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Fuck, I need to get out of here, and I probably shouldn’t drive home. I pull out my phone to call a rideshare since I don’t particularly want to go back into the bar to find Josh.

A few minutes later, my ride pulls up. I lock my car behind me and slide into the back seat alone this time. I’ll grab my Jeep tomorrow. Knowing Dad, he won’t mind the excuse to leave the house.

The driver doesn’t make conversation, which I’m grateful for as I stare out the window, watching the dark streets of Bloomington pass by. There’s the field behind the old water tower where Josh and I used to sneak out to drink cheap beer and smoke weed. Mom never said anything, but she had to know. I figure she was just so tired of yelling at me that it was easier to look the other way, as long as the cops or the principal weren’t the ones calling.

There was one time I got suspended for selling joints out of my backpack after school. Mom cried and said she’d pray for me. But she didn’t need to pray for me; she needed to love me. Instead, she made sure I knew exactly which box I’d landed in: problem child. It was like she had been setting me up for that role my whole life, and it was easier to just be the mess she already thought I was. Dad didn’t say a word the whole ride home that day; he just turned the radio up as if my problems would fix themselves if he ignored them long enough.

I remember all of it, but it’s like it happened to someone else. Some kid I used to know. Except I don’t think I’ve changed. I’m still that kid, waiting for someone to tell me I’m not a lost cause.

When the driver pulls up to my house, I’m grateful everyone’s already asleep—or is pretending to be—as I intentionally move through the space like a ghost, careful not to disturb anything or anyone as I head upstairs.

As soon as I’m inside what used to be my room, I pull out my phone to text Josh.

Me:

I took a rideshare home, my bad for bailing. Maybe we can hang tomorrow night after dinner?

I don’t bother waiting for a reply. I plug my phone in, set it face-down, and strip out of my clothes before climbing into bed. I can still taste Evan on my tongue and still see the way he looked up at me, mouth wrapped around me with that hungry intensity in his eyes. Then he walked away without so much as a backward glance.

He didn’t ask for my phone number, and I didn’t ask for his.

He’s damn near perfect.

CHAPTER 4

Evan

“Mm.” I groan when I open my eyes, my childhood bedroom flooding with morning light on Thanksgiving morning. No pounding headache greets me, not that I drank that much last night.

I am fully aware of every decision I made and smile at the memory of Marcus. God, that was fun. The mild ache in my jaw is a pleasant reminder, and it’ll be worth every second of explaining away the stubble burn I may or may not have at breakfast. I don’t even care if my family notices. Some things are worth the teasing, and last night was definitely one of them.

Marcus was intense in a way I don’t often experience, but there was something beneath all that guarded energy that made it more fun. Or maybe I just liked giving up control for once. Turns out letting someone else take the lead was exactly what I didn’t know I needed.

When I walked back into the bar last night and over to my friends, I was greeted with obnoxious whooping and “I didn’t think we’d see you again tonight” comments. I brushed them off, and eventually Derek dropped me back off at my parents’.

“Uncle Evan! Uncle Evan! Are you awake?” My five-year-old niece Claire’s voice cuts through my door, followed by her brother Tommy echoing her question.

“I’m awake,” I call out, sitting up in bed. I know better than to sleep naked here, and it’s a good reminder as my niece and nephew throw the door open and run toward the bed, crowding me. I wrap my arms around them even though I saw them yesterday when I got here after the airport, but I only get so many moments with them, so I try to savor them all.

My heart aches with that familiar mix of guilt and love every time I see them. They’re getting so big, and I’m missing watching them grow up to pursue my own dreams thousands of miles away. I often experience guilt—or maybe grief—for the versions of life where I don’t live on the other side of the country. I miss most of their firsts and big moments, and even though they aren’t my kids, it still sucks because of how much I adore them.

Those big and small moments are the memories I’m trading every day I stay in Seattle, and most of the time, I can hold that truth at arm’s length. But it’s harder when I’m here because the life I’m building feels worth it, but then Tommy hugs me and smiles, and the arm’s length collapses entirely. I’ve often found myself wishing I could simultaneously live two full lives: one here and one there. But we aren’t that lucky.

The truth is, I chose to leave, and I’d choose it again, but that doesn’t make it simple or any less painful.

“Grandpa’s making pancakes!” Tommy tells me in his cute three-year-old voice.

“Pancakes are the most important part of Thanksgiving, huh?” I ruffle his hair. He beams at me as he shouts, “Yes!”

“Hey, kids.” I hear my brother Dan from the hallway before he stands in the doorway. “How about we let Uncle Evan get up, and he can meet us downstairs when he’s ready?”

“But I want to tell him about gymnastics!” Claire pouts.

“I’ll be down in two minutes, then you can tell me all about it. Let me just get up and get changed quickly, okay?”

“You heard him. Let’s go see if we can get Grandpa to put some extra goodies in the pancakes. Maybe he has blueberries.”

“Or chocolate chips!” Claire counters, and I like where her head’s at.