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“Oh,” I say, feeling myself flush. I pull my hand out of his grasp and bring the back of it to my forehead; it’s hot.Fuck.He kisses me again, but I read the moment for what it is—he doesn’t want me. But what is all this? The love-nest truck bed? The kissing? The sucking on my fingers? Abruptly, I’m angry. “No. You’re right.” My mind is reeling. I flip through my Rolodex of sexual conquests: I’ve never been rejected. Ever. And here, in the middle of nowhere, Ford has done just that.Was this some kind of game?I know what’s coming and I don’t fight it. The venom fills my mouth andcoats my tongue. “I can’t fuck the guy who killed my brother, so thanks for saving me from that mistake.”

It cuts him as deep as I intend, hurt consuming his features as soon as the words are out. In an unexpected twist: I hate myself.

I slip off the tailgate, out of his grasp, and march to the passenger side of his truck, getting in with a slam of the door. I’m twenty and destroyed all over again, only this time, it’s me. I did all this.What the hell is wrong with me?Tears fill my eyes as I stare at Ford’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

Hands on the tailgate, he hinges at the waist and drops his head, defeated. Then he starts cleaning, quiet as he gathers the remnants of the perfect night I ruined. The Mexican Coke bottles clang as he drops them into a trash bag; the cooler snaps as he puts the food away. He unplugs the lights; it goes dark. A minute later, he’s behind the steering wheel of his truck, silent the entire drive back.

At the A-frame, he parks, cuts the engine, and stares ahead.

It’s a moment. One I’ve read about and seen in movies where a character has to make a choice to be vulnerable or lose everything. I hate that pile of melodramatic introspective bullshit with a passion. But sitting in this truck, I feel it. If I don’t say something, I might never see Ford again, at least not this way. Twenty years ago, I went into the woods and thought he’d be sitting there when I got out. Thought he’d wait for me and chase me around forever. I learned the hard way that’s not how life works. If you want something—or someone—you don’t know how many chances you’ll get at that.

“You remember the first time you called me Viper?” I ask, looking out my window at the lit-up house. Molly’s sitting nicely on a blanket at the window, no doubt putting on a show for Ford. “You asked me out on a date, and I told you I’d rather eat shit with a spoon out of a jockstrap than go out on a date with you. And you—you did what you do, blue eyes smiling wider than your mouth—you laughed. Like you thought I was funny. Then you said,‘Well I get that you’d rather do that, but it doesn’t mean you can’t go out with me anyway, Viper.’Then I said,‘I bite,’and you said,‘I’m countin’ on it.’”

I laugh softly; he doesn’t.

“I learned to cut with my words from watching my parents fight. It was their go-to. One did something the other didn’t like, and they used their tongue like a knife, stabbing the other one into hurt submission.” I pause, thinking of those loud nights in that little trailer. “It was always a bloodbath even without a single mark of the skin.”

Ford wrings his hands around the steering wheel, no doubt wishing it was my neck he was strangling.

“I don’t know how to do this—whatever this is. I haven’t dated anyone since you.” For the first time, he looks at me. Mouth open, eyes wide. “I’ve dated,” I add quickly. “But it’s never been serious. I did get married in Vegas once for a few hours. A Swede named Sven.”

He puffs out a breath. “Of course you did.”

“What do you want from me, Ford? I have absolutely nothing to offer. I’m leaving. I’m no good for anyone—for you. For Wren. I’m . . . like buying an apple tree that only grows bruised fruit.”

“Good news,” he says, almost amused. “My mom always says the best apple butter comes from the most bruised apples.”

I drop my head on the headrest, facing him as he mirrors my position. The soft glow of lights from outside illuminate the lines of his face and I’m jealous of how close they get to be to him.

“You aren’t to blame for Zeb. Or anything. And I don’t blame you for not wanting to crawl into bed with me either. I was feeling a bit shunned. Believe it or not, I do not get turned down very often.” Quietly, I mumble, “Or ever.”

“Scotty,” he says, reaching over to me and rubbing his knuckles down my cheek. “Your apology skills have come so far in such a short amount of time.”

Despite myself, I laugh.

“I want to crawl in bed with you,” he continues, knuckles dragging across the skin of my face. “I want to relearn every inch of you and taste your skin and hear what noises you make when I’m doing all of that. But I want to be sure that we do it better than last time.”

I lean into his hand. “How?”

“We go slow. We get to know each other. We see what happens.”

“We know each other,” I argue. “And I’m leaving in a few months.”

“I’m pretending you’re not leaving,” he says, with a slight tilt of his lips.

“Pretending I’m not leaving?” I scoff, annoyed, pulling away from his hand. “What the hell kind of plan is that?”

He chuckles. “The best one I could think of.”

I scoff, again. “Well, it’s a bad one.”

“Maybe,” he says, eyes smiling even in the dark. “It was either that or try to convince you to stay.”

I frown. “I can’t stay.”Can I stay?I want something new. Somewherenew. A place to be happy. Free. That’s never been Ledger. Even with Ford here now, this won’t last. Nothing good ever has. My parents never stayed. Zeb didn’t stay. I’ve never stayed with any man I’ve dated in the last two decades. Staying feels impossible. A gamble on me nobody should take. “And even if I didstay, you know me.”

“I don’t know if anyone knows you,” he says. “It gets real, and you get . . . funny, sharp, mean. You don’t get real.” He pauses. “And I want you to be able to say you’re mine—whatever that means. Girlfriend, whatever word you want to use.”

At my reaction, he laughs softly.