“Hey,” he says quietly, one hand in the air, the other rubbing the back of his neck.

I close my mouth and square my shoulders, feeling Dad’s presence behind me. He’s here to protect me, and knowing that creates an ache in my chest. Two years ago, I’d laid down in the middle of a basketball court, holding hands with the boy in front of me, a boy who declared that he’d never let anyone hurt me. That I’d never have to be afraid of him. But here I am…

Josh looks over my shoulder. “I’m sorry for coming over unannounced like this—”

“How’d you get my address?” Dad asks, his voice deep, intimidating.

Josh steps back, his demeanor proof he felt the threat in each word. I turn to my dad, pleading with my eyes for him to back off, just enough so I can breathe. So I can sort through the havoc in my head. Dad rolls his eyes. “He could’ve at least brought us coffee.” Then he spins on his heels and walks away.

I look over at Josh, his eyes wide as he points his thumb over his shoulder. “I can go get him a coffee.”

I smile. I can’t help it. Shaking my head, I mouth, “It’s fine,” and step out onto the porch, closing the door behind me. I raise my eyebrows. He rubs the back of his neck again. “Do you—I mean—can we go for a walk, maybe?” He grins the same crooked grin that used to give me butterflies, and I’d be lying to myself if I said it didn’t have the same effect now. “Honestly, Becs, I thought your grams was scary, but she’s got nothing on your dad.”

I laugh, and even though he doesn’t hear it, he sees it.

He sees me.

—Joshua—

I have no idea what I’m doing here, walking side by side next to the girl I’ve spent endless nights dreaming about. But after she left last night, I couldn’t get her out of my head. Not that I expected to. Every moment seemed to replay in my mind, and I questioned everything. Everything. Not just about our pasts or the decisions we made, but even the small things that shouldn’t matter. I examined every word I spoke, every movement I made, and I wondered how it was she could so easily walk away with nothing but a computerized “Thanks for your time,” and leave my sorry ass standing there in a pool of my regrets.

I woke up this morning and looked out of the hotel room window and saw the sun rising, letting me know it was a new day, and I gathered all the courage, all the confidence I had, and decided I wanted a do-over. And then her dad answered the door and asked me what the hell I wanted, and the only thing I could think to say was, “Becca.”

I wanted Becca.

And now I had her. Even if the few minutes we’d been walking were spent in silence, her feet following mine, her long jet-black hair whipping across my arm, I still had her.

I just need to come up with something to say to start my do-over. “So you’re on the school paper?” God, I’m pathetic. I look over at her and wait for her response, but there isn’t much of one, just a slight nod of her head followed by an unsure shifting of her eyes. I kick myself for suggesting we walk because it makes it difficult to read her, to see her. And so I walk a few more steps until we reach a bus stop, and I sit down and hope she does the same. She hesitates, just for a moment, but then she joins me. I face her. She looks straight ahead. “Are you enjoying it?” I ask. “I mean college. Classes. All that stuff?”

She nods again, palming her unruly hair away from her face.

“And do you like St. Louis?”

Another nod.

“And your dad?”

She inhales deeply, her hands gripping the edge of the bench, and turns to me, her head tilted to the side. “You?” she mouths.

“Me?” I shrug. “I think I’m still adjusting to everything, to be honest. Things kind of took off insanely fast and I still don’t think I’m ready for it. It’s a lot of travel and a lot of meetings and phone calls and, like, putting up a front on social media and stuff.”

Becca turns to me now, one leg bent on the bench, the other outstretched, her foot on the ground an inch from mine. She waves a hand in the air, asking me to continue, so I do. “I guess I’m kind of blessed,” I tell her, and I don’t know why I’m saying all this stuff, especially to her, but she’s here and she’s listening and it’s more than I ever thought I’d get. “I’m lucky I get to do it all before Tommy has to start school, so he can travel with me, and Nat and Justin are beyond helpful when it comes to doing the whole co-parenting thing around my schedule. They’re gone three months at a time, so when they do come back, they make sure to be wherever we are, even if it means staying at hotels with Tommy when I’m at tournaments.”

Her features soften as she listens to my words.

“Chris and my mom handle everything and I get told where to be and when to be there, and I get to skate.” I choke on a breath and look away from her eyes, because watching her watch me feels like a knife piercing my heart over and over, or maybe it’s the guilt of giving her lie after lie after goddamn lie. Each one rehearsed in the car on the way to her house. I thought it would be easier to give her the same version of me as everyone else gets. I told myself if I gave her that, then I could walk away—not happy—but not as miserable as I felt when she left me last night. I was wrong. But what was I supposed to say? That the only part of my life I loved anymore was Tommy and skating? The truth is, I’m not even sure if I love skating anymore or if I do it for Tommy and for his future and to make two certain people proud of me. One of those people is dead. The other is staring at me, her eyes, her lips, her entire body void of any emotion. She lifts her hand and forms the sign for “phone,” so I reach into my pocket and hand it to her. I scoot closer so I can see her thumbs working over the screen. She taps on the Notes app, types away on the keys, and I read the words she’s written: What are you doing here, Josh?

I clear my throat. “I have a comp,” I mumble.

Her thumbs move again. Not here in St. Louis. HERE. With me. Why did you come to my house?

I drop my gaze and cut the bullshit. “I don’t know, Becs. Maybe for the same reason you came to interview me yesterday.” I feel her shift next to me, both her feet on the ground now. “I looked you up online and on your college newspaper. You got a lot of photographs there. Really good ones, too. But all art based. None for sports. And you’ve definitely never done any interviews—”

She stands up before I get a chance to finish, and I know I’ve blown it. Whatever the hell it is. She’s looking down at the ground, her head moving from side to side. Then she hands me my phone and starts to walk back to her house. I follow after her, because I can’t not, and I rush my steps until I’m in front of her, walking backward, giving her no option but to deal with me. “I’m sorry, Becca.”

She might be looking at me, but I can’t tell because her hair’s flying everywhere, and for a second, I get lost in the scent of it, lost in the memories of how the strands felt between my fingertips and on my chest, and I want nothing more in the entire fire-trucking world than to go back there, back to a place and time where we existed only for each other.

I sigh when her steps hasten and mine do the same. “I’m sorry, okay? I don’t care why you came to see me and I don’t know why I’m here, but the fact that you did and I am has to mean something. Doesn’t it?”