“I don’t know, Steve,” Justin says. “That girl was pretty smokin’.”

I can’t tell if he’s trying to wind up Steve, wind up Stephanie, or get a reaction from me.

“You went to the party?” I ask stupidly.

“That okay with you?” Justin scoffs.

“Of course,” I say quietly.

Rebecca notices this. I can sense her noticing. I also know that if she asks me if anything is wrong, I will start to scream. So I make sure to leave the table early.

I am lost in my own anger. I am angry at A. And I am angry at myself for getting into a position where A could mean enough to me to make me this angry.

I go to all my classes. We’re doing softball in gym. I change into my gym clothes, and don’t protest when I’m assigned to third base. I try to focus on the game, try to avoid embarrassing myself. I don’t notice at first that there’s someone waving. But then I realize he’s waving at me. I don’t recognize him, and that’s how I know. He sees me staring at him and nods once. I wait until the play is over, then tell the teacher I have to use the ladies’ room, because I’m not feeling well. She doesn’t argue, and puts someone else on third base.

This guy doesn’t look at all like Xavier from the cabin. He’s got on this Metallica T-shirt and his arms are so hairy that they’re almost as black as the shirt. When he sees me coming, he walks back inside, into the gym. Out of sight of the playing field.

I follow.

I know I should give him a chance to explain. I know that if he’s here, it means he hasn’t given up on me. But still, when he says “Hey” to me like nothing’s happened, I launch right into him.

“Where the hell were you?” I yell. I don’t even sound like myself. I sound much angrier than myself.

“I was locked in my room,” he says. “It was awful. There wasn’t even a computer.”

I know this makes sense. I know this is actually possible. I know he’s not lying. But the anger is still there.

“I waited for you,” I tell him. “I got up. Made the bed. Had some breakfast. And then I waited. The reception on my phone went on and off, so I figured that had to be it. I started reading old issues of Field & Stream, because that’s the only reading material up there. Then I heard footsteps. I was so excited. When I heard someone at the door, I ran to it.”

I tell him who it was. I tell him what happened. I let him imagine me there alone with all of these men. Waiting for him.

“I wanted to be there,” he says. “I swear, I wanted to be there. But I was trapped. This girl—there was just so much grief. She did this horrible thing and they wouldn’t leave her alone. Not for one minute. They were afraid of what she’d do. She was denying it. But I wasn’t. I figured it out. And it was painful, Rhiannon. You have to believe me—it was so painful. And even then, I would have left. I would have at least tried. But there was no way. She was in no state to leave.”

“And this morning?” I ask, gesturing to Mr. Metallica. “Why couldn’t he send me some word?”

“Because his family was leaving for Hawaii—and if I’d gone with them, I would have never made it back. So I ran. I took three different buses to get here, then had to walk from the station. I am sweaty and exhausted, and when I get back to this guy’s house, it’s either going to be empty or there’s going to be hell to pay. But I had to get to you. All I cared about was getting to you.”

The anger is going away, but it’s not happiness that’s taking its place—it’s despair. Like I’m finally recognizing, for real, how absurd this is.

“How are we supposed to do this?” I ask him. “How?”

I want there to be an answer. I really want there to be an answer. But I suspect there isn’t one.

“Come here,” he tells me, opening his arms. No answer, and an answer. I give in. I walk right into those arms. He’s sweaty and hairy and at that moment I don’t care. This isn’t about attraction. This is about underneath.

He holds me close, holds me for dear life. I close my eyes, tell myself we can do this. I can forgive him. We can adapt.

The door to the gym opens, and we both hear it. We pull away at the same time, not wanting to be seen. But we’ve been seen. I look over to the door, and there’s Justin. I startle. Justin. It’s like my mind can’t accept it. Justin. Here.

“What the hell?” he yells. “What. The. Hell?”

I’ll say he’s my cousin, I think. I’ll say some great aunt died, and he’s come to tell me.

“Justin—” I start. But he’s not going to let me finish.

“Lindsay texted me to say you weren’t feeling well. So I was going to see if you were okay. Well, I guess you’re real okay. Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Stop it,” I say.

“Stop what, you bitch?” he shoots back, coming close.

Like he smells it on me.

I watch as A tries to block him. “Justin,” he says.

Justin looks at him like he’s scum. “You’re not even allowed to speak, bro.”

I’m about to explain. But before I can do anything, Justin is punching A full force—a fist right in the face, knocking him down.

I scream and rush to help A. Justin tries to stop me, pulling my arm back.

“I always knew you were a slut,” he says.

I try to shake out of his grip, yelling, “Stop it!”