Page 3 of Late Fees

“Sometimes,” she admitted before glancing at her watch. “Okay, you really have to go. I’m supposed to be grounded.”

“You’re always grounded.”

“I know.”

“Does that mean no movie?”

“Afraid so. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I shrugged. “I’ll call the guys or something.”

“Ooh, yes, do it. And go see your fugitive movie with them.”

“You just don’t want to see it with me, do you?”

Tilly gave me a sly grin, her green eyes wide and adorable.

“You’re a smart guy, you know that?”

“Smart enough to take you off the market.”

“Damn straight,” Tilly said, kissing me gently on the lips. “Now, get out.”

“Wow, I can feel the love,” I said, climbing out of her bed and smoothing down my wrinkled Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt.

“I’ll call you later. Promise.” She held her hands out, wanting me to pull her up. I obliged.

I mean, it was Tilly. I couldn’t say no to her.

“Not grounded from the phone?” I asked, pulling her to her feet and wrapping my arms around her.

“Not this time. Now, go. I’m serious, Wyatt. If my mom sees you, I’m dead.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, pulling away and holding my arms up in surrender and walking to her door. I opened it and stood under the doorframe, placing one hand on the wood. “Call me later.”

Tilly bit down on her lip, and I knew exactly what would come next. She sprinted across the room and jumped into my arms. My hands reached down to cup her ass as I pulled her close, kissing her hard. She kissed my mouth, my chin, and my neck.

“Your mom could walk in any second.”

“I know,” Tilly murmured, pulling away slowly. I helped lower her to the floor and kissed her on the nose.

“Call me.”

Every time I left Tilly’s house, I felt indestructible. Like nothing could stop me. Even though I had just turned sixteen, when I was with her, I felt unstoppable. Powerful. Important.

But that feeling—that indescribable feeling was about to leave me. And eventually, it would feel foreign, like a dream you can’t quite remember no matter how hard you concentrate on the details. The minutiae would slip through your fingers like grains of sand.

I knew something was wrong when I saw the stack of large cardboard boxes inside the front door. Dozens and dozens of boxes tied with sturdy plastic rope. Mom and Dad were sitting on the couch…waiting for me.

“Wyatt, have a seat.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, looking around the room, searching for clues. My mother’s eyes were pained, my father’s expression hard as stone. They didn’t look at one another. Instead, they both focused on me as I sat opposite them in the old, tattered loveseat they’d owned since before I was born.

This is bad. Really bad.

“Mom, what is it?”

Mom swallowed hard and turned to my dad. “Honey.”

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