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Emotion—over fucking birds—clogs my throat.

“European starlings,” Ford fills in, popping the empty shell out of the chamber and tucking the gun away down the bed of the truck. “The only bird known to do it. Murmurate it’s called—up.” He gestures toward the back of the truck. I don’t argue, hopping onto the tailgate and scooting toward the pillows, still dumbfounded by the show we just witnessed. He does the same, grabbing his bottle of Coke along the way, settling next to me as we gaze at the now-empty sky. “They’re considered invasive. Destructive little bastards.” He grins. “But they put on a helluva show.”

“Why do they do that?”

He takes a sip of his Coke and shrugs. “I read once for protection. One bird changing direction impacts the seven around it. I liked that. Made me think maybe—I don’t know—gave me some perspective, I guess.”

“How so?”

“Hm.” The colors of sunset tint his pensive expression. “When you go into law enforcement, you think you’re going to make all these changes—help all these people. Least I did. Some days, at the end of the day—especially the hard ones—it doesn’t feel like you’ve done jack shit. Like more people hate you than like you.The people holding signs about hating cops are always louder than the ones thanking us. Anyway, when I read that about the starlings, I thought, well, if one bird can impact seven and then those seven each impact seven and so on. Then . . .”

“That’s a lot of sevens,” I finish, something nagging at me with the words. A familiarity to them.

“It’s a lot of sevens,” he echoes.

I watch him drink. Think of him as a cop.

That’s a lot of sevens.

“What?” he asks, nudging me with his elbow.

“I never took you for a Coca-Cola guy,” I say, my wine still untouched in my hand.

“Mexican Coke,” he amends with a smirk. “Made with cane sugar.”

Over the side of the truck, I dump my wine and toss the glass into the grass. “Give me one.” His eyebrows raise in amusement. “I’m being compliant, Ford. Give me a damn Coke before I change my mind.”

He does, playing the game people play where he hands it to me just out of reach and pulls it away when I get close, making me laugh against my will.

“Tell me about being a cop. That’s not what you left here to do. Why the change?”

He doesn’t hesitate: “Zeb.”

It shouldn’t shock me; I’ve thought this was true since he explained to me how he didn’t know Zeb was going to burglarize the house and watched his best friend get arrested. But hearing him saymy brother’s name makes me see him anew. Instead of ushering in the grief of what happened and let it hold him hostage—instead of leading a life of being alone and perpetually surrounded by death like I did—he’s changed lives. Ischanginglives. He left and became who he was supposed to be, and as much as I’ve tried to hate him for that, as much as it guts me every time I think about it, I admire it. What I feel toward him is so opposite of hate it grips hold of me and refuses to let me look away from him.

“I was a business major, not sure if you remember that,” he continues. “And just . . . watching how it all happened with him changed me. All of me.” He shrugs, looking away from me and up to the sky. “Tried to help others the way I couldn’t help him. I blamed myself for so long.” He laughs softly; his words stick into me like a sharp arrow. “Guess it was a selfish act of redemption. Lose a friend, be a cop. That make sense?”

“It does.” I look at the darkening sky. Ford and I have spent all these years living our lives fueled by the same fire. Both of us holding on to the past in different ways. If he wasn’t sitting here now, I never would have believed it. For so long, I thought he ran away from me. Us. I’ve gotten so much of him wrong. I shouldn’t push it; I should let old wounds heal, but I can’t keep myself from asking, “Why didn’t you call me? You could have told me. Said goodbye.”

He looks at me, and even in the low light, there’s pain in his eyes. “I was ashamed.”

I almost laugh at the absurdity. Almost scream at the top of my lungs,What in the bird-balled universe were you ashamed of?Butthen I remember: I know shame. I know regret. And I know telling him all the ways it didn’t have to end the way it did ultimately won’t change what happened. As much as I want to lecture him on why we could have dealt with the fallout—all of it—together, I say nothing.

Instead, I take my first sip of Mexican Coke, the sweet, fizzy bubbles popping on my tongue.

“Good, right?” Ford says, lightness returning to his voice.

I laugh around the opening of the bottle. “It’s not gross.” Then, “So is the date over? Birds and Coke all you got, Golden Boy?”

“Hell no.” He fumbles with his phone and starts music on low, and he pulls an assortment of cheeses, meats, crackers, and little containers of olives and fruit out of the cooler. “And my mom sent an apple pie.”

“Might be poisoned if she knew it was coming to me.”

“She’s notthatbad,” he says, opening the lid of the olives and popping one in his mouth. “And she loves you.”

I give him a look, grabbing an olive of my own and biting into it.

“She always spoke in maybe-phrases.” His expression is both questioning and amused as he unwraps a block of cheese and places it on a cutting board across his lap along with a container of grapes. “You know, likemaybeshe was giving a compliment, ormaybeshe was plotting my death.” He chuckles, putting a grape in my mouth. “I’m serious!” I chew the grape—it’s tart. “She’d say,‘Scotty, you’re here’or‘Scotty, I see Ford picked you up’or‘Scotty, I’ve never seen a dress like that.’Whatis that?”