I wish things with Silas were “Out of sight, out of mind.”

But they’re not, and never have been. After he left my apartment, he was all I could think about. I ruminated on the kiss way more than was healthy, to the point of near insanity. He now has more raw power, more stubble, more confidence. The kisses we’d experienced in high school felt like child’s play compared to the way his mouth had felt on mine. I’m embarrassed to say I’d never even kissed another guy besides Silas, but I couldn’t imagine it being any hotter than what he’d done to me in my apartment. My knees knocked together for an entire day afterwards. I tried to carry on with my regular schedule, working at Billy’s six days a week, mostly for the lunch crowd, but I kept watching the door, wondering if he’d come in, giving me that sly smile that made me simultaneously want to kill him and jump his bones.

But he didn’t. He didn’t try to call me, or come by. Remembering what he’d said about being on his way back to Pittsburgh, after three days, I figured he’d left Bradys Bend.

It still didn’t stop me from thinking of him, and of that kiss, non-stop.

And yes, he was right. I had let him go, telling him he was a distraction. It was true, I was distracted, but not by college and my future. No, I was constantly worrying that he was moving away from me, especially during the end of his senior year. He’d gotten a full-ride to UCLA. Women were throwing themselves at him, everywhere he went, even when I was with him. News reporters were constantly trolling around outside the locker room, wanting to talk to him. Our last few months together, he was so busy being Mr. Football that we barely spent any time together.

It was excruciating. I didn’t see any sense in putting off the inevitable. And yes, I’m competitive. I wanted to do it before he did it to me.

The second I’d gotten home after dumping him at his senior prom, I cried my eyes out. I left my window open for him, thinking if he showed up, we could patch things up, like we always did. But he never showed. We’d fought one too many times, and he’d clearly had enough. He moved on. That pain? Turned out, it was even more excruciating.

A few days after he stormed out of my apartment, I’m waiting on tables during the usual lunch rush when Abby nudges me. “Look at this,” she says, pointing at the screen.

It’s ESPN Sports Talk, and there are two announcers sitting behind a desk, talking animatedly to one another. Great. Abby knows I hate hearing the news stories about Silas. I’m about to tell her I don’t care when my eyes scan the closed captioning and I see the words OUT FOR THE SEASON?

“What’s this about?” I ask, coming close to the bar and setting my tray down, eyes glued to the screen as the show cuts to a pre-recorded video of a surgeon. I read on: THE INJURY ST. CLAIR SUSTAINED WAS EXTENSIVE.

I look at Billy, who’s pouring a beer for a customer and shaking his head. “Damn shame, if it’s true,” he said.

“What does that mean?” I ask him, thinking of what he’d said. He’d seemed so damn positive that this was just a blip in his career and he’d be back on the field in no time. “I thought he was having surgery done. You think he’ll be out for longer?”

Billy nods, giving me a curious look. That’s what I get for pretending I don’t care. “He didn’t seem too worried.”

“Yeah. He said he was only going to be out another few games,” I muse, wondering if that was a cover-up. Silas never was very good at showing pain, which is why, two seconds after I’d kneed him in the balls the other morning, he’d laughed like a madman.

And being out for the season? Or maybe longer? I think that would qualify as the ultimate pain for someone like Silas. It’s his life.

“Yeah, he told me that, too,” Billy says.

Maybe he’s in denial, I think. I lean my elbows on the bar and wonder how I can phrase this so I can appear disinterested. “So, where is he now? Getting the surgery?”

Billy’s curiosity melts into amusement. “If you want to know where he is, why don’t you call his cell?”

I toss my ponytail. “I don’t care about him. Just the Steelers,” I say, which he has to know is the biggest crock of shit, since I never rooted for the Steelers before. “Looks like they’re not going to make it to the Super Bowl after all. Besides, I don’t have his cell.”

He winks at me. “Well, is it okay that I gave him yours?”

My eyes widen. “What? When?”

“He asked, yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” So he was still in town yesterday, and thinking about me. He asked for my number. I have to wonder why. But no, I’ve never gotten any calls. I rush to fish my phone out of the pocket of my apron and see that I haven’t missed any calls or texts. That’s just like Silas. He probably only asked for it because he knew Billy would tell me, and he wanted to play mind games with me. “He was in here yesterday?”

I look up at Billy, who’s now looking even more amused. “Sure, you don’t care about him.”

“I could care less if he calls me,” I huff out, making a big show of switching my phone to silent mode. I drop it in my pocket and grin defiantly. “See?”

But the second I get off work, I switch my phone back on and stare at the screen, willing for a message from him to come through. Nothing.

Damn.

I throw my Bug into reverse and instinctively start to drive toward the other side of town, where St. Clair Auto used to be. When I get there, I pull off the highway and into the parking lot, which is overgrown with brown weeds. The bumpers and hubcaps of old cars are piled up around the place, rusted beyond recognition, and there are old tires everywhere, the treads completely worn away. The building itself is a once-white-painted rectangle with four bays, but now it’s mostly covered with graffiti, and the windows on the side, the ones that aren’t boarded up, are broken.

As I’m about to pull away, my eyes catch on something I hadn’t noticed the other times I’d passed by. The screen door to the upstairs, up a long flight of rickety wooden stairs, is open a crack.

I throw the Bug into park, open the door, and step outside. Navigating around the debris on the concrete from broken beer bottles and cigarette butts, I climb the steps to the doorway.

The door is hanging from one rusty hinge, so it nearly falls on me as I pull it open. Propping it back, I peek inside into the darkness. “Hello?”

No answer. I step into the tiny kitchen, my feet crunching on dried leaves littering the linoleum. There is an old, sixties-style metal table in the center of it, with two avocado-green chairs, bleeding stuffing. I think of the first time I’d sat there, with Silas. I’d been only fifteen, and I’d never had a real conversation with a boy before.

“Algebra is shit-stupid,” he’d said to me when I sat down across from him.

I’d been nervous. In his first two years at Union, he’d made a name for himself as part of the popular crowd. As a junior, he was varsity. I’d traded in my competitive nature on the recess yard for kicking ass academically, so our paths never crossed. “Well, maybe it won’t be so stupid if you understand it,” I suggested.

He slumped in his chair across from me, spreading his legs wide. At that moment, I thought he was a total egotistical jerk, positioning himself like he owned the room and everyone in it. After all, he was the boy who’d broken my nose and barely said “sorry.” “Doubtful.”

My eyes trailed to his big hands. He was angular, long, and skeletally skinny in the middle, but he had big hands and feet. Now, it made sense to me, how he’d never missed, throwing and catching the ball at recess in middle school. Laced in front of him, with his jaw tense, he suddenly didn’t seem all that full of himself. No, he seemed flawed and fragile.

He pushed a folder across the table to me. I opened it. He’d failed three of the four quizzes so far. Coach said that if he didn’t get at least a C that semester, he wouldn’t be able to play.

As competitive as I was, I probably would’ve done it even without the pay, because here was something that I could finally whip his ass at. But there was something else. When he sat across from me, for the first time ever, I saw what Abby had been talking about, all those years ago. Yes, he was hot, with these green eyes, thick dark hair that tumbled over his forehead, and the biggest, most perfect smile, complete with two adorable dimples. But not only that, when he reached into his pantry, picking out some Oreos and sliding them all across to me, saying, “You need to feed that great big brain of yours, Genevieve,” I realized he had a sweet side, too. I’d never had a boyfriend before, but for the first time, I could see him as a boyfriend.

No one—my teachers, my parents, the priests at church—called me by my full name. I was always Geni. But the moment he said it, with that playful little lilt in his voice, I had no desire to correct him. I sat there, in his kitchen, trying to teach him the quadratic equation while he licked the icing off Oreo after Oreo.

He got more wrong than he did right. I knew I had my work cut out for me.

“You’re right. It’s not the algebra. It’s me. You should save yourself, Genevieve,” he’d said to me after an hour of work. “I’m dumb. I’m not going to get this.”

Before then, I’d hated him. But it turned out, all of his ego had been stuffed into one thing, and one thing, only—sports. Everything else? Not so much. By the end of that hour, I’d already fallen, and hard.

“Yeah, you are,” I told him. “Come on.”

I’m jarred out of that memory by a noise outside. I peer out the door and wince as a gleaming F250 pick-up truck pulls up behind my car, kicking up gravel. Silas cuts the engine and hops out so quickly that I don’t have a chance to move out of his line of sight. He’s wearing a baseball cap and only a t-shirt despite the frigid weather. He looks up and sees me, staring at him, then gives me a salute, that stupid ring of his glittering so much in the sunlight that he nearly blinds me.

I wave back, groaning. Now I have to talk to him. I look down at my jeans and hoodie. I’m still covered in hamburger grease and sweat from my shift, and I smell like I’ve been frying onions. Fantastic.

He limps around to the back of his truck, picking up a crate, and starts to limp toward the stairs. When he meets me at the top, he says, “Hey. Couldn’t keep away?”

“Funny,” I deadpan. “I thought you were staying at the hotel. I just stopped here because I saw the door was open. I thought someone had broken in.”

“If they had, ain’t much to steal, is there?” he says, pushing open the screen door and stepping inside.

He sets the crate on the shelf and looks around. I peer into it and see cartons of milk and orange juice. It looks like . . . groceries? “Are you moving in here?” I ask him.

“Uh. Yeah. Temporarily,” he says, clearing his throat. “No sense taking out a room when this place is here, right?”

I look around. Well, it actually did make sense to rent a hotel room, since this place is a verifiable shithole now, and it’ll take way longer than a temporary stay to make it livable. I think of the news stories I’d read and can’t help but wonder if they’re true. “I thought you were on your way back home?”

He nods, and his face storms over. He starts to explain but then he gets this shit-eating grin on his face. “What, baby? You tryin’ to get rid of me again?”

I sigh. That was one thing about Silas that really infuriated me. I was the serious one, and he was the clown. He’d get so busy making jokes that he wouldn’t give me the answers to my questions. Drove me absolutely nuts. I remember how I used to sit there at this very kitchen table, wanting to wring his neck as he fumbled his way through an easy math problem, one he’d easily master is he just focused and stopped cracking jokes. It made me crazy that he could easily concentrate when it came to football, but wouldn’t bother to put the same effort in for his classes.

“Basically. But since I’m in your house, I guess you should be getting rid of me.”

“Nah.” He gives me a brotherly punch on the arm. “I’m a gentleman. You can stay if you want.”

He’s going to make a joke out of this. And I don’t want to stay if he’s going to keep on making light of the situation.

“I saw a news story on ESPN,” I blurt.

His eyes, which were previously sweeping around his shit apartment, focus on me. “What?”

“They said you might be out for the season.”

He presses his lips together. “One thing you need to learn is that they are a bunch of fucking losers who get paid to report shit like that, regardless of whether it’s true or not,” he says, his voice rising. “And in this case, it ain’t true. I’m just staying here for a little longer. That’s all.”

Silas doesn’t get angry, really. When I’d remarked about it once before, he said he preferred to channel his rage to his opponent on the field, because it made him a better player. But he’s as close as I’ve ever seen him, right now. He’s breathing hard, eyes narrowed.

“Okay,” I say, holding out my hands. “Chill out. Thanks for the lesson.”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, and that movement is like déjà vu. In his sophomore year of high school, after he’d broken his ankle for the first time and jogged off the field, he’d told everyone he was going to be back on the field in another couple of weeks. But the doctor thought otherwise. I didn’t find out until much later that he’d needed pins in his ankle. I’d Googled to find out that it was one of the more painful and long-lasting injuries, and with most people experiencing pain for over six months afterwards. Finally, during a study session, he’d admitted to me he was out for the last two games of the season. It didn’t really mean much, because we weren’t close to making the playoffs, and it was only two games. His junior year, he showed up to the first practice raring to go, and looking stronger than he ever had.

I have to wonder, as he studies me with that warning look in his face, if he knows that I remember that. He can’t fool me like he fools all those people in Pittsburgh. I know him too well.

He sucks in a breath. Then he turns to the old refrigerator. It’s probably as old as the house—rusted around the edges and covered in dust. Taking hold of it, he easily wiggles it out of its place, the corded muscles in his arms making me more than a little faint. Then he reaches over the counter, trying to find the electric cord. As he does, he reveals a strip of that gorgeously tanned six-pack.

I avert my eyes, but not before I feel a stirring low in my abdomen. Silas has always had an incredible body. The workout regimen with the Steelers has only perfected his physique, and those awkward boyish angles have filled out nicely. Add in that weekend home in Key West, and now he has a killer tan, too. When I saw him, shirtless, in my apartment, it was all I could do not to reach out and touch his too-amazing-to-be-real pectorals, smattered with just the right amount of dark hair. I’m surprised there wasn’t drool in the corner of my mouth.

But just leave it to him to strip around me. From what I remember, he was quite the exhibitionist even then, ripping off his shirt every chance he got during practice, always volunteering to be “skins” in a shirt vs. skins scrimmage. He loves toying with unsuspecting virgins like me in that way, damn him.

He opens the door to the refrigerator and the light goes on. So he’s had the electricity turned back on. Interesting . . . that seems to me like a long-term deal. He grabs the quart of milk and starts to load it onto the fridge.

“Wait!” I shout.

He stops, hand suspended in mid-air, and looks at me.

I blush, afraid he can see that I’d been thinking of his body. Averting my eyes, I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and inch toward him, making sure I’m not anywhere near close to touching him. I peer inside. There are places that are definitely black with mold. “You’re not going to clean the fridge out?”

He stops, scratches his chin. “Uh. Yeah. Guess I should do that.”

“Geez, Silas, does having a maid mean you’ve lost your mind? Yeah, you definitely should,” I tell him, feeling more like his mother than his . . . whatever I am to him. Not a friend. Not a lover. I guess I’m just his ex. “Even if this is just going to be . . . you know, temporary.”

Avoiding the pained look he gives me, which tells me he knows I’m on to him, I move the stuff aside in the crate. It’s all food. Eggs, oatmeal . . . more eggs. The boy always did have an egg obsession. “Ugh. Don’t tell me you still do that egg thing.”

He grins. “Hell yeah. Look at these muscles.”

I’m vaguely aware he’s flexing, behind me, but I won’t give him the time of day by looking. If I do, I can’t promise I won’t drool. Or jump him. Or any one of a hundred things, all bad. “Pass. Do you have any cleaning supplies?”

He exhales. “No. Shit. Just got this stuff from the Bend Market.” He moves things in the crate and pulls out a few bars of Irish Spring. “Got soap.”

I cover my face in my hands. Maid or not, the boy always had absolutely no common sense. “Silas. You’re not going to live here without cleaning it out, are you? Even if it is—”

“Temporary. Yeah, it is, girl, and stop looking at me that way,” he grumbles.

“What way?” I ask innocently.

“Like I’m making stuff up.” When I don’t say anything, he runs a finger over a counter and brings up about a half-inch of dust.

“Good,” I say, crossing my arms. “Because I wouldn’t want you to stay any longer. That could be dangerous.”

That little bit of honesty slips out before I realize what I’m saying. He doesn’t miss it. “That so?”

“Stop. If you give me the money, I’ll get the cleaning supplies for you,” I hedge, opening the door to the pantry. A dozen cockroaches scurry out, making me shriek. I fight the urge to jump into his arms, because then I’ll really be close to his naked chest. “Oh my god. You really want to live here?”

He’s staring at me, amused. We always had this running joke that I only dated him so he could kill spiders that happened to get in my way.

After they scurry away, I find a broom and dustpan. I hand them to him. “See what you can do with this. You do know how to use these, right?”

He salutes me again. Then he reaches into his wallet, opens it up, and hands me, of all things, a hundred-dollar bill. Overkill, but he’s probably such a big shot that he doesn’t carry less than that. He has no common sense, after all, and I’m sure that extends to the way he spends his money. “And Genevieve?” he says as I head for the door.

I look up at him.

“Thanks, girl,” he says, with a genuine, grateful smile that makes me melt. That’s probably the first sincere thing he’s said to me, since he’s been there.

Then, despite the fact that there’s no heat and the October chill is quickly seeping into the apartment, he grabs the hem of his t-shirt, pulls the damn thing over his head, and flings it onto a sheet-covered sofa.

Fucker.