My father reaches for my hand and I yank it back without thinking, closing ranks to protect myself. He looks sad, but not surprised, at my response.

“I’m trying, Quinn,” he says, tossing some money on the table to cover the check.

Trying to make up for the way he’s treated me? Trying to be nice for a change? I’m not sure what the answer is, and I’ve been trying to be indifferent after he cut me for too long to act otherwise.

On our way to the door, my father is stopped by one of his work buddies. Sergeant McIntosh and he start talking base politics and I lose interest in seconds. A table near the window catches my attention.

Blake and Angel sit across from each other. They’ve never really been friends, and seeing the two of them together hits me like an out-of-body experience. He leans toward her in an intimate way that makes me want to scream. Without meaning to, I walk toward them, and I’m right on top of their table before they notice me. Angel’s quiet voice comes to a halt.

Blake pulls away from her suddenly, and if I wanted to, I could read it as guilt. Except that we aren’t together. In fact, less than a week ago, he told me how much he’d hated my guts for what I did to him. And haven’t I hated him, too, for letting me take the blame for an angry kiss he instigated?

“Hey,” Angel says. “How’s it going?”

Her voice has none of the anger it had that night in the hotel, and I don’t know what to make of it.

“Good,” I answer, not meaning it.

“You came here alone?” She sounds a little incredulous. Honestly, I would never think of coming here alone.

I gesture over my shoulder to where my father is shooting the breeze with his friend. “No. My father and I had dinner.”

“Ah,” she says. “That makes more sense.”

Blake still hasn’t said anything. I wonder if these two are dating now. He didn’t mention it in DC, but then, why would he? It’s not as if we owe each other anything. But Blake doesn’t even say hi, and something in me won’t let him ignore me.

“How’s Mrs. Breen, Blake?”

“Okay, I guess. The same.”

Not good, then. I already knew that, though, based on what I’ve seen of her. I can’t think of anything else to say to Blake or Angel, and it’s too late anyway. My father calls my name, and he’s waiting by the front door.

“I’ve got to go. Later.”

I turn, but Angel grabs my hand. “I saw the pictures you took of the senior trip. They’re really good, Q.”

It’s not a lot, but it’s something. I smile and squeeze her fingers. “Thanks, Ang. See you around.”

She lets me go, and I force myself not to look at Blake.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s time for me to stop looking backward.

Chapter Twenty-One

Escaping the past isn’t as easy as I’d like it to be.

The next day at the hospital, I have a long visit with George in the atrium. There’s a new tension to our time together now, since he told me about Charlie. I suspect he’s waiting for me to confess the truth about Carey. I care about George, but he’ll wait forever if he thinks I’ll talk about the secret I’m keeping.

We are frustrated with each other. It shows in his impatience with me during our lesson and in my bad attitude when he tells me I’m framing a shot wrong. I want to tell him to back off, that our time together is my escape from all the other crap I have to put up with. He’s my one person free from any connection to Carey. But I don’t say anything. I don’t want to hurt George’s feelings by snapping at him when I know he just wants to help me.

After our lesson, I push his chair back to his room. He’s giving me the silent treatment, and I’m tempted to ruffle his hair to mess with him. I give in to the urge, and he turns to scowl at me.

“Brat,” he says.

I smirk. “Grouch.”

He hits the brake on his chair. Walking full steam ahead, I can’t stop in time and end up ramming into the back of the chair. Childish but effective. Score one for George.

We both snicker.

“Sophie?”

I look up guiltily, expecting one of George’s nurses to reprimand us for goofing off.

My mother stands ten feet away. She clasps her hands to her mouth as if to hold in a sob. Her blue eyes water.

George has to wonder who she is, but I can’t find the words to explain. I have no idea what to do, caught between fight or flight. A warm, calloused hand clasps mine and steadies me.

“Mom,” I say, and it’s amazing how frigid my voice sounds.

She wants to rush me. To hug me. I can see it in the tight way she carries herself, as if she’s at the starting line of a race before the gun goes off. I’m glad she holds herself together because I don’t know what I’d do if she tried to hug me.

“Sophie,” she says again, and the tears hanging on her lashes fall.

“Stop crying,” I demand. My words are harsher than I intended, but something about her tears pisses me off. What does she have to cry about? She got the life she wanted, didn’t she?

“I’m George.” He wheels toward her, holding out a hand for her to shake.

She reaches out her hand to shake his, but he clasps it instead. I know he’s acting as peace keeper for me, but I hate that he’s so gentle with her.

“Nice to meet you, George. I’m Sophie Quinn.”

He grins at her in wonder. “Is that right? You and Sophie have the same name.”