“You didn’t answer my question.”

I hesitate, picking my words with care. “Yes. He misses me.”

She tilts her head back and shoots me a knowing look. “You’ve talked to him.”

It’s not a question, but I nod. There’s a long pause as she studies me. I’m not sure what she sees before she turns back to the town. Silence falls, and it is the uncomfortable kind I hate.

When I can’t stand it any longer, I blurt out, “Why aren’t you down there with everyone else?”

It’s her turn to shrug. “It’s the Jamie Show down there. Carey didn’t particularly like her, so it didn’t seem right to . . .”

She drifts off. I get that. I’ve been drifting for months. We sip our beers.

“We all thought you would get married. Nikki and I had a bet going that he would propose before he left.”

I say nothing.

“It should be you down there, Q. Comforting his parents. Helping Blake hold it together.”

Her eyes are narrowed in accusation.

What is there to say besides “I know, Ang.”

My admission is not enough for her. She slides to her feet and faces me. “Then why aren’t you?”

I shake my head. My fingers quiver around the cold can, and I want to answer her so badly. She steps forward and touches my foot, nudging it gently.

“It’s not that easy,” I say helplessly.

Any secret I tell her, she will be forced to keep. As shitty as the last year has been, I don’t want her to share in the hatred toward me, especially now that it’s been reignited with Carey’s disappearance. It wouldn’t be fair. Not to her.

Disappointment replaces the hope that widened her eyes. Her hand falls from my foot, and she walks away, leaving the beer behind.

“Ang?” I call to her. “I’m not a whore. You know me better than that.”

That’s it. My only defense. The only truth I can say.

Her steps never falter. She doesn’t believe me. I’ve lost my chance. Her car’s headlights temporarily blind me as she leaves.

I’m alone. Again.

Chapter Eight

I should have guessed Carey was gay.

At least that’s what I tell myself in hindsight, but his brilliance blinded me. The way he cared for everyone around him with this huge, open heart. How he could tease anyone—even my father—into smiling.

When we first started dating, we kissed. We made out in Grave Woods. At my house, at his house, walking between our houses. And when he got his license, we took our lips to the overlook like all the other couples.

It’s screwed up how I thought we would always be together, but I never questioned why his arms cradled me without heat. His hands did not test my will or pull at the zipper of my jeans. His fingers did not trace my ribs up, up, up until bone gave way to breast.

What kind of boyfriend doesn’t try to race the bases? What kind of girlfriend doesn’t care? I thought, He loves me. He respects me. We’re taking our time because we have all the time in the world.

And then his early graduation snuck up on us. He enlisted in the Marines in January, his years of ROTC and physical training finally paying off. Basic training and SOI—the School of Infantry—commanded his focus for months, while I finished up my junior year. Then there was that short visit in May, and waiting and waiting for his leave in August. The wondering if he’d propose before he deployed. Pride. Worry. Fear. An unnamed twist in my gut. My emotions tick-tick-ticking like the timer on a bomb counting down to desperation.

So I pushed him. The night he came home during his last leave, I stood back while he greeted his family. Waves of pride poured off his father and spilled onto everyone. We watched him hug Carey, who looked handsome and strange in his uniform. His mother’s smile reminded me of a snagged sweater. Pull the loose thread and the whole thing would unravel. She hadn’t wanted Carey to enlist, but she was doing her best to keep it together since he was getting deployed.

After dinner, when the Breens were finally tired, Carey drove me home and we sat on our porch swing. I lay with my head on his lap, his thigh muscles shifting beneath me with every lazy push. His fingers toyed with the thin strap of my dress, caressing my shoulder. My father had stayed overnight on base since they needed him for training exercises in the morning. The only company Carey and I had were the cicadas rattling like a thousand rusty watches being wound.

Turning my head, I studied Carey, trying to discover how he had changed. Some differences I had noticed in May: The hair, of course, buzzed, and unveiling a smattering of freckles on his scalp. His posture had changed, too. His shoulders were now straight and squared, like my father’s. But more than just his physical appearance had transformed over the summer.

Reaching up, I touched his cheek, trailing my fingers across his whiskers, and when his eyes met mine, I saw it—that thing that had bothered me since we had picked him up at the airport. The thing I hadn’t wanted to notice in May: Distance. Even as his body touched mine, I couldn’t feel him.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

The void between us widened when he grasped my hand, casually placing it back on my stomach. I sat up, letting my feet fall to the porch.

“Carey?”

He reacted to the tremor in my voice. The muscles in his face worked as his jaw clenched to hold back whatever words were trying to escape. He rarely withheld the truth, and suddenly I thought of ten things horrible enough for him to want to protect me. Most of them centered on where he was going in a couple of weeks and if he would come back.