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Not when I hear the splash behind me.

Not when I hit the beachy shore and drag the canoe into the grass and drop the paddles next to his phone and keys.

Not when I march inside, toss his duffle and vest onto the porch, and lock the door.

Not when he’s on the porch, shouting my name and pounding on the door, apologizing for something I’m not sure I understand.

When he’s quiet, I peel myself from the door and look out the window. He’s standing fully clothed, soaking wet, and taking jagged breaths like he just swam across the lake. Because he did. Because I’m as broken and busted as this disaster of a house.

He stands directly in front of me, only the glass separating us, looking as wounded as my whole life has felt.

I want to smile, flip him off, and tell him to go to hell, but I have neither the words nor desire. Water drips down his face, clinging to the short stubble on his jaw and chin before dropping to the splintered wooden planks of the porch.

He presses one palm on the window and drops his forehead next to it, not breaking eye contact as his skin spreads against the surface of the glass like he’s been spilled there.

I stare at his hand. At his face. At him. I press my thumb to the glass opposite his palm. For a split second I wish I could be who he seems to think I am. That I’m at all capable of trying whatever this is.

Instead of going to him, apologizing, and telling him everything like I should, I drop my hand from the glass and walk away, hoping he sees that whatever he’s trying to do here is a waste of time.

June

How's the house coming? Need help?

Scotty

How can you help? Isn’t your kitchen in shambles too?

Right. Well how is yours? When can I see it?

Fine. Knocking out the list the realtor sent me to get it sale-ready. You can see it then.

I got some real estate magazines for Arizona. Desert yards don’t have grass. Weird, right?

I think I finally got rid of Ford once and for all.

That idiot can’t take a hint. And he has a thing for birds.

And he just disappeared after Zeb . . .

AND! He’s a cop, I’m pretty sure they’re all kinds of fucked.And I’m leaving . . .

Even if I wasn’t leaving, what would that look like? Me and Ford? Has he not seen the trailer I grew up in?

Blink twice if the twins have tied you to a tree.

Do you really want me to answer?

Because if you do, I’ll tell you that you loved that boy when we were kids, and he hurt you when Zeb died because he was as young and heartbroken as the rest of us. I’d also tell you that you put more stock in where you came from than anyone else does. You read books about alien sex, birds seem like child’s play. And don’t you hate the desert?

I like you better when you’re tied to a tree.

Fifteen

“Glory,youinhere?”I call, pushing the rickety door of the trailer open with armfuls of groceries. The unfortunate scent of cigarette smoke and too-strong air freshener assaults me the second I step inside and set the bags on the floor.

“Where else would I be?” she snaps, making her way down the short hall, muttering a swear under her breath as she eyes me before dropping into the worn recliner. Her jeans and shirt are both a size too big for her skinny frame. “Dressin’ up like that make you feel better about where you came from, Scotty Ann?”

I roll my neck, tugging at the lapel of my navy blazer as I force a sweet smile. “Now why would I ever need to recover from this cozy corner of Satan’s crotch, Glory?”