Page 18 of This

“Yes,” we answer in unison.

“I warned you about them,” he says to Dane. But a second later, he drops onto the floor between us and elbows until I scoot over to give him room. “Lucky for you two, I dig me some crazy.”

With the three of us spread from the fireplace to the coffee table, it leaves less than enough room for the next body that comes crashing down. Dane crams into the space beside me. “Must be genetic.”

When I turn my head, he smirks and slides his arm under mine between us. With his fingers brushing over mine, I look up at the ceiling and pretend fake-stargazing together isn’t a straight re-creation of one of Keaton’s visions of the four of us.

Ifall asleep with mycheek resting on a bicep but wake up with it pressed against the wooden leg of the table. I roll onto my back, sure I’ll have an indent. Next to me, Keaton’s sprawled out, half on top of Liam. As I get up, I take his glasses from his hand and set them on the coffee table. The last time I saw my phone, it was on the counter in the kitchen. Now it’s here, next to the TV remote.

I check for the text I know will be waiting.

Dane:Tomorrow. Tell me when and where. I’ll be there.

The next night, my phonelights up at precisely nine. I can’t check it because I’m standing in front of the fireplace in the family room, trying to act outfrog in your throatfor Liam. It isn’t going well. Keaton curls up in a ball in hysterics as I once again stick my tongue out while hopping around.

He resorts to threats while I grab at my neck. “I swear to God, Bennett…”

The timer beeps, and he rips the paper off the coffee table to unfold it. “THAT was a frog?” He throws the paper and then swats at it when it floats back toward him.

“Careful,” I say. “We have a bad history of throwing things during game night.”

It’s the reason we stopped a few years ago. Joyce hurled a wineglass while screeching out an answer and nailed Patrick in the head. New carpet and a few stitches later, it was clear we had taken it too seriously and needed a break.

I pick up my phone, seeing the text from Dane. “I’ll be back later.”

“Going for a walk?” Keaton asks, eyebrow raised.

It takes a second to remember our code for meeting a boy. I shrug, not wanting to lie to her. “I might have a craving for ice cream.”Yes.

“Bring me something back.”Tell me about it later.

“Bring me something too,” Liam shouts after me.

He’s going to be so disappointed.

I don’t notice Dane on the front porch until he catches my wrist. He pulls me over to him, his mouth colliding with mine. I grasp at the back of his neck, wanting him closer, and his hands slide down my backside. His tongue parts my lips, and a low sound rumbles from the back of his throat. All want and no patience. It’s how a night ends, not how you start one.

When he forces his lips away, his thumb skims over my cheek. “Is it too soon for me to miss you? Because I’m pretty sure I fucking missed you.”

A therapist once told me it’s not our choice. He was trying to convince me I missed my mother even if I wouldn’t admit it. According to him, missing someone deals with an influx of hormones and chemicals in our brains, created by family, friends, someone who makes your pulse race. You get high on them, your brain addicted, then when they’re gone, the levels plummet to normal. You withdrawal, feeling the absence of the hormones they provided and therefore them. But even if Dr. Preston was on to something, he expected me to scream at a plant and call it Mommy, so goodbye credibility.

I lead Dane off the porch, and his fingers interlace with mine.

“I thought you were going to wait in your truck.”

“If I had kissed you like that in the truck, we wouldn’t have stopped. I doubted you would let me fuck you on the porch.”

I want to believe that’s true. Just like I want to believe I haven’t fucking missed him too.

His truck is exactly like Liam’s, except red instead of blue. Company vehicles given to anyone bearing the company name as their own.

“Do you even like finance?” I ask as he drives. Where to I have no idea. I haven’t bothered asking, and he hasn’t offered to tell.

“No. It’s boring, and the clients are rich assholes who’ve completely lost touch with reality.” He glances over and smiles. “You’re going to ask me why I do it then.”

Since he keeps crawling into my head, I decide to return the favor. “And you’re going to say because it’s family and nothing is more important than that.”

He thinks about it for a few seconds. “Tell me something that is more important.”

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