Dad comes marching down the stairs, Lachlan and an overnight bag in tow.

“You ready, bud?” she asks Lachlan, taking the bag from my dad.

“He gives you any trouble you just call and I’ll be right over,” Dad tells her.

“It’ll be fine,” Laney assure him.

I stand up, no longer able to pretend as if I care about who the hell “A” is on whatever show I’m watching. I’ve acted casual all day and left her to do her thing, but when the hell is it my turn? “Are you leaving?” I ask.

“I’m having a sleepover at Lane’s!” Lachlan announces, his grin from ear-to-ear.

My heart plummets, lands on my feet, heavy with the weight of her choices.

She says, “I got someone to cover my shift so we could spend some godmother/son time together.”

I manage to hide my disappointment, scruff Lachy’s hair. “Have fun. Don’t miss me too much.”

I obviously suck at hiding my feelings because he frowns, looks over at Lane. “Can Lucas come, too?”

Lane’s cheeks turn red while the air turns thick and suffocating.

“I can’t,” I tell him, saving Lane. “Dumb Name’s throwing a party so…”

“Okay.” He stands on his toes, his arms outstretched. He hugs my neck and whispers, “I’ll spend time with you when I get back. I promise.”

“Good,” I say through a chuckle. Then I look at Laney but she’s looking away, and so I hug my brother tighter, tell him what I planned on telling her. “I need my best friend.”

It’s 9:33 pm when my phone rings. “I’m so sorry to call. I know you said you had a party or something, but Lachlan’s been in my bed since seven and he won’t go to sleep. He keeps asking for one minute and I get into bed with him and cuggles him and everything but he won’t shut down and he says it’s not the same. He wants you to do his one minute.”

There is no party, but I don’t bother telling her that. “Do you want me to pick him up?”

“No,” she says quickly. “I want him here. Is it okay if you come over? Just until he falls asleep. I’m sorry if I’m ruining your plans.”

I had no plans, but again, I don’t tell her that. “I’ll be there soon.”

I knock on her front door because I don’t know if I’m welcome to use her bedroom door anymore—if it’s now reserved for the one and only Cooper Kennedy.

She seems surprised that it’s me when she answers the door. “Why are you knocking here?”

I shrug, feeling stupid. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s wide awake, throwing pillows and jumping on the bed.”

I cringe. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

I make my way down to her room while she follows behind. I take off my jacket, throw it on her couch. Habit.

“Pukas!” Lachlan shouts. “Are you here for one minute?

“You know you’re not allowed to jump on beds,” I tell him.

He continues jumping. “Lane said I could.”

I face Lane.

“I said he could do it once,” she defends.

I grab Lachlan by the waist and effortlessly slam him down to the bed. He finds this hilarious. Using my sternest voice, I say, “Time to sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” he giggles, saluting me.

I slip off my shoes, get under the covers with him.

“I’ll be back,” Lane says, taking her phone from the nightstand and going upstairs.

“I like Lane’s bed,” Lachlan whispers through a yawn. “It’s constable.”

“Comfortable.”

“Have you slept in Lane’s bed?” he asks.

I really wish I wasn’t in bed with my six-year-old brother while he forces the images and memories of the last time I was here into my mind.

“Luke? Have you?”

I nod.

He giggles. “Did you sex?”

My eyes widen. “What is with you and sex? Go. To. Sleep!”

“I can’t,” he whispers.

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “Can you sing the Prestons in the Bed song for me like Mommy used to do for you guys?”

I rear back, look him in the eyes. “How do you know about that song?”

“Laney told me. We talked about Mommy all day.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Laney said Mommy was pretty.”

“She was,” I tell him, the slight ache in my chest building the longer I watch him.

He smiles wide. “As pretty as Laney?”

“No one is as pretty as Laney.”

“Yeah,” he says. “So can you sing it for me? Like she did for you?”

I clear my throat, ready my voice. I force a smile and whisper the song to him. “There were seven Prestons in the bed and the little one”—I point to him— “said, roll over, roll over, so they all rolled over and Lucy fell down.”

He laughs under his breath, his eyes drifting shut.

“There were six Prestons in the bed and the little one said, roll over, roll over, so they all rolled over and Lucas fell down.”

Even though he’s fast asleep by the time I get to Logan, I finish the song until it’s done. Then I get out of bed, listen to Lane upstairs on the phone, probably talking to Cooper. For the first time ever, I feel out of place. Being here doesn’t feel like it used to. I don’t know if I should leave or if I should stay to let her know I’m going to leave. I exhale loudly, try to calm my nerves. I start to pace, back and forth, round and round. Meanwhile, she’s upstairs, laughing at whatever Cooper’s saying to her. I freeze when I get to her desk, a desk full of memories I have to try to forget somehow. There’s a familiar picture of us on there. Once upon a time it was in a frame and sat in the center of her bookshelf like a proud possession. The picture was taken by my mom the day we met, me in my dirty Superman shirt, her in her slogan tee. Her hair was shorter then, not as wavy as it is now. We both wore glasses, and my pathetically wide grin showed the giant gap between my two front teeth. Our arms are around each other as if we’d been friends for years, or maybe we just knew that we’d be friends for years to come.

I move papers out of the way so I can pick it up, but my fingers graze on a piece of cloth—one that she uses for her cross-stitches. I pick it up, and my eyes widen, my breath catches, my knees weaken. It’s a replica of the picture of us, but it’s incomplete, certain parts of us missing. Her smile is there, though, and my chest aches when I skim my thumb over it. And even though I can hear her footsteps on the stairs making her way down to me, I don’t put it down. I don’t move. I can’t.

She’s next to me now. Coconuts, lime, and Laney.

“I was working on it to give to you for your birthday but…” She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t need to.

“I should go,” I whisper.

“Wait,” she says, and I swallow my pride and face her. “Can we talk, maybe?”

I nod, though I’m terrified of what she has to say.

She points to the couch in her room—my old bed when I was strong enough to stay out of hers.