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He laughs—soft, tired—and says, “I’m calling Miller to get the trailer hooked on. Don’t move, and if anyone tries to talk to you, don’t answer.”

“Yes, because Oak Ridge is crawling with danger.”

“I’ve seen what Edith looks like when her Christmas lights are messed with, and I’m not taking any risks with you.”

Twenty minutes later, two headlights swing into my favorite parking spot just off the dirt path leading up to the mountain. Knox jumps out of Miller’s truck first, hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair a mess like he ran his hands through it the whole ride over. Miller follows with the tow hook and a flashlight, yawning and waving happily as if I didn’t just ruin his night. Probably his girlfriend’s night too.

Knox comes straight to my window and opens the door. “You okay?”

I nod, even though my eyes are burning for literally no reason. “Totally fine. Just…crappy car things.”

“Right.” He gives me a once-over that feels like it sees too much. “Let’s get you home. We’ll take it to Willow Creek in the morning to get it looked at.”

I step out and watch as they hook my poor, silent car up to the tow. Knox rests a hand on the trunk for a second like he’s consoling the old girl; she’s been through a whole lot the last couple years.

“We’ll get it fixed,” he says, more certain than I feel. “Miller thinks it’s the starter.”

Miller grunts in agreement. “Or your battery. Or both. But we’ll figure it out.”

I nod and my throat hurts a little as I talk. “Thank you so much for coming. I’m sorry it’s so late.”

“Ah, I’m a shit sleeper anyway. Gives me something to do.”

The whole ride back to Riley’s house, wedged between Knox and the door, my thoughts circle like a toy train on a track.

If I want my mom to stay longer—if I want her to look at me like someone worth staying for—I need everything to go right. I need the universe, for once, to just give me something.

For now, it’s nothing but silence. Nothing but Knox’s spare jacket draping over my shoulders when he realizes I’m shivering. And his voice, all soft and steady, saying, “Hey. Don’t panic. We’ll sort this out tomorrow. I promise.”

I’ll sort something out tomorrow, that’s for sure.

Chapter Eight Flick

There are few things I hate more than riding the bus.

Cockroaches (I have great appreciation for every animal on this planet, but they are literally useless), going to bed after midnight, cake donuts (do not get me started on the texture), and shows that have more than ten seasons.

And still, just behind all those hideous things, sit Oak Ridge High School buses.

I can barely remember the last time I had to ride on one, only recalling bits and pieces. Scuffed tennis shoes. Cold, shivering legs as I pushed my summer clothes as far as I could in the late fall. Knox beside me, smelling like fresh-cut grass and cinnamon coffee. His jacket around my shoulders. My notes for history on his lap. Dried tears at the corner of my eyes from a late night arguing with Mom.

Back then, riding wasn’t so bad. Mostly because there wasn’t another option, and also because Knox was there.

I knew going into my senior year that not having my best friend, my person, my Knox, would be a change to say the least. I think I was unprepared for just how much of a change, though. No meeting in the hallways and walking together from one class to the next. No grabbing lunch and sitting outside facing the soccer field where Knox tries to teach me how to do a handstand. No more borrowing my homework and sneaking into my class to say another teacher needs me, only for us to walk around the campus talking for half an hour about nothing and everything.

Knox graduating meant all of that was over. I knew that, obviously, this past spring. But I don’t think it really hit me until I saw that big yellow bus curving into my aunt’s neighborhood.

I am eighteen years old. I should not have to ride on a glorified tin can with sweating, Axe spray-wearing boys who spend the entire ride playing Clash of Clans at full volume.

It probably wouldn’t be nearly as bad if I actually slept last night, instead of my little ten-minute spurts of “rest” before tossing and turning. Eventually, around three a.m., I gave up on my poor attempts at entering a REM cycle and pulled out an old pen and some scrap paper from my dresser. I’m careful not to wake Riley—she is not a morning person. Or a night person. She just really likes her sleep. I made a cup of coffee with far too much caramel and got to work on the list of things that would get my mom to reconsider her priorities.

It was all so simple. The answer was right there in front of my face.

The list went as follows:

The Winter Formal

Connecting with the places she used to work at (the diner, the general store, the pharmacy, etc.)