Something in me had shifted in London, and having the extra money amplified it. Perhaps it was because Hartford had jilted me, maybe it was the attack, but for the first time, I was operating without a detailed plan except to get into graduate school and take care of Malcolm. By my standards, I was operating by the seat of my pants.

Marrying the perfect guy wasn’t on my list.

Having the perfect suburban home wasn’t on my list.

Kids weren’t on my list.

I was on the list.

Who the heck knew what tomorrow would bring?

Rainbow-colored hair?

Maybe get a few piercings?

Mom put her hands on her hips as I threw Malcolm’s bag in the backseat. She tucked brown hair behind her ears, her sharp eyes assessing me from the top of my red hair to my flip-flops. Tall like me with patrician features and wavy brown hair, she’d turned fifty-three this year, but you wouldn’t have guessed it from the way she took care of herself. Even today on her day off as a night manager at the Pringles plant, she was dressed in casual pressed slacks, a boat-necked shirt, and a light sweater. If you looked closer, though, you’d see the brittleness in her eyes; the sadness that still lingered since Dad had died. He’d left us with life insurance, but we’d never been a wealthy family. Not like Hartford or Dax. Most of the money had gone to pay off the rest of our house, a large two-story colonial, while the rest had been used to help with my college fund, Malcolm’s private school where he received extra attention for autism, and Mrs. Johnson, Malcolm’s sitter who slept over on the weeknights Mom worked.

Mom exhaled. “Tell Hartford he needs to come for dinner soon. I’m glad you’re giving him a second chance. You know, he’ll always take care of you.”

What she really meant was: He’s rich and loves you. Don’t let him slip through your fingers.

I opened my car door and slid inside. “I can take care of myself, Mom.”

She leaned down to my open window. Confusion crossed her face at my comment. “Plain and simple, he’s the guy for you—nothing like that boy from freshman year—”

“Do not bring that up,” I said with steel in my tone as my hands tightened on the steering wheel. I didn’t want Malcolm knowing the details.

“I’m just saying, your life would be easier—”

“Stop,” I said, cutting her off. “This is my life, Mom. I like my red hair. I like my flip-flops. I’m completely in charge and it has nothing to do with Hartford. And you know what, I can do anything I want. Maybe I’ll never get married. Maybe I’ll jump on a plane and move to London. Maybe I’ll raise llamas.” I softened my tone. “Mom, you have to let me go.”

Malcolm had stiffened next to me in tune to the mercurial relationship I had with Mom. He reached across the gearshift and took my hand. “Let’s go now, Remi. I want ice-cream.”

I smiled at him. Clearly I needed him way more than he needed me.

I cranked the car, my eyes flicking to Mom’s. “Thank you again for taking care of the money thing. I love you.”

She exhaled and stepped back from the car. “I love you both. See you tomorrow.”

Putting the car in drive, I pulled out of my driveway and headed to Raleigh.

After a quick trip to the grocery store and a stop at Sonic for ice-cream, we headed back to Dax’s. Once there, I dug around my boxes, found my games, and we played a few rounds of Scrabble. Afterwards, we headed upstairs where Malcolm helped me organize my closet and dresser. I promised him dinner in return.

Around six o’clock, Malcolm was sitting at the kitchen table working on a puzzle of The Globe Theatre I’d gotten him in London while I stirred the spaghetti sauce I had on the stove.

The front door opened and my body tensed. Dax. I’d sent him a text earlier thanking him for my breakfast, and he’d replied with a K.

I turned as he walked in the kitchen, trying to keep my eyes off his body in a pair of athletic shorts and a fitted shirt that clung to every muscle in his abdomen. I noticed his face was softer than last night, his eyes hesitant, almost questioning.

“Smells amazing in here,” he murmured, his gaze drifting over me, lingering on my hair. My lips.

My heart ached at the sight of him. Stupid heart.

“Thanks.”

His shoulders dipped. “Look, Remi, I—I’m sorry for last night in the bathroom.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll let you hit me if you want—right in the gut.” He grinned and patted his six-pack abs, and some of the tension from last night I’d been holding in melted.

Malcolm looked up at both of us, blinked. “You might want to rethink that. She has a mean right hook that Dad taught her.”

“Thanks for the warning, man,” Dax said, giving Malcolm a fist bump. “I’ve actually seen your sister in action, and it wasn’t too shabby.” He smiled at me—but it seemed off as he fidgeted from one foot to the other.

“No need for hitting,” I said. “There’s plenty of spaghetti here if you want some.”

He smirked. “You won’t try and poison me?”

“I never said I was a good cook. It might just kill you anyway.”

He moved to the stove and stood next to me as I checked the noodles I’d put on earlier.

Keep your eyes off him.

“Homemade sauce?” From my peripheral vision, I felt his gaze boring into me.

“Yep—if you count Ragu with some spices and meat thrown in.”