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  And slumped on my chair, sleeping, is the solid form of Chris.

  I blink and rub my eyes. Chris is really here. A tingling sensation starts at the base of my skull. Then the events of this entire night click into place. The Barn. Rudy. Rudy’s friend.

  I sit bolt upright with a gasp. “It was you. You hit Rudy!”

  Chris startles out of sleep and I immediately wish I could shove the words back in. He sits forward, runs a hand through his hair, then looks at me, concern etched into his features.

  “Why are you sleeping in my chair?” I ask.

  “I didn’t think you should be alone,” he says in the gravelly voice of recent sleep.

  I should be embarrassed. Or mad. Or . . . something. But the pills have separated me from the intensity of my emotions. It’s the best part of getting high. “Well, you didn’t have to do that.”

  He stretches his arms and shifts his position on the chair. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He makes a little noise, like he disagrees, but he doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to. There’s a heavy cold in my gut because of Rudy. Now that the drugs are wearing off there will be nightmares waiting for me. Unless . . .

  “Listen, since you played my bodyguard tonight you shouldn’t have to sleep in that chair. Come over here.” I pat the sliver of bed still free next to me.

  Chris regards my hand with an expression that I can’t read. To my relief, he gets to his feet and shuffles over until he’s standing right next to the bed.

  I lie back down, the blankets still down at my waist. But he just pulls the quilt up to my chin and tucks it in. “Sleep. I’ll be here.”

  I’m left gaping as he heads back to the chair. Is he serious? Stifling a hysterical laugh I push back up to my elbow. “You don’t . . . you don’t have to do anything. I just think you’d be more comfortable over here.”

  Chris freezes in the middle of positioning a pillow. “I’m fine.”

  I hold my breath. “Please?” Humiliation is worth a night without nightmares.

  He looks at the bed and his jaw tightens. Then, just when I think he’ll say no, he turns. Smiling in triumph, I settle back down and wait for him to make the bed sink. I’m back in a place I know how to navigate. I lift the quilt, but he puts a hand on it, smoothing it back over me and pressing it close. Then, without a word, he climbs onto the bed, over the quilt, rolling onto his side. One arm slides under my head, the other over my waist and he pulls me in.

  “You’re right,” he says in a deep voice once he’s stopped shifting. “This is more comfortable.”

  Wide-eyed, I don’t move. I am pressed against him—with sheet and quilt between us. His arms are around me and my head is under his chin. For the first time I can remember, a guy wants to sleep with me. Just sleep with me.

  I shift and inhale the comforting smell of pine and something uniquely him. Then the exhaustion of the night rolls over me. I curl my hands up under the blankets, burrow into his chest, and sleep, dreamlessly, for the first time in years.

  Chapter 11

  I wake in the morning to a pounding headache and the sense that something is missing. Chris. I bolt upright and immediately pain jabs behind my eyes. I press fingers and bandages to my temples, trying to process what happened. Chris must have left. I’m surprised by the hollow gap that opens in my chest.

  Until I notice there’s a tang in the air.

  Bacon.

  Dad must be home.

  I’m praying blessings on Chris for sneaking out so Dad didn’t see him, when my heart goes still. Dad is home three days early. That must mean he’s lost his job. Fear collides with utter certainty. I elbow the covers back and pad quietly to the door, peering down the hall.

  Tuneless whistling sounds from the kitchen, then a tall, sandy-blond frame steps into view, searching through our cupboards. Chris’s broad back is covered in a T-shirt that pulls across his shoulders. The fear drains out of me to be replaced with an entirely different kind of tension.

  I grimace down at my wrinkled skirt and tank from last night. A flash of Rudy’s face, my pleading, the terror of being trapped . . .

  My stomach roils. I pause, eyes closed, to give myself time to let the tremors roll away. Tell myself it’s no big deal that Chris is there. And cooking.

  I’ll have to replace the bacon he’s used, or Dad will notice. But Dad isn’t here. Hasn’t lost his job again. So I have three days. There’s no need to panic. I take a deep breath and open my eyes.

  Chris is walking toward me, down the hallway, spatula still in hand. Smiling. The first things I notice are his feet, bare on our cold floor. I don’t want to see how his bicep bulges, how his shoulders taper to such a trim waist. Or the way his T-shirt clings . . .

  “You okay? I didn’t realize you were awake,” he says.

  “What are you still doing here?” I ask softly.

  Behind him the bacon pops. He turns back into the kitchen, grinning at me over his shoulder. “Making breakfast.”

  “I’m serious, Chris.”

  “So am I.”

  I run my fingers through my hair, yanking out knotted tangles, wondering how awful I look. Chris hums softly and searches our cupboards once more. I follow more slowly, my legs still protesting being upright. In the corner of the kitchen our little round table is full of Dad’s crap. I’m too embarrassed to move it, so I end up leaning against the counter, watching as Chris makes bacon and eggs and toast. He finds two plates, slips half the food onto one and hands it to me, acting like it’s normal to stand there, eating at the kitchen counter.

  “You okay?” he asks, around a mouthful of bacon, glancing at me.

  “I’m fine.” Don’t judge me.

  He seems doubtful, but doesn’t reply.

  When we’re done, I take his plate and mine and begin washing the dishes. He grabs one of the two dining chairs that isn’t covered in crap and turns it around to sit on it backward. It’s when he puts his hands on the back of the chair I see his knuckles—red and swollen from the fight with Rudy last night. My stomach dips.

  I rinse a couple more cups, shoulders crawling toward my ears. I can’t just sit here and make nice. What is he after? I drop the cups into the water and turn to face him. His eyebrows pop up, but he doesn’t move.

  “Why did you help me?” I demand. “Last night. Why were you even there?”

  He holds my gaze. “Truth?”

  “Truth.”

  “I like you,” he says simply, fingers gripping his thighs. “I know we’re really different, and we barely know each other. But . . . I like you.”

  I am excited and terrified, a single bolt of emotion that takes my breath away.

  “Why?” As he stares at me, his eyes softening, I remember the way he handled my cut, how he volunteered to drive me to the clinic, then turned up uninvited last night. The pieces fit.

  My chest deadens. “I’m not a project, Chris,” I say, walking past him into the TV room to pick up the dirty dishes on the coffee table in there.

  “That’s good,” he says, grinning.

  I glare. “I mean it. I don’t need saving. I’m graduating, then I’m out of here.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Where will you go?”

  Anywhere. Everywhere. “California first.” I want to see the ocean. “Then maybe somewhere east.” He watches me walk back into the kitchen. “So, I don’t need you,” I say, maybe a little too forcefully.

  “Even better.”

  I frown at him.

  “What?” he says. “You don’t need saving, I don’t want a project. So we can hang out like normal people.”

  I snort. “I said I didn’t need saving, not that I was normal.”

  “Well, that’s perfect, too. Because neither am I.”

  “True,” I say dryly. “What with that tale
nt for shitting rainbows. Big ups for that, by the way.”

  He laughs. The warmth and humor roll off him in waves, putting a smile onto my cheeks. I have to turn back to the sink before I get lost in him. But then he gets out of the chair and crosses the kitchen until he’s right beside me.

  Ignoring the way my skin on my arm tingles, I wipe my hands on a towel and turn to find him so close. I wonder if he’ll kiss me.

  Distracted by his smile, I don’t realize until he’s slid his fingers into mine, until our palms are warming each other, that he’s taken my good hand and I’m pouring out of myself.

  I don’t want to be alone. I’m afraid of nightmares. They make me cold. Chris warms me. He could keep them away. But he’ll leave when it gets hard. I don’t want to lose him. I don’t want him to go—

  Gasping, I wrench my hand out of his grip and stumble back, inwardly wishing this curse would just fuck right off. I’m shaking. I feel as though I’ve been cut open. I can’t look at him because that wasn’t fair.

  “Tully,” he says, breathless.

  “You think taking my feelings is any less violating than taking my body?” I snarl.

  Shock jars his features. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “I didn’t think about it that way. I—”

  “Get out.”

  “I just wanted to touch you,” he says with exasperation. “I like you, Tully. I’m sorry.” He steps closer. I glare a warning at him, but our eyes lock and I’m drowning again.

  He can’t do this. He doesn’t understand. We live in different worlds and he can’t begin to fathom mine. But there’s something in his gaze that holds me in place as he steps closer, hand outstretched, like I’m a scared kitten and he’s got to stop me from bolting. He doesn’t stop until we’re toe-to-toe, until my neck is craned to look at him, and my good hand is curled to a fist at my side. One of his hands cups my waist, the other rests on my neck, his thumb tracing my jaw. Then he kisses me, softly, gently. His lips trace mine so gently my skin prickles.

  I’ve never been kissed that way before and it’s over much too soon. But he doesn’t break the contact. His lips brush my skin when he talks.

  “I mean it, Tully. I like you. I don’t want a project. I want to . . . get to know you.”

  The words land and without fully meaning to, I let go of his shirt and take a half step back.

  The light goes out in him. “Sorry. Too pushy. I get it. I’ll leave,” he says, and starts to turn away.

  A blinding flash of panic lights in my chest.

  “Wait!” What am I doing?

  Chris turns back, his expression unreadable. But he doesn’t speak. Just waits for me.

  The panic hasn’t subsided, so I fold my arms to hide my trembling fingers and say the first thing that pops into my head. “What do you know about cars?”

  Chris blinks a couple of times, his expression puzzled. “What do you need to know?”

  “I need to know what’s wrong with my truck.”

  “You have a truck?”

  “Yes.” Kind of.

  He shrugs. “My dad and I messed around with an old car at our last place. I probably know enough to help, at least.”

  I nod and my vision swims, then snaps back into focus. I clear my throat. “C’mon,” I say with more conviction than I feel. “You wanna know me? You need to meet Nigel.”

  Chapter 12

  Usually I walk for fifteen minutes, through the back roads of my suburb, to the place where town meets forest, but it only takes a couple of minutes in Chris’s Jeep. We wind through the suburban streets, then the larger blocks until we reach a little dirt driveway almost hidden by trees and brush. He steers the car under half-dead oaks and spindly pines, until the trees open to a large grassy clearing. As we roll into the watery sunlight I search for that feeling of calm that being here always gives me. But today, there’s a tiny thread of fear instead.

  I’ve never shown Nigel to anyone before. Even Mr. Garrison knows only the vaguest details of my side project. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m building a tree house.

  Chris pulls the Jeep to a stop next to the tiny lean-to I’ve nailed up against the trunk of a massive pine. It’s how I keep my lockbox of tools safe from showers and where I huddle when I need somewhere to stay dry.

  Ten feet away, axles resting on concrete blocks, is Nigel.

  He’s an old Chevy, with big hoods over his wheels and a two-paned windshield. His bed used to be a deep, rectangular fenced-in box for hauling animals. But he’s more than that now—I’ve been building a tiny house in his truck bed. From the outside all you can see is the wooden siding and the tarp I threw over the top to keep the truck bed dry until I find iron for the roof.

  “That’s . . . wow,” Chris says, staring at Nigel.

  “It isn’t finished yet.” I’m defensive. I know he’s rough. But I can see in my head how he’ll be. If I can get him in shape.

  “No, it’s great! What is it, a forty-nine? Fifty?”

  I don’t understand the question.

  “The truck,” he says, beaming. “It’s a classic. What year is it?”

  “I have no idea.” Don’t really care.

  I’ve been visiting Nigel since I was fourteen. Sitting in the driver’s seat, imagining driving out of town and never looking back. Sometimes sleeping on the long, cracked bench when I had to get out of the house. After I’d been coming here for over two years and he’d never been moved or touched by anyone but me, I decided he was mine for the taking.

  So I took.

  I push out of the Jeep and cross the patchy grass clearing to Nigel. The air smells like pine sap and damp earth. As I pat Nigel’s front wheel cover, brush off some grit and pine needles, Chris scans Nigel from wheels to roof. Then he walks to the back where a large hole for the door is covered only by an old sheet, waving in the tiny breeze. Before I can warn him off, Chris pushes it aside and hops in the back.

  “Wait!” I scramble after him, afraid Nigel’s insides are too rough, that he won’t understand. But when I lever myself inside, Chris is hunched over in the middle of the tiny space, shaking his head.

  “Tully, this is amazing. Did you do all of this?”

  Warmth flushes my insides. “Yeah.”

  Over the summer I framed the house tall enough that I can stand inside, though I have to stoop a little. The rest of the space is a galley design—a platform for a double mattress at the end under the window into the cab of the truck, bays in the ceiling above it for storage. To my left there is a wall of little cupboards that don’t have doors yet, but will eventually serve as both pantry and dresser, and on the right there’s room for the narrowest of sinks, with an empty space next to it. In woodshop I’m designing a bench seat that will flip up to double as a kitchen counter.

  Of course, Chris can’t see any of that yet. All he can see is shelves, a half-deflated airbed in a framed box, and a lot of dust and rough edges.

  “This is incredible,” Chris says, running his hand along the edge of the bed frame.

  “Thanks.” I hug my stomach, still churning from last night’s events, and tip my head toward the door. “This isn’t the part I need help with though.”

  I push the sheet aside and hop onto the cold ground outside. Chris follows, leaning down to look underneath the truck.

  “I can’t even . . . wow!” His voice is a little muffled, coming from under Nigel’s belly. “Nigel, you called him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting choice of name . . .”

  I slide a hand along the hood. “Nigel No Friends. He’s been out here alone for a long time. It fit.”

  “Well, Nigel’s body is in pretty good shape considering how long he’s been sitting in the weather.” Chris pops up again, still grinning, and walks to meet me at the front. He messes around for a few seconds, muttering to himself, then t
here’s an almighty groan as he lifts Nigel’s hood. He tests tubes, and taps on metal. He tries to unscrew something that won’t unscrew, and lifts a little lid on a square box. “Do you have any tools?”

  “Yeah.” I tip my head toward the lean-to, and the rusty red box inside it. “In there.”

  I throw him the key, which he catches effortlessly in one hand. Then he kneels in front of the box. There are mostly wood tools in there—a square, a level, rulers, my saw, and hand-powered drill. The plane Mr. Garrison gave me when they replaced some of the school ones. There are nails and screws, cutters, and pencils, along with a collection of wrenches and hammers that came with the box when I bought it at a yard sale.

  Chris digs through, taking some spanners out and laying them gently in the dirt. “Tomorrow I’ll bring out my toolbox,” he calls. “You have some useful stuff here, but we’ll need a lot more.”

  We? We’ll need more?

  My first instinct is to jump forward and tear him away. To make him leave. To yell at him never to come back. That Nigel is mine and no one can take him now. But as Chris leans under the lean-to, sorting tools, I curl my bandaged hand into my stomach, and hug it there with my good arm. I need help. If I’m ever going to finish Nigel, I need someone to do this. It might as well be the cute guy who kisses like warm butter.

  “Are you sure? I mean, you don’t have to come out tomorrow. I just need an idea of how much it’ll cost to fix him—”

  “I can do it.” Chris stands up suddenly, nearly hitting his head on the top of the lean-to. There’s a small wrench in his hand. “You don’t need to pay anyone. I can do it. I might have to get my dad’s help to lift out the engine and check the—”

  “No.” I am emphatic. “No one else can know about this. No one else comes out here.”