I lean my head and take in . . .

Devon lets my hand go as the guy gets up from his seat and takes the few steps over to us.

“Robert!” I call when it clicks and hop out of the seat. “How are you? How’s your dad? Everything okay?”

He smiles at me, a dimple in his right cheek winking at me. He looks different since the last time I saw him at the hospital with Myrtle and John. Or maybe it’s just because I was harried there, barely knowing what I was doing. That day, he’d been in slacks and a jacket, but tonight he’s wearing dark jeans and a blue dress shirt, the sleeves folded up. His sandy-brown hair is messy but stylish, and he’s got his glasses on. He’s taller than me, his build lean.

“Dad is fine. Talked to him tonight. I’m glad they found a place so soon.”

“I need to call Myrtle and check on her.”

He smiles. “We all had dinner together,” he says. “She met my sister.” He nudges his head back to his table, and I send her a wave. She looks like Robert, only the female version—tall with lighter hair and a sweet smile.

There’s a pause, and I start, realizing I need to introduce. “Robert, this is my friend Devon Walsh.” Devon stands and takes his hand in a grasp that looks a little hard to me, if the wince on Robert’s face is indicative. Robert doesn’t seem to know Devon is a football star, and I don’t offer.

We chitchat for another minute about his dad; then, after flicking his eyes at Devon, he says in a quiet tone, “Let’s have lunch soon. I’d love to talk to you more.”

Is he asking me out, or is this about something else . . . ?

I dart my gaze at Devon, who’s watching me, a taut expression on his face. He searches my face, then looks out the window.

Right, right. He doesn’t care who I date. He wants me to find someone.

I give Robert my cell, and he gives me his card, which I quickly stuff in my pocket. He tugs on one of the strings from my hoodie, grins, and says, “Looking forward to it.”

I’m still standing there watching him walk away, trying to decipher if there is any attraction there.

Robert flips around, a cocky smile on his face—okay, back up; when did he get cocky? “Oh, happy birthday!”

I smile.

He laughs. “Myrtle told us. Love the hair, by the way. Kate’s, right?”

Heat rises in my cheeks. Oh. Oh. Myrtle let him read my chapters? Going to murder her. “Um, thanks.”

I sit back down and stare at the table. It floors me that I managed to meet a guy I barely noticed, but he noticed me, and he just asked me out . . . maybe.

I look up at Devon, who’s leaving a heap of cash on the table.

“Let’s go.” His expression is unreadable.

I nod, and we move through the diner—only I get shuffled back by a crew of drunken guys, and Devon turns and moves back to me, edging himself through them with his shoulders. He stares down at me in the midst of them—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven—oh shit, we’re gonna hit a record. Then he clasps my hand, threading our fingers together.

“You’re with me,” he says softly. Or was it, “You with me?”

Either way . . . “Yeah.” I’m with you.

We hold hands and walk out the door.

Chapter 17

DEVON

“Do you have football camp tomorrow?” she asks as we walk back to the penthouse.

“Not on Sundays. Only day off.”

“Good. I’m not sleepy,” she announces.

“Me neither,” I say, and the truth is I’m not ready to go back to the penthouse, where we’ll be alone.

“Let’s go for a drive. Not Red, though; let’s give Cindy a chance to leave.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“You’re worried about your dad, and you haven’t been able to catch him during the day, so let’s do a drive-by. Check up on him. Maybe look for clues.”

“It’s your birthday, and you want to go see my dad?”

She tilts her chin up. “Yeah.”

“All right. Let’s go.” That was not what I meant to say. What if she sees where I came from and thinks differently about me? What if he’s there and trashed?

I kick those thoughts down as we hop in the Hummer and drive out of downtown and head to my dad’s neighborhood. She’s got the windows down, her hair blowing, belting out “Hollaback Girl” with the radio, and shit, I laugh. I don’t know how she does it, but everything about her is funny. Bemused, I realize she’s one of the best friends I have. In the space of just a few days, I’ve told her more than anyone else knows about me, besides Jack.

We sing the chorus together, my fingers tapping out the beat on the steering wheel as I whip into Dad’s driveway and kill the lights. We get out and meet at the front door.

“You have a key?”

Feeling nervous, I nod and fish it out of my pants. Before I open the door, I take a deep breath and look down at her. “His place . . . it’s messy.”

She nods, face composed in a careful expression.

We walk in, and I flick on the light—the one I changed the last time—and take in the open space. The den is empty, but I can tell he’s been here since the last time. More takeout containers litter the coffee table; an empty vodka bottle sits on the end table. Giselle heads to the kitchen, and I take the bedroom. It’s empty, the bed unmade, clothes on the floor. His closet looks bare, though, as if he’s packed a few things. Weird.

“Devon,” she calls from the kitchen, and I jog to her, fear inching up my spine.

She’s holding a piece of paper in her hand and thrusts it out to me. “It’s a letter for you. It was on the counter.”

“Oh.” I swallow thickly and take it, sitting down at the table, my eyes eating up the words.

Devon,

My son. Remember that time you scored your first touchdown in JV for the hometown team? Remember the first girl you brought home—the one you really liked? Or that moment when you walked across the stage to get your high school diploma? You do. You have those memories. I don’t. Not one. I don’t even know if I was there for that first touchdown. Maybe there’s a game I recall, but I can’t see your uniform in my head or that moment when you should have looked up in the stands to see if I was there.

I close my eyes and clench my fists, memories I don’t want jabbing at me like thorns. No, Dad, I looked, and you weren’t there. And I never brought one girl back. Never.

You’ve done so much for me—money, house, car, a job—things I tried to hang on to with everything I have, but I messed it up. I gave it a shot, tried AA, but I’m weak. So damn weak. Dotty is done with me, and I don’t blame her. She deserves better. I can’t hold a woman. You’ve watched them come and go, that look on your face, hope. God, hope is cruel.

I’ve done something bad. It hurts to even write the words down, but I can’t do it to your face. I can’t talk to you when you know that I owe people a lot of money, bookies, and not the legal ones.

Emotion rips at me, anger rising. My shoulders bunch as Giselle comes behind me, her hands moving over my neck and down to my arms. I shift and lean into her, my chest rising.