I’m not sure what’s happening, but I know that Officer Polk is pretending just like us. You can’t fake reactions like he had. But he never brought it up. He asked us questions, filled out a report, and then asked me to call my father.

That’s where things stand now as Wes and I wring out these last few minutes of our beautiful illusion. My father is coming home from his second job. He’s worried, and he’s pissed because my car is totaled. And two officers are parked out front waiting.

“I don’t think there’s a way any of this is going to be okay,” I say, picking a weed from the hardened dirt berm Wes and I are sitting on in my backyard. I hold it up to inspect under the moonlight, admiring how pretty even an ugly weed can be in the right setting.

“This used to be my favorite place on the entire earth,” Wes says, not even acknowledging my worry.

I stretch my legs out and lean back on my elbows, feeling the sharp rocks and dried bits of grass poke into my arms as I look at Wes. He pulls his hat from his head, tossing it on the ground between us, his hair a tangled, brown mess that he weaves his fingers into as he rests an elbow on his knee and looks over the barren space that is my backyard. I follow his gaze around the perimeter of our home, along the patio covered in dirt, a half-filled recycle bin, old bats and gloves that haven’t been touched in years, and the barbecue my dad bought right after my mom left us. She hated meat, and he hauled that thing home in an act of rebellion. He used it once.

“I thought this place was magical,” I say through a sideways grin. Wes’s head twists just enough that his eyes catch mine, and his lip tugs up on the side closest to me.

“Who do you think would have won?”

I stare back into his eyes, hearing nothing but the sounds of crickets and the steady purr of traffic along the highway off in the distance. I sit up and pull my legs in, crossing them and tugging the end of my T-shirt over my chilled knees. Hugging them, I rest my head on the top and give in to the pinch of the smile my lips are dying to make.

“The day of the final race?” I ask.

Wes nods, his mouth hinting at a smile, too.

I let the quiet linger for a few seconds, blinking as I breathe out a short laugh.

“I would have kicked your ass.”

The silence is destroyed by Wes’s thunderous laugh, his head cocked back and his eyes shut.

“I knew that’s what you’d say,” he says as his chin falls back to his chest and he twists to look at me. “I don’t know, though…”

“You don’t know,” I repeat, biting the inside of my cheek, my lips puckering in a smile.

“I mean…you never really got to race me.” Wes shrugs his shoulders and lifts a brow, trying to tempt me.

“You know what I think?” I tease. He responds with a slight lift of his chin, and I move closer to him, my movements slow and smooth. “I think…if speed was your super power, then you’d probably…be able to…”

My mouth ticks up on one side as my eyes haze and concentrate on his, even though my attention is not there at all. It’s on his hat, only inches from his hand, but closer to mine. I position my left foot on the ground, ready to push myself up for my escape. Wes’s head tilts with suspicion, and just as his eyes flash wider, I grab his hat and sprint down the berm.

“You’d be able to save your precious hat from me throwing it out in the alley!”

I giggle as I run, ducking and weaving as Wes tries to capture me. I teasingly pretend to throw his hat over the back wall, never actually doing it, and I use the angle of the hill to push off and gain speed. I know I can’t outrun him completely. That was never my goal. It wasn’t even really about eventually getting caught.

It was about getting back to us.

“I’m pretty sure you’re disqualified,” Wes shouts, finally wrapping me up in one of his arms and swinging me over his shoulder.

“My race, my rules, Wesley Christopher!”

With my head dangling upside down and his hat clutched in my right hand, I tug at the waistband of his jeans and shove his hat in the back of his pants, laughing so hard my voice practically gurgles.

“You think that’s going to save you?” he teases, spinning with me over his shoulder, his hands gripping the back of my thighs as the ground below me forms a dizzying circle as we go around and around.

“You’ve seen me throw up, Stokes. Careful what you wish for,” I say, secretly loving the way my head feels lighter, the way my hair splays out in the wind and my fingers tingle as the blood rushes down my arms. “You know I won’t give in. There’s no way I’m losing!”

Wes circles me through the air one more time while rolling my body back over his shoulder, but catching my thighs until I’m held in front of him, cradled.

“Fine, Josselyn,” he says through a smile that spans his face but slowly slides into something more intimate.

Wes’s eyes paint my face in gentle strokes as he holds me in his arms, his body now still as we stand in the middle of the place where we began. My face starts to tingle from his attention, and for just a moment, I forget everything that waits for us on the other side of the house.

“I was going to let you win,” I say, my eyes set on his. I could look around him and see thousands of stars. It’s the one gift of living in Bakersfield on nights without a moon. But I can’t tear my eyes away from him.

He’s home.

“You swore that there was no way you were losing,” he laughs, the vibration in his chest like hearing my favorite song, the way it feels against my body.

“Not now. Not…not just then,” I say, pulling my lip into my teeth and glancing up at the stars once. I let my lip go and breathe out, feeling the stretch of my mouth as it curves into my cheeks and my eyes move back to his.

“Then,” I swallow. “When we were kids. Before I got worried about everything with my parents, I decided that if you looked sad when you showed up for the race that I was going to let you win.”

Long seconds pass with his gaze on mine, his mouth curved with the hint of a grin, his breathing a slow and steady wave taking me up and down in his arms, soothing me.

“Maybe it wasn’t your race to give to me,” he says, his smile growing crooked.

“I would have won it…for you. I wouldn’t have lost,” I shake my head. “It would have mattered too much to me.”

Wes’s forehead comes to rest on mine, and I breathe in the nearness of him.

“I haven’t gotten drunk or smoked or any of it since the last time you saw me at the bottom,” I say, my eyelashes tickling his cheek as my lids fall shut. I feel his fingers adjust their hold, twitching with nerves. “I knew…I always knew that you were alive, and I wasn’t going to go back to that place.”

His nose grazes along my cheek as his chest rises with a deep breath that he holds this time.

“What place is that?”

“The one where you found me,” I say. “Where it’s dark, and I hurt myself so I can feel something. Where I feel alone.”

It’s quiet between us, but the right kind of silence. It’s peaceful, and I remind myself to remember how this feels. Never will I settle for anything less.

“You are never alone, Joss,” he says, letting my legs slide from his grip until I’m standing in front of him. He runs his thumbs through my hair, pulling it back behind my ears on both sides and pausing when his palms find my cheeks. “There are so many people who love you in this world. I’m merely one of them.”

I tip-toe to kiss him, but the moment my mouth finds the softness of his lips, my father’s throat clears.

“Were you home for this?”

My fingers are woven through Wes’s and I’m squeezing so hard that I may break his bones. Though his bones don’t seem to break, so I’ll probably just break mine. My father is standing a foot into the covered patio, the garage door open behind him. His head keeps swiveling from Wes and me to the damage behind him.

“Did the officers see you come in?” I sidestep his question.

“Yeah, they’re waiting by the car. I told them I wanted to find you first,” he says.

My father’s face is red. He’s always had a tell for his temper, but this…this is different. This is the same way he looked when the bridge collapsed and our bus rolled. It’s fear.

Wes and I follow my dad back through the garage to the driveway, where the officers are both now examining the front of my dad’s car. The bumper is missing, and deep gouges bend the metal at the front of the hood.

Officer Polk has quit pretending, and the moment his partner pulls Wes aside toward the house to “ask him a few questions,” I know that the blissful moment I had minutes ago in my backyard is the last I might have for a very long time.

“Mr. Winters, can you tell me where you were this evening?” Officer Polk asks.

My dad’s head tilts and the wrinkle on his forehead deepens.

“I’m sorry?”

“Sir, please just answer the question,” the officer says.

My dad’s lips part and his eyes begin to blink rapidly as he looks from the destroyed gift he gave me to his own banged up vehicle. I can see his chest shudder with panic, and I instinctually move to stand closer to him. His wide eyes move to me, though, and he holds up his hand, his fingers stiff and spread.

“No, no…it’s fine. Yeah, sure…I…I have a night job. I’ve been working at Crane’s Tack and Feed, stocking and inventory. And I know,” my dad pauses to let out a nervous laugh as he gestures to his crinkled hood. “This looks weird, but I did this on my way to work tonight. Some guy backed his trailer into me and it hooked under the front…ripped the bumper right off. He offered to pay for it, so…”

“So you were at Crane’s…tonight,” Officer Polk says, not bothering to look up from his notepad.

“I was,” my dad answers, clearing his throat lightly after he speaks. His hands fidget at his sides as he rocks from foot to foot.

“And you have someone who can verify this?”

I can tell by the way my father’s breathing halts and the way his shoulders lift, his muscles tensing, that he doesn’t.

“I work alone. They gave me a key, and I just come and go,” my dad says in a rushed voice, his eyes darting from me to the officers now circling him. “I’m sure there’s a security camera or something, though. The stuff there is all pretty expensive, and I know there’s a security pad. I punch in the numbers, so that’s recorded probably, right? And I have the name and number for the guy with the trailer…I didn’t want to make a report. You know, screw the guy over on his insurance?”

“We’ll follow up on that,” Polk says.

My father exhales with relief, but only briefly.

“Mind if we take a look in your car?” Officer Polk is already circling my dad’s vehicle and reaching for the handle before my dad can get out a “go ahead.”

My father’s forehead wrinkles and his mouth slopes down heavily, like he’s going to be sick, as our cop friend makes his way to the back seat. When he pulls out a half-empty bottle of whiskey, I understand why.

Weaknesses.

“Sir, we’re going to need to administer a breathalyzer…”

“Oh no, no…I haven’t been drinking,” my dad interjects quickly.

“He hasn’t. He’s in recovery, and he’s been sober for months now,” I defend, struggling to not believe that bottle of whiskey means anything.

Our words are meaningless, though, as Officer Polk looks up with pursed lips, his pen paused in his hand a few inches above his paper. His eyes zero in on me, and time slows down enough that I can see his pupils dilate with his stare.

“So you’re refusing?” He says the words to my father, but his gaze lingers on me for a second as he speaks.

“No…no, if…if you need me to, I will,” my dad says.

He looks sick, his skin pale and tiny beads of sweat kernelling above his brow.

I feel helpless, standing only feet away from him, my head turning to check behind me for Wes, then back to my dad as Officer Polk forces him to take a test he’s failed so many times before. In a blink, my mind flashes through them all—from the night he spent in the county jail drying out after he threw a stool through a window at Jim’s to the last time he tried driving himself home after a late-night binge. I’m expecting the words that never come, for them to inform him that he’s beyond a legal limit, but my father’s kept his promise. He’s sober, just like I said he was.

I hear the screen door at the front of my house open behind me, so I twist to see the officer who led Wes inside standing with one foot outside. He nods to Officer Polk, and there’s a noticeable pause for everyone.

“Mr. Winters, we’re going to need to take you in to ask a few more questions,” the other officer says, moving to the squad car. He opens the back door, where they put criminals…murderers.

“Is he under arrest?” I take a forceful step closer to Officer Polk as I ask.

“We just need to talk to him, Josselyn,” he says. He’s hiding things, and his tone is condescending.

“Then maybe you should call our lawyer,” I say, folding my arms over my chest.

My father’s eyes rush to mine and his head falls to one side a tick as he breathes out.

“Joss, it’ll be fine. They just want to talk to me. You stay here with Wes, and I’ll be home soon,” my dad says, trying to reassure me even though I see his hands trembling.

“My father was at work. He bought me this car. It was a gift. He bought me a gift!” My voice grows louder as I follow them to their cars, but I may as well be in another dimension where nobody hears me. “Dad, tell them! Daddy!”

My father isn’t handcuffed in front of me, but I know that was out of respect. I can tell by the way he walked, the way his posture fell under the weight of shame. The officer who was talking to Wes put his hand on my dad’s shoulder, lowering his head to keep him from bumping it as he slides into the back seat. It’s only because he’s cooperating, but something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong, and we need a lawyer. I lied when I said we had one, but I’ll find us one.

“What am I supposed to do?” I shout, my hands finding my forehead as I walk aimlessly between my family’s two wrecked cars.

“Here,” Officer Polk says, handing me a card after writing something on the back. He tears away a pink copy of the report he’d taken for my car. “If you think of anything else, or if you see anything new…if someone bothers you…makes you feel…threatened—call 911, then call me.”

I don’t speak, instead swallowing what feels like razorblades down my throat. It’s only air, and it isn’t cold, but it hurts. It takes me several seconds to snap out of my stupor after the car pulls away, but the last thought I had still sticks with me.

“Grace,” I whisper to myself, rushing to the door. Grace can help.

Wes is standing at the edge of our kitchen counter, one hand flat on the surface. He’s waiting for me. I freeze where I stand, our eyes meeting.

“My phone…I think I left it…” My words trail off, because I start to get that feeling in my chest again, like a spoon digging into the softness between my ribs. I haven’t felt that pain in months, and it knocks my breath away.

“It’s here,” Wes says, sliding his hand to the right and grabbing my phone. He pulls it into his palm, but doesn’t move his feet, so I close the distance between us myself.

“I didn’t tell them anything, Joss,” he says, and my eyes flit from where my hands touch his to his face. “They asked if I knew you, and I told them how we met…in January, when my family moved here. But, I could tell.”

“They took my dad in,” I say, and Wes breathes in and his cheek twitches in a painful wince. “They didn’t arrest him, but they have questions.”

I look down to the wrinkled report and business card in my hand, now noticing the writing on the back. What I’d assumed was an email or another phone number, is actually a message from Officer Polk, and it confirms everything Wes and I were worried about:

ARE YOU SAFE?

“He thinks my dad did this,” I say, handing the card to Wes.

I begin to dial my phone while Wes turns the card over in his fingers a few times. I let it ring several times, eventually holding for the voicemail on my grandmother’s line. When I hear the beeping tone, I fumble through my words.

“Grace…I need your help. I’m…I’m okay, but my dad’s in trouble, and…no, he’s not drinking. He’s actually doing really well, but there’s a misunderstanding I think, and someone vandalized my car tonight, so they took Dad in to ask him some questions. I just…I think we need a lawyer, but I don’t know how to get one. Dad’s working a night job, so I’m pretty sure we can’t afford it. This is really hard for me…”

I swallow in the pause, my eyes moving to Wes’s again.

“I think I need some help. Please call me back.”

I hang up with the feeling in my gut stronger than ever, and I expect nothing from my plea.

“I’m not sure what to do,” I say, pressing my back teeth together hard while my eyes zone out on the speckled countertop beside us. I lay my phone on it, then run my fingers along the pattern, feeling the imperfections left behind from knives used here to cut apples and cheese over the years.

“The first time I slid for softball, I cut the shit out of my knee…I didn’t do it right,” I say, halting my hand and splaying my fingers out over the counter’s surface. I pat my palm on it twice, softly. “My dad lifted me up and set me right here. He poured that stuff on my leg that hurts like hell…what is that stuff?”

“Bactine?” Wes’s voice croaks out.

“Yeah…that’s it,” I say.

I let the quiet take over again as I fall back into my vivid memory of that day. “My dad was so proud of me because I didn’t cry. I screamed when the Bactine stung, as my dad wiped away tiny bits of sand and gravel, but I didn’t cry. I gritted my teeth, and I squeezed the edge of the counter…right…here.”

I feel along the bottom to the place where the vinyl is coming apart from the board underneath, and I dig my fingernails in and snap it.

“I ripped this part off,” I smile, flicking the torn counter piece again. “But I didn’t cry,” I say, my smile falling as I look up to meet Wes’s gaze. “Not once.”

Wes tucks my hair behind my ear, his movement slow. When he leaves his fingertips along the side of my head, I reach up and hold his wrist, moving his hand forward until his palm is flat on my cheek. I slide my fingers up to cover the back of his hand, and I press his warm touch into me.

“I need to tell my family everything, and we need to tell your dad,” he says.

My lips pull in tight, and I nod slowly.

“I know,” I blink.

I hold his hand against me for minutes, and we stand silently in my kitchen, avoiding the weight of the things that lay ahead. The truths give me hope, though. My dad wasn’t drinking, and the police know he wasn’t…at least not tonight. My dad didn’t do this to my car, either; someone else did.

Someone who is going to do something bad again.

And that’s the place we are now. Me and this boy…this superhuman boy, who can hold his hand to the fire and fend off drowning, who can catch rocks flying through the air at the speed of bullets and stop cars from killing little girls. This boy who is the only thing I have loved other than the man the cops just drove away.

My phone rings, and I fumble as I scramble to pick it up from the counter, finally finding the CALL button as I bring it to my ear.

“Hi…hello…” I had calmed my heart finally, but it pounds now.

“Josselyn, it’s your grandma. Tell me what you need,” she says, and I bring my fist to my mouth, squeezing my eyes tight. I won’t cry, but I will feel relief. I have family.

“Grandma, thank you. Thank you so much for calling me back,” I say, feeling Wes’s hand slide to the middle of my back. “I need your help, and it’s going to cost money. And maybe…maybe you could come, too. For just a little while.”

“I’ll leave first thing in the morning. Now tell me about the rest,” she says, and I breathe deep and start at the very beginning, telling her the side of my story that she doesn’t know—the parts even my parents never truly saw.

“The day of the accident, when I was nine…there was this boy…”