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Chris snorted. “He always has been. Our parents died when Michael was eighteen. The courts weren’t going to give him custody. It was spring, and he hadn’t even graduated yet. He fought like hell to get it. They still send a social worker around every year to check up on us, but it used to be every frigging month. He’s a freak about making sure we don’t get in too much trouble or draw any attention.”
Becca tried to think back to middle school. She remembered Chris, of course; had written him off as just another surly preteen floating somewhere in the rotation of classes. Her father had left then, and she’d been so wrapped up in her own family drama that she hadn’t had time for anyone else’s. She’d spent her middle school years rescuing hurt animals so she could prove to her father that she wanted to be just like him.
What a joke.
“At least he cares,” she said.
Chris’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what it looks like? Caring?”
She narrowed her eyes back at him. “At least he’s here.”
“Ah.” He settled back against the cushion and gave her a knowing look. “Divorce?”
Startled, she flushed, like it was something to be ashamed of. She brushed hair off her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. “Does it make a difference?”
“Yes,” he said evenly, holding her gaze. “It makes a difference.”
She had to look away, wanting to apologize but unsure whether he deserved it.
Chris was quiet for a long while, but then he sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was a shitty thing to say.”
His voice was disarming, rough and guarded and just a little bit vulnerable, his eyes wary the way they’d been in her rearview the night she rescued him.
“Me too,” she said. “I didn’t mean—your parents—”
“I know what you meant.” He looked away. “But Michael doesn’t give a crap what they do to us. Like the other night. I got a lecture that I shouldn’t provoke Tyler and Seth. I shouldn’t provoke them. Now they’re breaking the deal, and they’re threatening to call the Guides, and—” He broke off and ran his hands through his hair, the movement tense and agitated. “Do you have any idea what it’s like, to have someone treat you like shit, and then feel like it’s your own fault?”
His eyes were midnight-blue pools in the dim room, and she felt her heart speed up. She rubbed at her neck, feeling a flush crawl up her cheeks. “Yeah. I do.”
Chris drew back, watching her. He must have picked up on something in her voice. “You want to tell me the real deal with Drew? Or Seth?”
She froze, unable to speak.
“I heard a little of what went on in the driveway.” Chris picked at the hem of his jeans. “And ... what you said at lunch—”
“It’s nothing.” She swallowed hard. “It’s not a big deal.”
His eyes flicked up. He said nothing, but she heard his response all the same.
I told you our secret.
Not like hers was a secret at all. “Didn’t Gabriel already tell you?” she snapped.
He hesitated—and that was answer enough.
She couldn’t face him now. Becca shoved herself off the couch, hating that her throat felt tight. “I’m going to check on my jeans.”
For an instant there was nothing but silence.
“Becca. Wait.”
She stopped short, afraid to look at him, terrified of what he might say.
“I’ll get them.” Then he was on his feet, stepping around her, his movement brisk. “Don’t want to trap you here too long.”
And before she could think of a retort, he was through the doorway, leaving her in silence, with nothing but second thoughts for company.
CHAPTER 17
