it all out. If he wanted to know where I was, he’d come find me.”

Her mother is dead? Hope’s mother is dead.

But Hope was never put into foster care and Hope’s dad didn’t put her up for adoption. It all makes absolutely no sense, but at the same time I can’t rule out the possibility. She’s either been fed complete lies about her past, or I’m going insane.

The latter is more likely.

“What does your tattoo mean?” she asks, pointing at it with her fork.

I look down at my arm and touch the letters that make up Hope’s name.

If she was Hope, she would remember the name. That’s the only thing that stops me from believing in the possibility that she could be Hope.

Hope would remember.

“It’s a reminder,” I say. “I got it after Les died.”

“A reminder for what?”

And this is the only answer she’ll get that’s vague, because I’m definitely not about to explain. “It’s a reminder of the people I’ve let down in my life.”

Her expression grows sympathetic. “This game’s not very fun, is it?”

“It’s really not.” I laugh. “It sort of sucks ass. But we need to keep going because I still have questions. Do you remember anything from before you were adopted?”

“Not really. Bits and pieces, but it comes to a point that, when you don’t have anyone to validate your memories, you just lose them all. The only thing I have from before Karen adopted me is some jewelry, and I have no idea who it came from. I can’t distinguish now between what was reality, dreams, or what I saw on TV.”

“Do you remember your mother?”

She pauses for a moment. “Karen is my mother,” she says flatly. I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it and I don’t want to push her. “My turn. Last question, then we eat dessert.”

“Do you think we even have enough dessert?” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

“Why did you beat him up?” she says, darkening the mood completely.

I don’t want to get into that one. I push my bowl away. I’ll just let her win this round. “You don’t want to know the answer to that, Sky. I’ll take the punishment.”

“But I do want to know.”

Just thinking about that day already has me worked up again. I pop my jaw to ease the tension. “Like I told you before, I beat him up because he was an asshole.”

“That’s vague,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “You don’t do vague.”

I know that I like her stubbornness, but I only like it when she’s not pushing me to bring up the past. But I also have no clue what she’s been told about the whole situation. I’ve made it a point to get her to open up to me and ask me questions so she can hear the truth from me. If I refuse to answer her, then she’ll stop opening up.

“It was my first week back at school since Les died,” I say. “She went to school there, too, so everyone knew what happened. I overheard the guy saying something about Les when I was passing him in the hallway. I disagreed with it, and I let him know. I took it too far and it came to a point when I was on top of him that I just didn’t care. I was hitting him, over and over, and I didn’t even care. The really fucked-up part is that the kid will more than likely be deaf out of his left ear for the rest of his life, and I still don’t care.”

My fist is clenched on the table. Just thinking about the way everyone acted after she died has me pissed off all over again.

“What did he say about her?”

I lean back in my chair and my eyes drop to the table between us. I don’t really feel like looking her in the eyes when I’m only thinking about stuff that infuriates me. “I heard him laughing, telling his friend that Les took the selfish, easy way out. He said if she wasn’t such a coward, she would have toughed it out.”

“Toughed what out?”

“Life.”

“You don’t think she took the easy way out.” She doesn’t say it like it’s a question. She says it like she’s truly trying to understand me. That’s all I’ve wanted from her all week. I just want her to understand me. To believe me and not everyone else.

And no. I don’t think she took the easy way out. I don’t think that at all.

I reach across the table and pull her hand between both of mine. “Les was the bravest fucking person I’ve ever known,” I say. “It takes a lot of guts to do what she did. To just end it, not knowing what’s next? Not knowing if there’s anything next? It’s easier to go on living a life without any life left in it than it is to just say ‘fuck it’ and leave. She was one of the few that just said, ‘fuck it.’ And I’ll commend her every day I’m still alive, too scared to do the same thing.”

I look at her after I’m finished speaking and her eyes are wide. Her hand is shaking, so I clasp my hands around hers. We look at each other for several seconds and I can tell she has no idea what to say to me. I attempt to lighten the mood and change the subject. She said that was the last question, then we get dessert.