I can’t stop thinking about her.

Which is weird, right?

I mean, before today, I never gave Tesla Castinetti a second thought. She was just a neighborhood girl. One who never so much as looked in my direction. One who didn’t look in anyone’s direction, really. Not like she’s too good or too smart. More like she doesn’t even know or care that there are guys checking her out or trying to get her attention.

I’ve seen plenty of guys try to talk to her but the only guy I’ve ever seen her talk to, outside of trash-talking during a pick-up game of baseball, is my brother’s best friend, Ryan. He spoke to her today at her mother’s funeral, outside the church, and again afterward. He stood close to her and I watched his mouth move while he talked to her, too quiet for me to hear. It made me want to go find Con and make him read his lips. When he was finished, she gave him a weak smile and a halfhearted nod.

Watching her walk away from him, the way she slipped through the crush of people crowded into my parent’s living room like a ghost, I found myself following her through the house. When I got to the kitchen the only person there was my brother, Conner. Most times he’s pretty good at pretending to be normal but today his freak is showing. Must be the houseful of people.

“You alright, fuckface?” I say, not because I care or anything, mainly because I don’t want him to think I’m following Tess.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, too engrossed in whatever he’s scribbling across the piece of paper in front of him to even bother with an insult. Probably math. Not regular math. Weird math about alternate dimensions or parallel universes or some shit. He’s tried explaining it to me but as usual, I had no fucking clue what he was talking about. No one does.

Instead of pestering him, mainly because talking to him when he’s like this is like talking to a brick wall, I stand in front of the sink and start to rinse the dishes in the bottom of it so I can stare out the window without someone thinking I’m doing what I’m actually doing, which is watching Tess.

She’s sitting on the back porch steps, her navy blue dress pulled down over her knees. Dark hair pulled away from her pale face. Gaze aimed across the yard at the back of her own house. Our mothers are best friends—they bought houses next to each other. Got pregnant together. Talked their husbands into taking down the wooden fence that separated their yards so their kids could play together. Run free between the two homes.

Were.

Our moms were best friends.

Were because Mrs. Castinetti is dead.

Now there’s a brand new fence between our yards and a FOR SALE sign in front of their house.

“Why don’t you just go talk to her?”

I shut off the water and shoot Con a dirty look over my shoulder. He’s still hyper-focused on the piece of paper in front of him and whatever the fuck he’s writing on it. But not so focused that he doesn’t know I’m standing here, creeping on our neighbor. “Talk to who?”

His mouth quirks, the only indication that he knows I’m full of shit. “Tess.”

I hate a lot of things about my little brother but this is the thing I hate the most. He sees everything. Even when you think he’s lost in space, he’s taking in everything around him. Analyzing it and filing it away.

“Why don’t you go fucking talk to her, genius?” I turn back to the sink and stack rinsed plates in the bottom of it, my gaze aimed out the window, almost against my will.

She hasn’t cried.

Not one tear.

Mr. Castinetti is bawling like a baby while his daughter walks around like a zombie.

“Because I’m not the one who wants to talk to her, fuckstain—you are.”

Looks like Con’s come back to earth.

I look at him again, just in time to watch him stand up from the kitchen table. He gives the paper he was writing on a careful fold up the middle before folding it again and tucking it into the pocket of his dress pants. He doesn’t say anything else. He just leaves the room, pushing himself back into the throng of whispering people, standing around with plates of ham and macaroni salad. He hates crowds. Can’t take them for long. I’m surprised he isn’t in his room with the door barricaded shut and his nose buried in a book. The only reason he isn’t is because he’s not so far up his own ass to understand that it would be socially unacceptable. He’s been on this I’m a real boy kick lately. Has a lot of people fooled too. Not me. I live with him. I know what a freak he really is.

“Fucking weirdo,” I mutter to myself, turning back toward the window. Tess is still sitting there. Eyes still dry. Hands still wrapped around her knees like she’s holding herself together. Like if she lets go or moves she’ll fall apart.

Shit.

Turning off the sink, I dry my hands on a dish towel before forcing myself through the door and onto the back porch. She doesn’t so much as twitch when I sit down. It’s like I’m not even there.

So I did what Con suggested.

I talked to her.

Told her how much I liked her mom. Shared a good memory of her in hopes of jumpstarting a conversation.

She told me her mom killed herself. That she was the one who found her. That my mom knows and is helping her dad lie to cover it up.

And then she cried.

Buried her face in my neck and sobbed quietly while I held her.

And I haven’t stopped thinking about her since.