“Go ahead.”

“Those pictures of you upstairs. On the stairwell.”

Myron nodded. He had a pretty good idea where this was going. “You were on the cover of Sports Illustrated.”

“That I was.”

“Mom and Dad say you were like the greatest basketball player in the country.”

“Mom and Dad,” Myron said, “exaggerate.”

Both girls stared at him. Five seconds passed. Then another five.

“Do I have something stuck in my teeth?” Myron asked.

“Weren’t you, like, drafted by the Lakers?”

“The Celtics,” he corrected.

“Sorry, the Celtics.” Aimee kept him pinned with her eyes. “And you hurt your knee, right?”

“Right.”

“Your career was over. Just like that.”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“So like”—Aimee shrugged—“how did that feel?”

“Hurting my knee?”

“Being a superstar like that. And then, bam, never being able to play again.”

Both girls waited for his answer. Myron tried to come up with something profound.

“It sucked big-time,” he said.

They both liked that.

Aimee shook her head. “It must have been the worst.”

Myron looked toward Erin. Erin had her eyes down. The room went quiet. He waited. She eventually looked up. She looked scared and small and young. He wanted to take her in his arms, but man, would that ever be the wrong move.

“No,” Myron said softly, still holding Erin’s gaze. “Not even close to the worst.”

A voice at the top of the stairs shouted down, “Myron?”

“I’m coming.”

He almost left then. The next big what-if. But the words he’d overheard at the top of the stairs—Randy drove—kept rattling in his head. Beer and shots. He couldn’t let that go, could he?

“I want to tell you a story,” Myron began. And then he stopped. What he wanted to do was tell them about an incident from his high school days. There had been a party at Barry Brenner’s house. That was what he wanted to tell them. He’d been a senior in high school—like them. There had been a lot of drinking. His team, the Livingston Lancers, had just won the state basketball tournament, led by All-American Myron Bolitar’s forty-three points. Everyone was drunk. He remembered Debbie Frankel, a brilliant girl, a live wire, that sparkplug who was always animated, always raising her hand to contradict the teacher, always arguing and taking the other side and you loved her for it. At midnight Debbie came over and said good-bye to him. Her glasses were low on her nose. That was what he remembered most—the way her glasses had slipped down. Myron could see that Debbie was wasted. So were the other two girls who would pile into that car.

You can guess how the story ends. They took the hill on South Orange Avenue too fast. Debbie died in the crash. The smashed-up car was put on display in front of the high school for six years. Myron wondered where it was now, what they’d eventually done to that wreck.

“What?” Aimee said.

But Myron didn’t tell them about Debbie Frankel. Erin and Aimee had undoubtedly heard other versions of the same story. It wouldn’t work. He knew that. So he tried something else.

“I need you to promise me something,” Myron said.

Erin and Aimee looked at him.

He pulled his wallet from his pocket and plucked out two business cards. He opened the top drawer and found a pen that still worked. “Here are all my numbers—home, business, mobile, my place in New York City.”

Myron scribbled on the cards and passed one to each of them. They took the cards without saying a word.

“Please listen to me, okay? If you’re ever in a bind. If you’re ever out drinking or your friends are drinking or you’re high or stoned or I don’t care what. Promise me. Promise me you’ll call me. I’ll come get you wherever you are. I won’t ask any questions. I won’t tell your parents. That’s my promise to you. I’ll take you wherever you want to go. I don’t care how late. I don’t care how far away you are. I don’t care how wasted. Twenty-four-seven. Call me and I’ll pick you up.”

The girls said nothing.

Myron took a step closer. He tried to keep the pleading out of his voice. “Just please . . . please don’t ever drive with someone who’s been drinking.”

They just stared at him.

“Promise me,” he said.

And a moment later—the final what-if?—they did.

CHAPTER 3

Two hours later, Aimee’s family—the Biels—were the first to leave. Myron walked them to the door. Claire leaned close to his ear. “I heard the girls were down in your old room.”

“Yep.”

She gave him a wicked grin. “Did you tell them—?”

“God, no.”

Claire shook her head. “You’re such a prude.”

He and Claire had been good friends in high school. He’d loved her free spirit. She acted like—for lack of a more appropriate term—a guy. When they’d go to parties, she’d try to pick someone up, usually with more success because, hey, she was an attractive girl. She’d liked muscle-heads. She’d go with them once, maybe twice, and then move on.

Claire was a lawyer now. She and Myron had messed around once, down in that very basement, on a holiday break senior year. Myron had been much more uptight about it. The next day, there had been no awkwardness for Claire. No discomfort, no silent treatment, no “maybe we should discuss what happened.”

No encore either.

In law school Claire had met her husband, “Erik with a K.” That was how he always introduced himself. Erik was thin and tightly wound. He rarely smiled. He almost never laughed. His tie was always wonderfully Windsored. Erik with a K was not the man Myron had figured Claire would end up with, but they seemed to work. Something about opposites attract, he guessed.

Erik gave him a firm handshake, made sure that there was eye contact. “Will I see you on Sunday?”

They used to play in a pickup basketball game on Sunday mornings, but Myron had stopped going months ago. “I won’t be there this week, no.”

Erik nodded as though Myron had said something profound and started out the door. Aimee smothered a laugh and waved. “Nice talking to you, Myron.”

“Same here, Aimee.”

Myron tried to give her a look that said, “Remember the promise.” He didn’t know if it worked, but Aimee did give him a small nod before heading down the path.