“Faythe—”

“Move!”

Ethan held me back, his hands gentle on my shoulders, his eyes oddly imploring. “Give him some time.”

“No! The last thing he needs is time to brood and get madder. He doesn’t understand what he heard. I have to explain.” I shoved him in the chest, but he only bounced back an instant later, wrapping both hands around my upper arms.

“You’ll only make it worse.”

Fighting tears, I twisted out of his grip. “If you don’t want to get hurt, get out of my way.”

“I’m trying to help y—”

“I’m sorry.” I let my right fist fly. It smashed into his jaw.

Ethan stumbled backward into the wall. “Fine, go make it worse!” he shouted, his hand covering the fresh red splotch on his face.

By the time I made it to the back porch, the guys were gone, having holed up in their overgrown dormitory, surrounded by the staples of masculinity: beer, day-old pizza, and mountains of dirty socks.

Lightning flashed across the sky the moment I stepped onto the grass.

For an instant, it lit the entire backyard in a stark relief of light and shadow. The image was still stamped into my retinas when thunder roared across the sky, the ageless creak of ancient floodgates opening.

Rain poured from the clouds in a sudden deluge the likes of which Texas—even East Texas—rarely ever saw. I was completely drenched in less than five steps.

Pushing wet hair back from my face, I jogged across the yard, stomped up the front steps, and tore open the screen door. It flew back to smack the siding. Dripping water onto the porch, I grabbed the front doorknob, already shoving forward as I turned it. Nothing happened.

Well, almost nothing. I walked right into the door, expecting it to open.

Instead, I nearly broke my own nose.

In my entire life I’d never seen the guesthouse locked. I’d always been welcome. Always. And now Marc had locked me out. Literal y.

I did not take it well.

“Open the fucking door!” I shouted, pounding on the wood with both fists.

“My dad’s not mad at me!” I yelled, straining to be heard over the storm. “Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

No response. I glanced over my shoulder and saw my mother’s form silhouetted in Ethan’s bedroom window. She watched me with her arms crossed over her chest, making no attempt to interfere.

“I can go get a key!” I yelled, turning back to the guesthouse door.

“You can’t keep me out forever. Hell, I’l just kick in the door if you don’t open up in the next two minutes.” I gave the wood another good pounding, thoroughly bruising both fists, then paused again to listen, pressing my ear against the door. This time I heard results: footsteps clomping down the stairs. So, did I stop and wait patiently?

Hell no. I’d forgotten the meaning of the word patience by then. All I could think about was explaining to Marc what really happened before it was too late.

“I hear you in there. Come open this damn door before I break it down.”

“Give it a rest, Faythe.” It was Vic, speaking calmly from the other side of the door. The still infuriatingly closed door.

“You’re waking up people in the next county.”

“Let me in so I can talk to him.” Rain rolled slowly down my spine beneath my shirt, tracing the line of fear building inside me. I had to make Marc understand. This couldn’t be the end for us. Not like this. “I can fix this,” I shouted, dismayed to hear the edge of panic in my voice. “I swear I can.”

“I’m sorry. He’d skin me alive. You’d better give him some time to get over it.”

“That’s just it.” I pounded on the wood again, and Vic swore, then jumped back. Too late, I realized he’d been leaning against the door. “If you don’t let me in so I can explain it to him, he’s not going to get over it.

He doesn’t understand what he heard.”

“I’m sorry, Faythe,” he said again. “He just doesn’t want to see you.”

This isn’t possible, I thought, wringing rain from my ponytail. Of course, Marc had been mad at me before. He’d been mad at me for five straight years after I’d broken up with him. But he’d never refused to speak to me. He’d never locked me out. I’d spent holidays with Sammi and her family to escape his relentless pursuit, and still he’d called me at least once a week for three years, baring his soul to my voice mail with so much pain in his voice that I couldn’t listen to the messages without tearing up.

When he final y stopped calling, the hush felt strange. It felt like the whole world went silent when Marc did, as if I could see people’s mouths moving, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Like I’d gone deaf.

That emotional silence didn’t stop until Marc came for me at school.

And it descended on me again as I stood on his front porch. All I could hear was the rain, as if the very heavens were crying for us both.

I glanced at my mother again, only to see her turn away from the window. She looked back once and shook her head. Then she was gone.

My resolve strengthened in the face of my mother’s desertion. She might or might not know what I’d done, but she believed I’d lost Marc for good.

After years of nagging me to go back to him, she’d given up on us.

But I hadn’t.

I backed down the steps, facing the front door as I descended into the rain. Water poured down on me, replastering loose strands of hair to my cheeks and forehead. I wiped my face with both hands, blinking rain and tears from my eyes as I assessed the door. It was solid and strong in spite of its age. But so was I, in spite of my youth.