Page 53 of 1 Last Shot

I reach for his hand and lace our fingers together.

And even more surprisingly, he doesn't shake me off again. In fact, I think I even feel him squeeze me back.

The more we walk, the more tension seems to leak from his stance. Being outside, in the fresh air, without anyone speaking to him or wanting something from him, I see Kane finally start to come down from the panicked headspace he was in at the gym. And even if we don't say a word to each other for the rest of the day, I feel more relaxed knowing I at least got him out of that situation.

The only time we pause our walk is when we pass by a man with a particularly friendly dog. The German Shepherd goes right up to Kane, his tail wagging happily, and he gives him a look that is very obviously a demand to be pet.

We pause for a few seconds to do just that, then we continue our silent walk. But the run-in reminds me of something, and I immediately reach into my bag.

"I meant to give this to you the next time I saw you. It's nothing huge, but…"

Kane’s gaze is curious as he waits to see what I'm rummaging for. When I pull out a dog toy in the shape of a motorcycle, his lip twitches with the hint of a reaction.

"I saw him sniffing your bike the other day," I explain with a shrug. "He seems to be fascinated by it, so I thought he might like his own mini version. Although you might have to get him a side car soon."

Kane's face remains expressionless as I hand over the toy—I can't tell if he's pleased, annoyed, frustrated, anything. I watch as he inspects it.

After a few seconds, he raises his gaze to look at me. "You bought this for Oscar?"

I try for nonchalance with another shrug, hoping it makes Kane more comfortable. It's not a stretch to assume he's uncomfortable with gifts, even if the gift is for his dog.

"I saw it in the store and thought of him. It's no big deal."

For a moment, he just stares at me. I don't break his gaze—instead, I let him read whatever he wants on my face.

That I like doing things for him.

That I'm here for him.

That I likehim.

Finally, his shoulders slump and he breaks our eye contact. He hands the toy back to me with a silent request to hold on to it for him, which I do without comment. And when he turns away from me and starts to walk again, his hands dug into his pockets in a clear sign of wanting space, I force myself to not let his reaction dissuade me from being there for him.

So, I follow behind him.

And a few steps later, he starts to talk.

18

KANE

I don't know why I'm talking to her.

Ishouldn'tbe talking to her.

Nothing good has ever come of telling someone the truth about why I'm as fucked up as I am. The last time I tried to talk about it, I was with a friend in middle school, and all I got was a blank stare and a suggestion to "maybe call the cops?"

I never opened up to anyone else ever again. For twelve years, I've been bottling everything up and releasing the valve with fighting and alcohol.

Isabellareallyshouldn't be another release.

I take a deep breath and force myself to start talking. I don’t know which part is harder to admit, the one about my mom or all the rest, so I just launch into it headfirst and hope that getting it out helps the perpetual tightness in my chest.

"My mom called me last night," I start simply.

And sure enough, the second my first words come out, the pressure in my chest eases, and I feel like I can finally breathe again.

"She's an addict," I say, staring forward as we walk along the river. "She prefers alcohol, but occasionally she'll go for an upper to keep the buzz going. I have no idea who my dad is. She probably doesn't either. But my whole childhood, all I knew was my drunk mother and her revolving door of alcoholic, scumbag boyfriends."

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