After I finish hauling a bunch of old trash out to the dump, I take a drive downtown to Endicott Circle. Genevieve’s childhood home is there, looking exactly the way I remember it. Even the weeping willow tree I once climbed up is there, scraping the window to what used to be Genevieve’s room. I’d scaled that tree to get to her, hoping every night she’d finally let her guard down and let me in.

But she only did once, for about five minutes. Right before we ended things.

She’s still a virgin, and it makes sense. No man in this town is good enough for her.

I may have been the quarterback, the popular man, destined for great things. I still wasn’t good enough then, and I’m not now, either.

Doesn’t matter. I can’t stop thinking of the night in the garage. How amazing she looked, half-naked and wanting me. How sad she’d looked when she told me it wouldn’t work because I was going away. It’s been enough to keep me up all night. I haven’t slept in days.

The need has driven me to the point of madness, every fucking night.

The front door opens, and I half-expect to see Genevieve come bouncing down the front staircase, hugging her giant pile of books to her chest as she climbs into my old Mustang. Instead, I watch as a harried mother ushers her two children out of the front door, lugging a diaper bag. It’s their house, now.

Genevieve’s mother is dead, her father is . . . not here. And she is still in town, caring for him. She put her life on hold and never went anywhere out of duty to her father. I always knew she put them on a pedestal, would do anything for them. She wouldn’t leave this town to be with me, even if I begged her to. She has too much here, to ever consider that.

I stop into Billy’s during the lunch rush, but she isn’t there. She’s like a fever, coursing through my veins, making me crazy. I need to see her. Finally, I bite the bullet and text her: Miss me?

She comes back a moment later with: Who is this?

You’re funny, I text back. Want to meet up for lunch, since you blew me off for spaghetti?

I blew YOU off?

Something like that.

Can’t do lunch. Have to visit my father.

I text back, I’ve been meaning to visit your dad. Can I go with?

There’s a long pause. Are you sure?

If it gets me closer to her, even for a moment, then yes. Hell yeah. I never thanked him for getting our affairs in order after my mom died.

That was like, a hundred years ago.

Better late than never?

I guess.

Where does he live now?

410 Sycamore in Rimersburg. I’ll meet you there in a half hour.

Deal.

Rimersburg is the next town over, across the Allegheny River, and never had much of anything, so it might as well be a foreign country. I plug the address into my GPS and the computerized voice starts to guide me there. As I drive, I think of what I’m going to say to her, practicing the words in front of the rear-view mirror. I don’t know why I’m nervous. This is Genevieve, the girl I’ve known since seventh grade.

But that doesn’t help. With Genevieve, I can easily fuck up my chance by igniting that fiery temper of hers. The last time I did, it kept us apart for four years, and I can’t let that happen again.

She means so much to me. When I thought about it last night, lying in my bed over the garage, I knew it was fate, or unfinished business, that had made me make that turn back toward Bradys Bend.

I might not be good enough for her, but the story of me and Genevieve ain’t over yet.

I’m going to have her. All of her, before I go back to Pittsburgh, no matter what I have to say to do it.

When I pull up at the address, all those grand plans of confronting her go right out the window. This building is a new one, and has probably only been built in the past couple of years. It’s brick and stately, with columns in the front and mums everywhere to make it look welcoming. I spend a long time just looking at the sign in front, my mind going blank. It says, Rimersburg Convalescent Home.

Her father is in a nursing home.

I pull into a parking spot, and Genevieve pulls in next to me, a few moments later. She looks better than ever, all fresh-faced and showered, the ends of her long hair wet. And she’s wearing a dress—nothing sexy or fancy, just a loose red thing with little flowers all over it, but it’s a hell of a step up from the sweats and jeans I’ve always seen her in. It’s prim, and pure, and virginal. She’s dressed up for her father. But I notice the small worry-crease at the center of her forehead. I try to tamp down the desire for her and focus on the reason for it. “Didn’t know your dad was in a nursing home,” I say.

She shrugs. “Well, he is. Like I said, he hasn’t been the same since my mom died.”

That’s got to be hard, losing her mom, and her dad, all at once. “How long has he been here?”

“Three years. But this is the best place around, so he’s well taken care of.” She smiles as she looks at it. “Most expensive, too. But it’s worth it, you know. They gave me a fairytale childhood. The least I can do is give him this place.”

I know by the way she gnaws on her lip just why she sold the house, then. She’s paying his medical expenses. “Didn’t your father—I mean, your father gave us all financial advice.”

“He was bad at taking his own advice,” she says with a shrug. “Always wanted his girls to have the best of everything. Come on.”

We go inside, and I let her lead the way through the double doors into a round, brightly lit atrium. The women at the front desk know her by name, as knowing Genevieve, she probably visits her father every chance she gets. One woman is heavyset with bright red lipstick and a helmet of gray hair. The second her eyes shift to me, and she appraises me, her mouth drops open. “Aren’t you . . .”

I nod.

“What’s your name? Ben Rothslinger?”

I do my best to stifle a laugh at the butchering of my predecessor’s name. “No, ma’am. I’m . . .”

Another nurse, who I think must be from Bradys Bend, because she looks like one of my friends’ mothers, shakes her head at the lady. “Oh, god, Gladys. This is Silas St. Clair. He grew up around here!” She says, batting her eyelashes at me. “You’re the one who is nearly engaged to that model, right?”

I clear my throat and look at Genevieve. “No.” It’s just casual fucking, whenever she’s in town. “The magazines like to exaggerate about those things. We’re not together.”

“When are you going to get your butt back to Pittsburgh, young man? They’re dying without you.”

Genevieve is looking at me like, Yes, when? I give her a defiant look and say, “I don’t honestly know.”

The lady who thought I was Ben Roethlisberger is blushing. “I’m so sorry. I’m not much of a football fan.”

“It’s all right,” I say, offering her my most flirtatious smile. “There are worse people I could be mistaken for, ma’am.”

Genevieve frowns at me and whispers, “If you’re done flirting with the nurses, can I see my dad now?”

I scowl at her. “That ain’t flirting. That’s called just being human,” I say, biting my tongue before I come out with the next line, which is: You should try it sometime. I remind myself to be on my best behavior. I want this girl, not her wrath.

A nurse leads us to a wall of windows overlooking a garden with a pond. Mostly gray or white-haired people are milling about the area, playing cards, reading, watching television. Her father is sitting in a rocking chair, facing the outdoors, a thick red blanket over his knees. I make out his blank face reflected in the window, his jaw slack, his eyes unseeing. When she comes around and gives him a hug, he doesn’t move. His eyes never focus on her. He doesn’t move a muscle. He’s all bones, too, his gray skin hanging loose on his jowls. For a man in his fifties, he looks decades older.

I hold my breath. All the while, I’d been imagining such a fairytale life for Genevieve, because that’s what she was used to. But this is more like a fucking nightmare. Is this what Genevieve has been dealing with in the years since I left? Her mother dying, and then her father wasting away to nothing?

Shit.

I lean over and try to look him in the eye, but I doubt he’ll respond, if he gave his own daughter a blank look. He stares through me as I say, “Hello, Sir. It’s Silas.”

Genevieve says, “Daddy, it’s Silas. Remember? The quarterback for the Steelers? He came all the way to see you. You must be a big deal to be getting such VIP guests.”

He doesn’t react.

But that doesn’t mean that other people in the area don’t notice. As soon as the words leave her mouth, five or six heads swivel in my direction. People start to whisper. One of them says loudly, “Quarterback for the Steelers?”

Meanwhile, Genevieve is talking to her father, whispering gently in her father’s ear. She doesn’t notice what I’m witnessing—which is, a small crowd of elderly people struggling to their feet and shuffling over or wheeling themselves toward me in their wheelchairs, closing in.

“You’re Silas St. Clair?” an old man asks, loud enough to get more heads swinging my way. When I nod, he claps me on the back. “Good man. Tough break with the ankle.”

Genevieve turns and her eyes widen as someone thrusts a napkin and pen in my hand for an autograph. I sign it, graciously accepting the attention. Before I know it, I’m surrounded. I start signing autographs, answering questions about my injury, making small talk. It’s clear these people don’t get much excitement around here. Doing my best to ignore the suffocating smell of Ben Gay and ammonia and old people, I smile graciously, reminding myself that this shit—people recognizing me as a celebrity, fawning over me— ain’t gonna happen forever. I need to milk it while I can.

Not to mention, I fucking love it.

So I get more comfortable. One of them asks to wear my ring from the Super Bowl, so I let them pass it around. “Sure is heavier than the replica I have!” one of the men says, impressed.

In the middle of a story about how I threw a thirty-yard touchdown pass in the last four seconds of a game against the Bengals, propelling us to victory, I look over at the windows.

Genevieve’s father is gone, and so is Genevieve.

Shit.

I do my best to break free of the crowd and, after getting lost in the maze of hallways, wander out to the front lobby. I’m just in time to see her heading out the sliding doors.

I chase after her, catching up to her at her Bug. She has the fire of hell in her eyes. “What?” I ask.

She plays like her father and doesn’t look at me. “Go away, Silas.”

“What? You’re sore about what happened back there?” I ask incredulously. “They wanted my autograph. What did you expect me to do? Tell them to go to hell?”

She scowls. “Yes. I thought you came to see my father. Not be Silas Fucking Pittsburgh Steeler St. Clair.”

“What the fuck? You think I can just change who I am?”

“No. But you were clearly enjoying your popularity there,” she shakes her head. “I mean, really? You have to regale them with stories of your best games and pass around that gaudy bauble of yours? Make yourself into a spectacle?”

“Gaudy bauble?” I follow her line of sight to my ring. I have no fucking idea what a bauble is but I think she just insulted my fucking ring. She’s the only person in the country who refuses to be impressed by it, after all the blood, and sweat, and . . .

I’d promised I’d control it. But I can’t. My temperature is rising. “You’re fucking unbelievable,” I breathe again.

“If you want unbelievable, look in the mirror,” she says, her face reddening. “You’re a big fucking liar. I’ll ask you again, since you never seem to have a clear answer. Why are you still here?”

I put my hands on my hips. I know she’s not far from coming to punches if I don’t answer this right. At that moment, I want to wound her, so I pile on the guilt trip. “I came here for you. Because I really wanted to be a part of your life again.”

She lets out a sour laugh. She’s not buying it. “Right. Well, it sure didn’t look like that in there. God, Silas, you’re so out of touch. You think that we’re just a bunch of stupid country bumpkins and we can fall for your stupid lies. Well, we see right through you.”

I open my mouth to speak, but close it right away. I sure as hell never thought her stupid. Yeah, so I like being recognized. Being doted on. It has happened so often these days that I naturally fall into it. “You’re the one who announced who I was to everyone. And that’s what happens. I can’t control how people react.”

She sighs. “Yes, you can. You tell people you’re not here to sign autographs.”

I laugh at her. “Yeah. So easy. I do that, and the next day People runs a story about how I’m ‘difficult’ with fans, because I wouldn’t even sign autographs for a bunch of sick old people.”

She starts to get inside her car. “Really, who the hell cares what People thinks? Goodbye, Silas.”

She’s right. It’s a shit stupid rag for assholes with ordinary lives. I shouldn’t care what they print. But the truth is, I like the glory, the attention. I care what people think about me.

But the person whose opinion always mattered most to me? Genevieve.

I grab the door handle and hold it open so she can’t pull it closed. “No. You’re not saying goodbye right now. I’m serious, Genevieve, about what I said. I want to be with you again. And the other night—I think you showed me you want to, too.”

She gnaws on her lip. “But how? I told you, Silas. It can’t work. You’re going to be in Pittsburgh in another few weeks, and I’m going to be here —”

“Genevieve,” I tell her. I take a deep breath. And then I let it out. “I’m not going back. I’m done.”