By confronting Josh and dancing with me, Blake’s making it clear that nobody should mess with me. I’m confused. He’s let me bear the fallout all these months. Why come to my defense now?

Blake is silent so long I think he’s not going to answer when he says, “I don’t know. Angel called and I had this picture of Carey in my head, screaming at me to get my ass down here. No matter what we’ve done, he wouldn’t want anyone to hurt you.”

It sounds so perfect. He’s defending me because Carey would want him to. It’s not about me. It never is, with these two boys. Blake lets me take the blame, and Carey uses me.

I’m bruised from the inside out. And so damned tired of keeping my mouth shut. I’m beyond tempted to tell the truth. I can see their faces now. Hey, everyone. You know how you’re punishing me because I cheated on that guy? He’s freaking gay and made me promise not to tell any of you. Oh, and by the way, the guy I DIDN’T cheat with? He’s Carey’s bestie, and he let you all believe that he’s a damned saint.

Screw them all. To hell with Carey. And to hell with Blake.

I stop dancing. “So you’re a hero? The big, strong guy saving the helpless girl?”

He stops swaying too. “I would never call you helpless.”

He blames me for convincing him to betray Carey, but I don’t care anymore. The hell I’ve been through this year has to make up for what I did to him. I never pointed the finger at him. That has to count for more than he’s due.

“Should I kiss the ground you walk on because you finally stood up for me?”

“Stop it, Q,” he says softly. “I don’t expect anything.”

“No? What did you say to me before? ‘Tell them, Q,’” I say, mimicking his voice, and he looks ashamed.

I start to tell him how he’s misjudged me. How they all have.

And then I picture Carey’s face when he begged me to keep his secret last August. And I imagine his parents’ shattered faces when they find out what their son was too afraid to tell them. What if they learn that Carey didn’t trust them with the truth?

I come to the same conclusion I have a thousand times. It’s not my secret to tell. I made a promise and, whether he deserves my loyalty or not, I’ll keep it. Because I won’t be that person who goes back on her word. Never again.

But despite my silence, I won’t let them walk all over me anymore.

“Stay away from me,” I say in a hollow voice.

“Q?” Blake sounds upset.

I just want to get away from him. He reaches for my hand. Stiff and unyielding, I freeze him out until he gives up. It’s easier to be strong when I’m cold inside. My father has that right, at least.

“I don’t need your help, Blake,” I tell him. “I’ve survived all this time without you or Carey. I don’t need either of you. Not anymore.”

From the way his hazel eyes narrow, I know I’ve wounded him. Blake passes me my camera when I reach for it, and he doesn’t stop me when I walk away.

I give Angel a curt nod of thanks when she gives me my coat. She didn’t have to call Blake, and it was nice to know she’d stopped being mad at me long enough to be worried about what Josh might do.

Horowitz, on the other hand, will probably be upset that I didn’t stay to see the crowning of the dance’s king and queen. Oh well. He’d tricked me into coming here, so he’d better be happy with the pictures I did take. They’re all lucky I didn’t ruin their idiotic dance by screaming my head off when Josh cornered me.

This honor crap isn’t for the weak.

*   *   *

Dad has left the porch light on for me.

It takes all of ten minutes to hide my mother’s dress in the back of my closet and get ready for bed. I head to the kitchen in my robe and slippers and make myself a bowl of cereal, eating by the light of the stove. Standing at the counter, I munch away and sort through the mail I’d dropped there earlier. Since the college brochures started pouring in last year, Dad has left it to me to toss away the junk and leave the real mail on his desk.

My fingers pause on the envelope with the words FREE MAIL written where a stamp would go. Only deployed soldiers can send mail that way. It’s addressed to me. From Carey.

He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive. He’s writing to tell me he’s okay. I sink to the floor with my back against the counter, shredding the envelope as I go.

No.

The letter is dated. He wrote it weeks ago, before he went missing. Probably when I refused to answer his e-mails. I start crying as I read.

Dear Quinn:

God, you don’t know how much I miss you. I think about you all the time, and I imagine us sitting on your porch. Whenever I’m scared or too tired to keep moving, I go there to that porch with you. Your feet are dirty from going barefoot all day, and your hair is tangled and you look more beautiful than you think you are. We’re arguing about who is smarter—women or men—and I can tell you think you’ve won the argument because you’re wearing that smug look you get when you think you’re right, which is pretty much all the time.

I’d give my left arm to be there with you now. But then I’d want to be back here with my brothers. We’re doing a good thing. I believe that most days. I have to, or I wouldn’t be able to make it through. MREs, the freezing nights, the bugs. And those aren’t the worst things.

Quinn, I saw my battle buddy get killed today. One minute he was standing next to me, talking my ear off. The next, a sniper got off a shot and I was covered in my buddy’s brains and blood. He was talking about his wife’s cooking, and then he was just dead. And the only thing I could think about was how sorry I was that I’d left you holding the bag back there. You and Blake.