I’m hoping that means they’re from last night. If they aren’t, it means he had six bottles before 10:00 a.m.

For the first time in recent memory, I don’t put the empties away under the sink. I don’t wipe the counter. I don’t even clear Dad’s dishes off the table. I put the bottle from the table back exactly where I found it, grab a Pop-Tart—it’s Saturday, the one day I stray from my healthy-eating rule—microwave the coffee Carly brought me, and head back to my room.

I wonder what Dad will make of that.

I don’t even know what I make of that.

All I know is that I can’t keep hiding empty beer bottles under the sink, can’t keep cleaning the kitchen till it sparkles, pretending that’ll make everything okay.

I’m halfway to my room when I pause, sigh, clomp back down the stairs. I rinse Dad’s bowl in the sink, dump his cold coffee, stack the washer, wipe the table without moving that lone empty bottle. And I leave the other empties where they are on the counter and call that a victory.

Baby steps.

Homework takes up a couple of hours. I check my phone every few minutes, wishing Jackson would call. I’m not trying to do the clingy, needy thing. I just want to hear his voice, know he’s okay, know he made it back.

Which is in direct opposition to the part of me that’s still angry with him for getting me dragged into the game in the first place. We never got to resolve the little issue of his betrayal, the way he tricked me and sold me into the game. Like I told him in Detroit, I don’t forgive him.

I’m not exactly proud of that. But it is what it is.

And it leaves me tied up in knots.

He doesn’t call. Which isn’t all that surprising since I don’t think he even has my number. I don’t have his, which is why I haven’t been the one to do the calling—something I plan to remedy as soon as I see him.

I help Dad unload the groceries when he gets back, organizing the tins, labels out, shifting the ones from the back of the cabinet to the front, according to expiration date.

Dad glances at the beer bottles, one on the table, the others still on the counter, and frowns.

“You didn’t clear up the kitchen,” he says.

“Yeah, I did.” I look him straight in the eye. “I cleared away your breakfast dishes and wiped the table.”

I wait to see if he’ll bring up the bottles. He doesn’t. We stare at each other, and for the first time in a long time, we communicate.

Silently.

Meaningfully.

I’m the one to break the stare.

As I head back upstairs, he steps out of the kitchen into the hall and watches me. I slow down, giving him the chance: if he says anything, anything at all, I’ll stop, go back down, talk to him. But nothing has changed. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I.

Once I get to my room I pick up where I left off with Mr. Shomper’s Lord of the Flies essay. My concentration isn’t exactly the best. I check my phone, then my page online to see if Jackson messaged me there. Nothing.

I’m anxious, edgy.

The urge to go for a run is nearly overwhelming. I get as far as laying out my running gear on the bed when Carly calls. We talk about how awesomely hawt Matt, her fellow lifeguard, is—well, she talks and I listen and make humming noises at appropriate times.

“So, you want to do Mark’s Texas Hots on Monroe for dinner? Or Nick Tahou’s?” I ask as she winds down.

“Can’t,” she says. “Like I told you, Kelley and Sarah are coming over to work on that group thing for Español. We haven’t even started yet.”

Did she tell me that? If she did, I don’t remember.

“But you could come, too,” she says. It comes out more as a question than a statement.

I hesitate, not sure what to say. Carly made plans on a Saturday night. Without me. The only other time she’s done that is when she’s had a date.

Finally, I ask, “And distract you from your work? What kind of a friend would I be?”

She laughs. It’s a strained, uncomfortable sound. Or maybe I’m projecting the way I feel onto her.

When I end the call, it’s almost three o’clock.

I close my laptop, put my running gear away. While a run might ease the tension, it won’t get me answers.

I’m done waiting to hear from Jackson. I need to see him. I want to touch him and know he’s real. I want to feel his arms around me. I want to see his trademark Jackson smile, white teeth, and that killer dimple in his cheek.

And then I want to give him a piece of my mind for what he did to me in the first place.

I press my lips together and stare out my window. I’m so tired of being angry with the people I love.

I unplug my phone from the charger and shove it, along with my textbooks, into my bag. I might not have Jackson’s number, but I have his address. Nothing like showing up unexpectedly at someone’s door to catch them at their best. But it isn’t like he hasn’t done the same to me the night he climbed through my bedroom window. I guess turnaround’s fair play.

I pull my hair into a ponytail, change out my sweats for jeans and a cute top that’s a silvery gray. It reminds me of Jackson’s eyes. I don’t usually wear much makeup, but I add a little mascara and lip gloss, then grab my jacket and my backpack and call bye to Dad as I head for the door.

“Wait.” He comes out of his office, frowning. “Where are you going?”

“Heading over to a friend’s. Then maybe the library.” Truth—maybe isn’t the same as definitely. There’s always a chance I could go to the library.