"Woodison." Turning his head, he looks across the gravel lane. "There's a fucking asshole."
That asshole is buying Dad's groceries and keeping his lights on-not that I'd tell Dad that. "Well, I need to get going. Thanks for your help tonight."
"I'm Sebastian Crowe." He doesn't offer a hand, only studies me. "You must be Mia."
"Yeah, sorry. Mia Mendez. Nice to meet you."
"You're even prettier than they say."
"Who?"
He shakes his head, dismissing my question. "How's your boyfriend doing?"
"Brogan?"
"Do you have another boyfriend?"
"He's . . . No change." I force a smile, refusing to let him see how unnerving it is to have this guy know so much about me when I don't think I've ever seen him before. "Thank you for asking." I wander toward my car, wishing he hadn't brought up Brogan, wishing he weren't looking at me like he knows my secrets. "You sure know a lot about local news for someone who just moved to town."
"In this neighborhood, it's about all they talk about."
Yet another reason I'm glad to be staying somewhere else. "Well, thanks again. For tonight."
"Don't be such a stranger." He tucks his hands into his pockets, and I sense his gaze still on me, even if I can't tell in the darkness. "I'd like to see you around more often."
Oh, shit. I don't have the energy for this tonight. "Listen, I hope I didn't give you any ideas by accepting your help. I'm not looking for . . ." I've always sucked at these conversations. Whether I'm trying to flirt or let a guy down gently, it never comes as naturally to me as it does to Bailey. "My life is kind of complicated right now."
He arches a brow and rocks back on his heels. "I just asked about your boyfriend, and you think I'm coming on to you?"
"I . . . well . . ." I roll a piece of gravel under the toe of my sandal. "I'm sorry. A lot of people think that since Brogan's accident, I should . . ." I hate this, but I force myself to lift my chin and meet his gaze through the darkness. Away from the porch light, I can't make out his features at all, but I'm questioning myself now. Maybe he does look familiar. Maybe I've seen him around before. Not here, but where? "I just didn't want there to be any confusion."
"Your dad needs you. You should come around more for him."
Nodding absently, I climb into my car to dodge the guilt trip I don't need. I'm doing all I can for my father. At Nic's funeral, Mom tried to talk me into going back to Arizona with her. In the years since she left, she's gotten a teaching degree and now has a good job teaching Spanish at a high school out there. She told me I could live with her and go to college there. She practically begged me, and I declined-not just because my relationship with her is screwed up, or because I didn't want to be that far from Brogan. Part of me relished the idea of running away after that horrible night, but I could never leave my dad alone.
No, I don't need a guilt trip. Guilt is a constant for me.
I pull away from the trailer park as quickly as I arrived. I've had to take unscheduled hours off from the Woodisons four or five times in the two months I've worked there. Thus far, Gwen has been accommodating when it comes to my absences, but I don't like to push it. Besides, there are too many memories here. Too much pain.
When I pull into the Woodisons' circle drive, the floodlights click on, cutting through the darkness of the country night. I take the spot next to Arrow's Mustang, throw the car into park, and climb out. I close my eyes and take a deep breath of the clean country air. The old neighborhood suffocates me. Or maybe that's from being around my dad. My guilt and frustration with him get so tangled that I don't even know whom I'm angry with anymore-myself for leaving him to live in that hovel, or him for doing nothing to pull himself out.
Dad and I aren't so different. We both want to escape our lives. The difference is the path we take. I'm searching for freedom through school and work, and Dad finds his escape in booze.
"Way to feel self-righteous, Mia," I mutter. But that's why I took the job with the Woodisons, isn't it? Dad would rather see me dealing drugs like Nic than have his daughter work for Uriah Woodison. I knew that, and I told Dad I was living with Bailey and took the job anyway, telling myself that Uriah owed me this, that I was doing what I needed to do to help Dad and get myself through college, promising myself that what my father doesn't know won't hurt him.
But were those my only reasons? Or did part of me hope this might get me closer to Arrow?
Before tonight, he hadn't spoken to me since our fight on New Year's Eve. He came to the hospital the evening after the accident, but the only indication that he even knew I was there was the moment his eyes skimmed over the bloodstains on my white dress. He sat in the waiting room with his teammates and didn't say a word to me. Not I'm sorry about your brother or-what I really needed to hear-It's not your fault.
I stare at Arrow's Mustang and fight to keep my breath as grief threatens to rip it away. Arrow might be angry with me, but I'm disappointed in him. I needed him after the accident, and I thought he was better than this. I didn't expect happily-ever-after. Cinderella is a fairytale, and this is real life. But even though I didn't expect him to be Prince Charming to my Cinderella, I expected him to be the friend he'd become. The friend I needed when my world was at its darkest. I thought he was a big enough man to forgive me for New Year's Eve. I thought he was a good enough man to comfort me when I lost my brother, to stand by my side as I watched Brogan fight for his life in the hospital. Instead, the steadfast Arrow I'd known disappeared.
Before I realize what I'm doing, I reach out, touching my fingers to the window of the Mustang. I squint, trying to make out something in the back seat that isn't there. I can almost see us on the other side of the glass-desperate, greedy hands fumbling with my clothes, trying to work faster than my conscience. But when I blink, the apparition is gone, fizzled out in the floodlight of reality.
I enter the house, locking the door and enabling the alarm behind me. I'll let Gwen know I'm back and then go to bed. I might be able to catch a couple of hours of sleep before Katie wakes for another bottle. If I'm really lucky, she might skip that feeding like she does sometimes.
Voices from the television murmur in the great room and I head in that direction, hoping to catch Gwen before she goes to bed.
It's not Gwen but Arrow who's on the leather couch. I stop before he sees me. He's sitting with his legs spread, his elbows on his knees, the remote in his hand. ESPN is on the television, but he's not looking at the screen. He's hanging his head.
When I catch the name "Brogan" coming from the speakers, I look up and my heart breaks all over again. For myself. For everything I lost that night. But also for this powerful and talented man sitting helpless in front of me as he listens to the announcer.
"I've spoken with Woodison's coach," the announcer says. "He's known Arrow since the young player's elementary-school days. This kid was the kind you never had to worry about. He wasn't one to party or drink or mouth off on the field. He was one of those rare finds-humble, hardworking, with a coachable attitude and the drive to be his best on and off the field. He knew what he wanted, and he was going to make it happen in all the right ways. But then his best friend, also a BHU player, was injured, and Woodison did a one-eighty."
"It's heartbreaking," the co-host says. "And I wonder if it doesn't speak to some weaknesses in our sport on the collegiate level. Do we talk enough about depression? What are we doing for players who have mental health concerns? Woodison was the last player you expected to see tangled up in hard drugs."
"I agree, but whether we expected it or not, it happened. And now instead of preparing for training camp with an NFL team or for his senior year with BHU, he's just been released from rehab and is going to spend the next six months on house arrest."
"Any word from Woodison about his choices this last semester?"
He shakes his head. "He's not talking to the press. Representatives from the school are saying he needs space to think about his actions and get some counseling."
"Can we talk about what Woodison's football season could have looked like if he hadn't fallen down this rabbit hole? If he'd stayed straight and entered the draft?"