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“She’s got a type,” I joke and look to Kolby, who looks angry.

“You good, Kolby?” Ava asks.

He nods. “With all due respect, that phone call doesn’t happen if you can’t promise not to bring out your imaginary fucking spray paint so you can draw and cross lines with him.”

“Whhhaaaat is going on here?” I ask, looking between them.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ava states then adds, “My fucking imaginary spray paint cans only come out for people I give a shit about.”

“Sorry about this, Lo.” He grips the back of my head, pulls me in, and kisses my forehead. “I’m gonna go up and watch some reels.”

“There’s a whole TV right here,” I call to him as he takes the stairs two at a time.

* * *

Ava apologizes profusely for interrupting whatever it was I had planned, insinuating what I actually hadn’t planned at all—Skinner was supposed to be here, or I totally would have. If that were the truth, I would have been pissed. Right now, I’m not angry. I’m concerned.

“Sorry about ruining what would probably have been a really good time.” She hugs me.

“Not sure what’s going on, but I trust you have your reasons,” I whisper.

“Call me if you need anything?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

When I get upstairs, Kolby’s sitting on the edge of my bed, elbows resting on his knees, holding an iPad in one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other.

I stand in the doorway and lean against the frame. “What can I do for you?”

He shakes his head but doesn’t look up, doesn’t say anything for a long minute.

“Cross.” He swallows hard and looks up. “He, uh?—”

“It’s okay to be pissed that she’s?—”

“Lo.” He shakes his head. “Those newspaper articles I left for you to read.” His eyes get red. “His mother … he’s the other boy.”

“Oh, Kolby.” I move to him and pull his head to my chest.

“He hates me, blames me.”

“You saved his life.”

“That will never matter to him, and I could never blame him for that.”

“Surely, he understands that now.”

He looks up, “My football coach back then was my rock. When I was rotting in juvey because Cross was going through his own shit and refused to talk to anyone for a solid week, it was my coach that finally got through to him. After the truth came out, my chance of any foster family wanting me … gone. No one wanted a kid my age, my size, who had been accused of a double homicide, living in their home. I can’t blame them. This comes out, and half the fucking world is going to believe I did it, and I don’t even give a shit about what they may say about me. I give a shit any of it will touch you.”

“I can’t imagine going through that, Kolby.” I bat a tear away. “But what makes you think I feel any different? Good chance I’d go to jail if anyone said a damn thing about any kid who endured that hell.”

“Can’t do that. I just got you.”

Bad time to swoon, but here we are.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You say that now.” He shakes his head.