That earns my eye roll. I’m hating the idea of Ashton with anyone—girlfriend or otherwise—more each day, and that comment created a stomach-wrenching visual.

“Anyways, sorry for bringing Ashton up. I love the guy but I don’t want to talk about him. Let’s talk about . . .” He rolls around to grasp my waist with his hands. Leaning down, he slides his tongue into my mouth with a kiss that lasts way longer than anything we’ve ever done before. I find I don’t mind it, though. I actually enjoy it, allowing my hands to rest against his solid chest. God, Connor really does have a nice body and, clearly, other girls have noticed. Why are my hormones only beginning to appreciate this tonight?

It’s probably the beer.

Or maybe they’re finally starting to accept that Connor could be very right for me.

“I did warn you,” I remind her as I stretch my calf muscles.

“You can’t be that bad.”

I make sure she sees my grimace in response. Outside of required track and field at school, and that time Dr. Stayner had me chasing live chickens at a farm, I’ve avoided all forms of running. I don’t find it enjoyable and I usually manage to trip at least once while doing it.

“Come on!” Reagan finally squeals, jumping up and down with impatience.

“Okay, okay.” I yank my hair back into a high ponytail and stand, stretching my arms over my head once more before I start following her down the street. It’s a cool, gray day with off-and-on drizzle, another strike against this running idea. Reagan swears that the local forecast promised sunshine within the hour. I think she’s lying to me but I don’t argue. Things have still been kind of strange between us since her dad’s party. That’s why, when she asked me to go running with her today, I immediately agreed, slick roads and all.

“If we take this all the way to the end and turn back, that’s two miles. Can you handle that?” Reagan asks, adding, “We can stop and walk if you flake out.”

“Flakes are good at walking,” I say with a grin.

She sniffs her displeasure. “Yeah, well, you probably lose weight when you sneeze.”

It takes a few minutes but soon we manage a good side-by-side pace, where my long, slow strides match her short, quick legs well. That’s when she bursts. “Why didn’t you tell me about your parents?” I can’t tell if she’s angry. I’ve never seen Reagan angry. But I can tell by the way she bites her bottom lip and furrows her brow that she’s definitely hurt.

I don’t know what else to say except, “It just never came up. I swear. That’s the only reason. I’m sorry.”

She’s silent for a moment. “Is it because you don’t like talking about it?”

I shrug. “No. I mean, it’s not like I avoid talking about it.” Not like my sister, who shoved everything into a tomb with a slow-burning stick of dy***ite. Since the morning I woke up to find Aunt Darla sitting by my bed with puffy eyes and a Bible in her hand, I’ve just accepted it. I had to. My sister was barely alive and I needed to focus on her and on keeping us going. And so, at eleven years old and still half-dead from a flu that saved me from the car accident in the first place, I got out of bed and showered. I picked up the phone to notify my school, my parents’ schools. I walked next door to tell our neighbors. I helped Aunt Darla pack up our things to move. I helped fill out insurance paperwork. I made sure I was enrolled in the new school right away. I made sure everyone who needed to know knew that my parents were gone.

We run in silence for a few moments before Reagan says, “You know you can tell me anything you want to, right?”

I smile down at my tiny friend. “I know.” I pause. “And you know you can tell me anything, right?”

Her wide, cheery grin—with those cute dimples just under her eyes—answers for her.

I decide that this is the perfect time to divert the topic completely. “Like you can stop pretending that you and Grant aren’t together.” I manage to grab hold of Reagan’s arm just in time to keep her from diving into the pavement. When she has regained her balance, she turns to stare wide-eyed at me, her cheeks flaming. “I thought you were impervious to blushing, Reagan.”

“You can’t say anything!” she hisses, her ponytail wagging as she checks to her left and right, her eyes narrowing at the bushes as if someone might be hiding behind there. “No one knows, Livie.”

“Are you serious? You think no one knows?” I watch with great satisfaction as her blush deepens. “I think everyone knows. Or at least suspects.” Connor made an off-hand comment the other day about Grant chasing Reagan around. I’ve even noticed Ty shaking his head at them a few times and if he’s clued in, then the rest of the world must be.

She bites her lip in thought. “Come on. We can’t just stand here.” We start back up at a light jog. “I guess it’s been brewing for a while. I’ve always liked him and he’s been flirting with me for the past year. Then I ran into him at the library one night. There was a quiet corner. No one was around . . .” She shrugs. “It just kind of happened.”

“In the library!” I squeal.

“Shhh!” Her hands wave in front of her as she runs, giggling.

“But . . .” I feel my face scrunch up. “Where?” I’ve been to that library plenty of times. I can’t think of any corner dark and secluded enough to do anything in besides read.

She grins impishly. “Why? Want to get your freak on with Connor?”

“No!” Just thinking of suggesting that to Connor makes me scowl at Reagan.

That doesn’t dissuade her, though. With a quirked eyebrow, she asks, “Ashton?”

I feel the burn crawl up my neck. “There’s nothing going on between us.”

“Livie, I saw you two at Shawshanks the other night. I see the looks you give him. When are you going to admit it?”

“What? That I have a roommate with an overactive imagination?”

I get an eye roll. “You know that the more time passes, the harder this is going to get, right?”

“No, it won’t, because nothing is going on between us!” Remembering, I ask, “Hey, did he break up with Dana?”

She shrugs. “I haven’t heard anything, but with him, who knows. Ashton’s a vault.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he could have a dozen brothers and sisters and you’d never know.” Reagan breaks to chug a mouthful of water from her bottle. Wiping her arm across her mouth, she continues, “My dad makes a point of knowing his team. You know—their families, their grades, their majors, their plans after college . . . He thinks of them all as his boys.” Thinking back to the big, burly man from the weekend and all the pats on the back and the questions, I can see what she means. “But he knows very little about his own captain. Almost nothing.”

“Huh . . . I wonder why.” Small alarm bells start ringing in my head.

“Grant thinks it has something to do with his mom dying.”

My feet stop moving. They just stop. Reagan slows to jog in place.

“How?” I ask, taking a deep breath. Meeting other people who lost their parents always strikes a chord deep within me. Even complete strangers can instantly become friends through that kind of familiarity.

“No, clue, Livie. I only know because I was eavesdropping on him and my dad one night in our study. But that’s all that my dad managed to get out of him. He has a way of evading topics. I mean . . . you’ve met Ashton. You know what he’s like.”