I texted Bowie as soon as I got home. Dad and June and I struck a deal. We girls would walk home, and Dad would pretend we had nothing to do with the mess at the bonfire. We all preferred to tiptoe around Mom and her hour-long family “discussions” on responsibility and adulthood. I don’t think Dad wanted to sit through another one any more than Juney and me.

It wasn’t like she wouldn’t find out through the grapevine, of course. But by then it would be so blown out of proportion Bootleg style—did y’all see Bowie break that boy’s leg with a spinning roundhouse kick?—that it would be easy to write off as idle gossip.

I got no response to my text. So I called. It went straight to voicemail. Bowie always took my calls.

I washed the makeup off my face in the bathroom that I shared with my sister and glared at the bruise blooming on my jaw. This was all that stupid summertimer’s fault. He was lucky the Bodines didn’t do any serious damage.

My mind started spiraling out of control. Did Bowie really fight for me? Did it actually finally mean something? Did I mean something to him?

My brain clicked into spin cycle as the possibilities danced through my mind one after the other.

He’s in love with me.

He thought Scarlett was in danger.

He thought I was in danger.

He hated Blaine’s stupid shirt.

He has feelings for me.

Wandering into my bedroom, I flopped down on my bed and texted Scarlett, hoping for some insider information.

She responded immediately, thank the Lord.

I sat down on the edge of my bed. Bowie never, ever drank to excess. Jonah Bodine, their dad, was a no-good drunk. So Gibson didn’t drink and Bowie moderated. Who knows what Jameson did. He was the quiet type. Scarlett was blessed with the metabolism of a linebacker and could outdrink almost anybody in the county and their brother and still show up to work the next day. But Bowie drunk? What in the hell had gone down?

I headed back into the bathroom and snapped a picture of my black and blue glory.

She even texted Southern.

Scarlett’s opinion carried weight. After all, she’d known Bowie her entire life. But why in the hell would he suddenly go and develop feelings the second I decided I wasn’t ready to take the man for a test drive? Or was my mental tally correct and he’d had them all along for me?

I needed answers. I just wasn’t sure I could survive them.

Flopping back on my bed, I pulled a cheery yellow pillow over my face. If I didn’t suffocate by morning, I’d go and have myself a little chat with Mr. Bowie Bodine.

Against my college student nature, I woke early. It had been a restless night of tossing, turning, and practicing exactly what it was I was going to say to Bowie. My phone was still annoyingly free of text messages, so I was going into this blind.

Yanking on a pair of running shorts and a sports bra, I decided to jog over to Gibson’s. Being a criminal justice major, I was starting to realize that there was something to be said for keeping my body in shape. I didn’t want to be wheezing asthmatically after a perp…or a neighbor if I got my wish and got hired on here in Bootleg.

I was tugging a tank top over my bra on the way downstairs when I ran into my mom.

“Cassidy Ann Tucker, what in the hell happened to your face?”

My mother paused her descent in her blue-checkered pajama top. My dad wore the bottoms. While I made a show of pretending to barf over the grossness of it, I’d always secretly hoped that someday Bowie and I would be sharing a pair of pajamas.

Mom’s hand was cool on my cheek, but her green eyes flashed. Someone had messed with her little, almost-adult girl and she didn’t like it.

I may not be the adult I wanted to be, but I could lie better than my teenage self.

“Juney and I were walking home last night, and damn if I didn’t run face-first into a tree branch hanging out over the sidewalk. Does it look bad?”

Just because I was a better liar than I used to be didn’t mean my mom was dumber than she used to be. “I already heard about Bowie and that summertimer,” she said, flicking my nose smartly.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” I asked, exasperated. Nothing got by my mother. She may still look like the beauty queen she’d been as a teenager—Miss Olamette County 1980—but motherhood had honed her instincts to a needle point. Her hair was more blonde and less dirty than my own. She kept in shape with power walking and old Jane Fonda videos. She was the apple of my father’s eye and the heartbeat of our little family. She’d rip anyone who threatened any of us a brand-new asshole before church on Sunday.

“Maybe I wanted to make you squirm a bit. You’ll help me with your father later?”

No one crossed Nadine Tucker. Since I was busted, I was automatically pressed into service to aide my mother’s revenge plot on my father. Those were the fun kinds of family games we played.

“I guess,” I sighed.

“So?” Mom looked at me expectantly.

“So what?”

“What does this mean?” she asked, poking my bruise. “With Bowie?”

“I honestly don’t know, Mom. But I’m going to go get some answers now.”

My mom looked like she wanted to tell me something and then changed her mind.

“What?” I demanded as we plodded down the stairs together.

“Be careful okay?” she said, studying me as she pulled the coffee supplies out of the kitchen cabinet.

“Mom, it’s Bowie. What’s there to be careful about?”

My mother’s look spelled it out for me. There was no fooling her here either. But she was nice enough not to humiliate me by voicing the fact that I’d been in love with the man my entire life.

“Will you be back for breakfast?” she called after me as I headed toward the back door.

“I guess it depends.”

I hated running. I’d much rather work up a sweat in a boxing class or pedaling like demons were chasing me on a bike. But running the six blocks to Gibson Bodine’s apartment would give me a chance to shake out the jitters and get in a workout.

What if he told me he loved me?

What if he thought he was looking out for a friend?

What if I puked on his shoes and he never talked to me again?

The blocks blurred as my thoughts swirled. I almost tripped over Mona Lisa McNugget, the little free-range chick that had adopted Bootleg Springs proper as her backyard. I vaulted over the chicken, calling a quick apology over my shoulder and soldiered on.

Gibson was renting a two-bedroom shit hole over a retail space that changed hands every six months or so. It was currently a dingy card and knick-knacks store that was only patronized by summertimers.

Bowie’s SUV was parked on the side street, and for a second I thought I’d keep running. But there were questions that I needed answers to.

I opened the front door and jogged up the musty staircase that led to the second floor. I could hear them inside, the easy Bodine banter. Ribbin’ and rilin’, Scarlett called it.

I wondered if they’d all be this close if their parents hadn’t been so bad at raising a family.

The door opened before I could even raise my knuckles to knock, and Scarlett blinked at me. “Well, hey there. Holy hell. Look at your face!”

“‘Zat Cassidy?” Gibson called from somewhere inside.

Jameson was sitting on the couch, a game controller in his hands. He glanced up, gave me a nod, and went back to whatever game he was playing.

I clapped a hand over my jaw. “Is Bowie here?” I asked.

Scarlett got that hopeful look on her face. “He is. Bowie Bodine. Get your ass on out here.” She stepped back from the door to make room for her brother.

He looked as rough as I felt. His hair was standing up in all directions. His eyes were redder than Moe Daily’s bloodhound’s. He was still in his clothes from last night.

“What do you need, Cass?” he asked, not quite meeting my eyes. There was a coolness in his tone that I wasn’t used to. I couldn’t say that I cared for it.

“I need to ask you something,” I said quietly.

He read the importance behind my words and stepped out onto the landing with me, shutting the door behind him. He was still having trouble looking me in the eye, but he did take notice of the spectacular bruise blooming on my jaw.

“What’s going on?” he asked, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and bracing the other against the wall.

“Why did you go after Blake last night?” I asked, not able to keep the words inside one more second.

“Blaine,” he corrected me. “I thought he was giving you trouble. Didn’t think he was being respectful.”

These weren’t the answers I’d wanted. Or feared.

“Bowie, you went after him like it meant something.” Like I meant something.

He looked away. “Look, Cass. What do you want me to say? I didn’t like the way he was handling you and look what happened.”

Bowie reached out and angled my chin so he could get a better look at the bruise. I wanted to melt into his touch. I wanted to throw myself on his mercy, ask him to show me what love was really like. He could teach me. I was a quick study. Eventually I’d pick up the pieces of the heart he’d definitely break.

“You should pick your boyfriends more carefully,” he said, his voice rough.

“He’s not my boyfriend. Bow, I need to know. Is there more to it?”

I saw his jaw clench and release. “More to what?”

My swallow got stuck in my throat on the words that were wedged in there tight. “Us.”

It was an energetic two-step my heart was hammering out in my chest. I’d never been more scared or hopeful in my entire life.

“Is there more to you and me?” I asked softly.

He looked me in the eyes, his gray to my green. And I saw a flash of pain and then nothing. He was so quiet I thought maybe he wasn’t going to answer me. Maybe the answer was as hard for him as the question had been for me.

“Cass,” he sighed. “You’re like a little sister to me. That’s all.”

My heart cleaved in two like he’d taken an axe to it. I could feel myself bleeding out on the inside. “That’s all?” I repeated.

He nodded briskly and rubbed a hand over the back of his head.

“Look. I’m sorry. I’m hungover as shit. I was concerned that he was too rough with you last night.”

And yet it was Bowie who was being too rough with my delicate heart.

I’d always believed we’d end up together. When the time was right. When we were ready. How could I have been the only one with these feelings? How could I have been so wrong about his?

I turned away from him, something like a fever burning up my cheeks. But he grabbed my hand before I could race out of the building.

“Cass, it has to be enough,” he said earnestly. His eyes were telegraphing something that I didn’t understand. Did hurting me hurt him? Good. Then he should be on the floor in the fetal position with a pint of mint chocolate chip and a mountain of used tissues. Because that’s where I was planning to be.

“Tell me you’re okay,” he insisted, squeezing my hand.

I didn’t know what he was talking about. I was too busy trying not to hyperventilate or worse: cry. I hated that my whole body still reacted like wildfire at his touch.

“I’m fine,” I said flatly. I wrenched my hand free. Fine was not the f word I would have chosen. But my pride was at stake. “See you around.”

I ran until I couldn’t see straight. My wounded heart limped along with me as I slipped down Bathtub Gin Alley to avoid the summer crowds. I slunk and stumbled my way toward the woods. Gasping for breath, desperate for peace, for numbness, I skidded to a stop.

Of course I’d come here. It was a clearing half a mile out of town on the lakeside trail. I’d played here as a kid. Partied here as a teenager. Fell in love over and over again with Bowie.

Half-heartedly I kicked at a rotting log and then sat. Feeling my insides rot right along with this chunk of nature. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of the air that was already thick with humidity. This was the spot where I discovered how important answers were.

Callie Kendall disappeared from Bootleg four years ago on a summer night. This was the last place anyone had ever seen her. I watched my father, my town, Callie’s family, ask the same questions over and over again. But there weren’t any answers. And I couldn’t accept that.

Now Bowie had given me the answer I dreaded. Now I knew. I was nothing but a nuisance to him. All my needing him to help me and Scarlett out of scrapes. All my depending on him to be there. All my dreams of shared pajamas. It was over.

I needed to be glad to have the answer. I wouldn’t waste any more time pining and plotting. I’d move on.

Just as soon as I mourned what I’d lost. What I’d never had.