LITMIR.BIZ

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thought about it that way. I never considered that I might blame myself for dragging my feet about going off to France. I think Mom wanted to stay in New York City too, but what if I hadn’t pitched such a fit? If I’d been down to go, would she have gone too? Would I be there right now, smoking a cigarette, dressed in black, scowling outside my beautiful French high school with my cool French friends because Mom and Dad wanted me to pick up fresh sheep intestines for our highly dysfunctional family dinner?

      In other words, would my weird family unit have remained intact if I wasn’t such a whiner?

      “Some days I think if the boys and I’d been better at keeping house, kinda took up where our mama left off, would my daddy have gotten so bad so fast?”

      Doyle muses his what-ifs out loud, while I keep mine locked in. But, where my what-if scenario casts me as a bratty villain, his is so noble, it dips its toe in martyrdom.

      “Doyle, you know it’s not your fault your mom left. You know it had nothing to do with how clean the house was or how you and your brothers behaved. Your mother’s reasons for leaving had everything to do with her. And it was her fault. Her loss.” I nudge him with my shoulder.

      “That all makes sense to me now. But the little kid in me still don’t listen to reason.” He bumps me with his elbow. “So you were hell-bent on staying in New York instead of going to Paris, but you up and left for Georgia?” His laugh is rusty. “I mean, I like it here fine, but it’s sure as hell not Paris.”

      I tilt my head back and direct my attention to the big, shiny moon. “It was more a lack of any other decent choice that landed me here. Like I was saying, my mom had this gross affair with a married guy she worked with. His wife found out, and it was basically hellish for my mother to go to back to work with all the office gossip. Everyone was giving her crap, all this stupid passive-aggressive high school drama BS. Which is kind of insane. I mean, he’s the one who actually cheated on his wife. My parents aren’t even...”

      I stop short because it’s easier to give up trying to explain than it is to untangle the knot that is my parents’ crazy relationship.

      “Married?” Doyle fills in, the word delivered softly. Helpfully.

      “Yep.” I was actually going to say “in love anymore,” but I’m not sure whether or not that’s a fact. It is definitely a fact that my parents are no longer joined in holy matrimony, no matter how lovey they acted during our Thanksgiving in Paris. “It’s just... Their whole thing is complicated. Always has been. Sometimes I think about how much easier my life would be if my parents had managed to keep their crap together.”

      “I hear that.”

      Doyle’s pain is on a different spectrum than mine, but our frustrations run parallel. A sweet relief spins through me as we sit side by side, our confessions laid bare between us. Ollie would be proud of all the sticky feelings I dredged out tonight.

      “I don’t hate it here,” I confess over the rising chorus of frog croaks. “I mean, I wasn’t excited about coming here, and I miss home, but this place isn’t all bad.”

      “Not all bad?” He shakes his head. “Pretty weak. No worries though. I plan to pull out all the stops to make this year better than you’d ever have expected.”

      “What exactly does that entail?” I arch my back as his thumb arcs along the soft skin above my knee, inside my thigh. “Four-wheeling and hogs?”

      “You wanna go four-wheeling?” He leans closer.

      “Hmm. I’ve never been. Is it fun?” I try to rein my voice tight. It’s just his hand. On my knee. It’s just an invitation to ride an all-terrain vehicle. No big deal.

      “I think you’d like it. You busy next Saturday?” His other hand cups my shoulder, pulls down to my elbow. His fingers are sparks, my skin is a river of ethanol.

      “I’ll have to check my planner. I’m pretty popular around here, you know.” I slide one hand onto his leg, and I can feel the muscles through his jeans. It lights up something in me, and I want him. My breaths burst in and out, and my head spins as he leans closer.

      I want to kiss him, just so I have one kiss notched in my belt from lips other than Lincoln’s.

      Ollie’s warning about comparing Doyle and Lincoln flops around in my head. I bring my hand up to Doyle’s chest and force us to keep those few inches of distance.

      I lie back on the patio, and he lies next to me, silent.

      The water laps on the sides of the pool, as measured as Doyle’s breathing. It’s peace.

      I don’t remember falling asleep, but suddenly Doyle is shaking my shoulder. “Hey. Nes. Hey. Your feet are all pruney. You need to get some sleep. In a bed.”

      “Okay.” My voice is groggy. “Are you leaving?”

      “Are you inviting me to stay?” The backs of his fingers brush my cheek.

      “Mmm.” I sit up and blink sleepily. “I kick in my sleep.”

      “I can take a beating.” It’s a joke, but something fierce in his eyes punches through the lightness.

      My instinct is to stomp out that frantic look. Why? Because I’m protecting him? Or maybe it isn’t that noble of me. Maybe I’m just avoiding anything complicated?

      “I’m like a mule. On ’roids. Go home, Doyle. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

      He stands, pulls on his socks, hops into his boots, and holds out a hand to tug me to my feet. “How ’bout breakfast first? I know a place, best cheese grits around, and they open at six.”

      “Grits, huh?” I wrinkle my nose. “Is this part of your plan to convince me stay? I do love breakfast foods...”

      He raises his blond eyebrows. “I jest might be trying to convince you to stick around, and I’m willing play dirty. I’ll use every weapon in my arsenal, cheesy grits included.”

      I poke a finger into his chest. “All right. Don’t get cocky though. I come from a place where breakfast foods are like a religion.”

      He maneuvers so that his lips are a hair away from brushing mine, then boomerangs back, with a grin so adorable, I have to roll my eyes to fend it off.

      “I’ll pick you up.” He walks over to the hose and turns it off, then braces one foot on the fence and gets ready to jump.

      “I want to drive myself.”

      He looks over his shoulder and tilts his head like he’s considering my statement.

      “Nope. Tomorrow, ten to six, be ready.”

      “Ten to six? That’s too early!”

      “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I like to take my time over it.” He jumps. I hear the thump of his boots and, a second later, the rumble of his truck’s engine.

      On my way in I pick up my phone and notice I have a new text from “Ulysses.”

      Penelope, thanks for watering our tree.

      “Dork,” I whisper to my screen, but something deep in me flutters so hard, I’m vibrating.

      I flop onto my bed and sink into a sleep so deep, the world is soundless and pitch-black until the blare of my phone alarm drags me into the early dawn light.

      I have fifteen minutes before Doyle gets here. I sprint to the bathroom and take a GI shower, goop on some mascara and lipstick—this is a date, sorta kinda, after all—scrunch gel into my dripping hair, decide I look hevi nais, especially considering my limited time frame, and get ready to grab some clothes. But Mom blocks my bedroom door, her face more stricken than usual.

      “Aggie, sweetheart, I have to tell you something.” Her eyes are puffy, like she didn’t get much sleep. Or like she has a wine hangover. She twists her hands tightly. “It’s Lincoln. His

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