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“Hey,” Ford says, stealing my attention. “How was the tattoo shop?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Never thought I’d have a matching ass tattoo of a dragon with a fifteen-year-old, but here we are.”

He chuckles. “How is she?”

“Well.” I sigh. “She wasn’t talking to me for the last few days, so I decided to add some more trauma into her cocktail of life and show her where I grew up.”

His eyes widen. “How did that go?”

“Glory was on the porch. You can imagine what Wren thought. But”—I shrug—“she talked to me before she left. Actually, she told me what she thought about the Bronco.” I give him astupid-asskids these dayslook. “I guess it worked.”

He looks toward the lake. “You see your mom much?”

I follow his gaze; a swimmer with effortless strokes cuts across the water followed by a boat pulling kids on a tube. Laughter mingles with the hum of the motor.

“Every month. Keep the lights on. Make sure she’s not dead and has something to eat other than beer and Slim Jims.”

“I’m sorry,” Ford says, falling into step next to me as I head toward the house.

“About Glory?” I say with a slight chuckle. “You didn’t make her.”

At the bottom of the porch steps, he shakes his head. “Not about that.”

“Okay. Then you’re going to have to be more specific because I got a list of grievances about a mi—”

“That I left,” he says, eyes searching mine. “That I never called. That I—that I loved you and ran.”

His words deliver yet another sharp jab straight through me.

“Water under the dilapidated bridge,” I say with faux indifference, stopping in the middle of the porch. “I love you means something different when you’re a kid anyway. It’s all hormones and hard-ons, you know?”

He doesn’t laugh.

A palpable silence follows. Like it has a pulse and power over the situation. Like it’s required for whomever stands in it to drown in thoughts marred by missed opportunities and mistakes and godforsaken maybes.

“Right,” I finally say, leaning against one of the pillars on the porch and shoving my hands in my back pockets.

“You want to get a drink tonight?” he asks.

A loud laugh spills out of me. “Why?”

“Talk. Laugh. Pretend I didn’t fuck up and you don’t hate me for it.”

“Unresolved issues you’re trying to deal with, Golden Boy?” I tease.

His hands settle on his hips and a boyish grin consumes his face. “Something like that.”

I will not be able to sit with him and not get all swoony. I know it by the way my hands itch to move and my throat burns when I look at him too long.

“When did you get that tattoo?” I ask. “The one Zeb had?”

“Hm.” His tongue bats around the inside of his mouth. “Wondered if you saw that. Day after he died.”

I had no idea my brother was gone, and Ford was already memorializing him on his flesh.

“I’m moving,” I remind him, more of my weight pressing against the wooden post.

He blows out a sharp breath. “I know.”