Not that there was anything wrong with that, but it was another stepping stone in our demise as a family.

The Cole men didn’t cry.

Not when they lost their mothers. Their wives. The quiet, gorgeous loves of their lives.

Things were changing, and I didn’t know how to stop them. Luna was living elsewhere, and no longer mine. She was speaking. She had friends. Boyfriends. Mom was dying. Really dying. Dad was consumed by it. He could barely look at Levy and me. Whether he felt guilty or just generally pissed was beside the issue.

“Don’t run away from the conversation.” Mom coughed.

The doorbell rang. I gestured in its general direction.

“That would be Poppy,” I said.

It was the first time I’d been glad she’d stopped by.

“You guys are going strong.” Mom’s face melted instantly.

She wanted me to be happy. To be in love. I was one of these things, for sure. But happiness wasn’t a part of the package deal.

“’Suppose.”

“She seems very smitten with you.”

That word again.

“Are you happy with her?” Mom’s eyes clung to my face, begging for crumbs of truth.

“Sure.”

“You’ve never had a girlfriend.”

“I’ve had plenty of girlfriends.”

“No one serious.”

“I’m not a serious guy.”

“You’re the most serious guy I know, Knight Jameson Cole.”

My phone rang again. Texas. Motherfucker. I killed the call, then sent Dixie a string of middle-finger emojis before tucking the device into my back pocket.

“Better answer the door before Poppy gives me the third degree.” I smiled apologetically.

I took Poppy to the front porch. I wasn’t in the mood for sitting in my room. Maybe I subconsciously wanted Luna to see us, but she had drawn her curtains and made sure I couldn’t peek into her room. Not that I was looking.

Okay, I was looking. Sue me.

God, why her? Why couldn’t I fall in love with the nice English chick who actually wore dresses and talked all the time?

Poppy and I sat on white rocking chairs overlooking the cul-de-sac, me drinking Gatorade to nurse hangover number five hundred for the week, her cradling a glass of orange juice.

“How’s your mum feeling?” she asked, staring at the yellow liquid swimming in her glass.

She’d brought over homemade cookies, which my mother gushed over and took a bite of, even though her appetite was shitty nowadays. Poppy, for all intents and purposes, was perfect. Only problem was, she wasn’t perfect for me.

I shrugged, still staring at the street.

The street where I’d played with Luna.

Where I’d kissed her on the steps of her house.

Where I’d tugged at her braids.

Thrown water bombs at her.

Run around, laughing, when she’d thrown water bombs at me.

Where we’d drawn with chalk on the cobblestones, bounced on hippity hop, and fell asleep on her front lawn, our heads touching, as we’d waited for the fireworks to explode every Fourth of July.

Then I thought about how I’d treated her. Taunted her. Kissed her. Belittled her.

I couldn’t stop myself from doing any of those things, even when I wanted to. Desperately. The more my mother weakened, the more I drank. The more I drank, the more mean Knight came out. It was a vicious cycle. I knew there was only so much Luna would suffer before she flipped on my ass. She was a proud girl.

“I don’t want to talk about my mother,” I said frankly.

“Obviously.” Poppy slapped her forehead. “Sorry. Can we talk about what happened yesterday? About us?”

There is no us.

“Okay.”

“That thing with Luna…”

“Luna and I are unfinished business.” I bit on the tip of my tongue ring, slicing into her speech. “We’ll always be unfinished business. Now. In five years. When we’re eighty. That’s the deal; it’s always been the deal. You knew it. You saw us up until senior year. We were always together.”

That was Poppy’s in to break up with me. I’d handle it with grace. I’d still take her to prom. But there was no reason to keep up with this bullshit.

“I get that.” She swallowed hard. “Let’s try again. I’m willing to give you another chance. If you want it, that is.”

I don’t.

I spun toward her, studying her face: the soft planes of her cheeks, her carefully brushed hair, flawless little Neiman Marcus dress. She could be someone else’s Luna, someone else’s everything. A guy like Jefferson, maybe.

“Look, Poppy, I know you said we’d give this a chance…”

“Please.” She cleared her throat again, chuckling in embarrassment. “Please don’t make me beg. I know you don’t feel it yet, but I do. I can feel it. There’s something here. And Luna is heading back to North Carolina in a bit. It’s not like you can explore whatever it is between you two.”

All valid points, but I didn’t think it was right to string her along.

Thing was, Poppy was practically pleading to be strung along, and I had too much shit on my calamity plate to muster the self-control I needed to push her away. She begged to be here for me, and, the orphan mutt that I was, I couldn’t deprive her of the dubious pleasure. She was convenient as hell. Plus, I no longer had to pretend to be fucking anyone else. I had a steady ride now.

“I get what you’re saying, but I’m a shitty boyfriend,” I gave it one last run. “I cheated on you. In your face. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I did.”

“No. I know. It’s just that…” She looked around, shrugging. “I saw the look on both your faces. Luna is not going to let you kiss her again. She regrets this. I want this, and I’m willing to take the risk.”

Was that what she’d seen? Luna regretting it? My blood sizzled in my veins.

“You’re going to regret it,” I said quietly.

She grinned, standing up and ambling my way. She parked her ass in my lap, knotting her arms around my shoulders.

“I’m not the queen, you know,” she said huskily, her gaze dropping to my lips. “You can touch me whenever you want.”

I took her mouth in mine and tried to drown myself in her beauty, giving her a sweet lie to hold on to.

“Yes, you are.” I erased Luna’s kiss from my lips, replacing it with Poppy’s sweet, soft petals. “You’re my queen.”

When the next letter arrived on Christmas Eve, obviously violating my request, I burned it in my backyard and sent Dixie a video of the whole thing.

Knight: Is it a wonder that the no-show who knocked you up left your ass? You’re clingy as all fuck. Get it into your head: I’m not interested.

This was my best Vaughn impression. Being an asshole was goddamn hard work.

“You smell like ashes,” Dad pointed out as we slicked our hair back in front of his gold-leafed mirror.

Two peacocks in Kiton Ombre suits—it was one of the rare times this past year we’d actually done anything together, which didn’t escape me. Before Mom’s lung transplant debacle, we’d still had hope, so we’d still been close. We’d spent a lot of time together. Not anymore.