By which I presume “gone” means for good and “not here” indicates at the moment. So he lives with his father, who’s probably the one who messed up his face. Otherwise, he doesn’t seem sick, so he must’ve skipped to hide the evidence. I close the door behind me, then dig into my backpack. First I produce his list of assignments, as promised. Next, I get out the drinks and food I brought, not much, just some chicken soup sealed in a cup, bottles of juice, and two pieces of fruit. He watches with an expression of blank astonishment.

Finally, he gestures. “Is that for me?”

“The soup and juice are. And the orange. I thought you were sick.”

“God,” he whispers. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

I try a smile. “I hope that’s a rhetorical question.”

“Seriously, how did you find me? And why did you ride all the way out here?” His jaw ticks and he glances away. I barely hear his last mumbled question. “Why do you care when nobody else does?”

“I already told you.”

“You didn’t answer anything,” he points out.

I really don’t want to admit that I skulked around the school office to find his address, so I respond to the last thing he said. “I remember how hard it was when I moved here.” I hesitate.

He’s quiet, and I can’t tell if he’s mad, if he believes me. We eat in silence while I try to decide if I should mumble an excuse and leave. There’s a darkness about him, a shadow in his eyes, and he doesn’t look at me while finishing the soup and peeling the orange. I take my time with the apple, conscious of how much noise I’m making as I chew. I can’t tell him that I’m slightly obsessed because he’s hot, and I’m intrigued because he’s a musician, and all the girl reasons behind why I’m here. So maybe—

“So you came because you were worried?” He asks like it’s never happened before. “Not because you feel sorry for me. I don’t want to be a … project.”

“Well, yeah.”

For another long moment, he’s quiet. Then he seems to come to some conclusion.

“Thank you.” Those are the most heartfelt words anybody’s ever spoken to me. Sincerity burns in his blue, blue eyes, and he’s beautiful, despite the bruises. I want to ask, but for now it’s just enough he’s not making me go.

“Since you’re here,” he adds, “want to work on some geometry?”

Not really. I’d rather stare at him or make out on the couch, but those options aren’t on the table. “Sure, thanks. But that’s not why I came. I mean, I don’t expect you to help me just because—”

“I know,” he interrupts. “I want to.”

An hour later, I’m totally awed by Shane’s brain. He has this way of simplifying the theorems so they actually make sense. With his guidance, I’ve successfully managed to solve two problems on my own. I still can’t imagine why I would ever need to be able to figure out the length of one side of a mystery triangle, but if I’m ever kidnapped by a geometry-obsessed madman, maybe I won’t die.

“Make sense now?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think I got it. I’d love to pull my grade up to a C before midterms.”

“I’ll get you to a B by the time the grading period ends.”

I say without thinking, “If you do, I’ll love you forever.”

It’s the sort of joke I’d make with Ryan, just hyperbole, but with Shane, it gains layers. He gives me that look again, the one that x-rays through my skin down to my bones, until I feel like he can view my heart. That should be a terrifying, creepy feeling, but it’s more of a relief, like I don’t have to hide; there’s nothing about me that could scare him because he’s been through so much himself.

God, how I want that to be true.

“Then I better apply myself,” he says softly.

To what? Geometry? Or making me love you forever? Oh God. My stomach swirls.

“I never do this,” I tell him.

“Study?”

I huff out a breath. “No. Show up at someone’s house uninvited. It’s so rude.”

“I was just cleaning up a little.”

The place is already as spotless as it can be, given its condition, but I spot a shimmer of broken glass in the trash can. So his dad’s a drinker. I don’t say anything, but I register him noticing. Shane may not say much, but he’s the most observant person I’ve ever met. Which is why it’s odd that he hasn’t said anything about my hair. I mean, it’s stupid and self-centered to want him to, given the mess he’s dealing with, but I’m not 100 percent enlightened. I want him to think I’m pretty, and I wish he knew I’m fighting my way out of the fog for him.

“I should go—” I start, before it gets awkward.

But at the same time, he asks, “Would you—”

Then we both break off. Does he feel like I do? I hope he’s nervous and excited and scared, and it feels like the start of something he wants desperately. I wait for him to go on, urging with my eyes.

Finally he murmurs, “You want me to play something for you?”

Oh God, yes. Please. Because I’m afraid my voice will reveal pure breathless glee, I just nod.

Shane goes back to his bedroom and returns with the battered guitar he was playing in the music room. He tunes it with a few expert thrums and I focus on his hands: long fingered, scars on the knuckles, hard but graceful. I’d imagine lacing our hands together but I might hyperventilate.

The song is haunting, and he plays with his eyes shut, head tilted back. After a few bars, I recognize it as one Aunt Gabby plays sometimes—“Collide” by Howie Day. I’ve never listened to the lyrics so closely before, but when Shane sings it, I find it impossible to do anything else. His acoustic cover is quiet and slow, a hint of melancholy, so it feels like a breakup song, though I don’t think that’s what it’s about. The line about being tangled up with me? Yes. Please. By the time he strums the final note, holding it until it feels like a touch, I suspect I’d agree to anything.

“You’re really good,” I say.

Understatement.

“Think so?” And he’s not asking for an ego boost. For a moment, his heart shows in his eyes. I’ve seen yearning before, but never so raw, and this isn’t for me. He wants to be good, probably for the same reasons I push for good grades and lots of clubs. Like me, he needs to get out of here; he’s running toward something bigger and brighter.

“The best I’ve ever heard, who wasn’t already getting paid for it.” That’s actually not saying much. My car issues mean I don’t go to many concerts. But I’m sure he’s talented.

“I’ve got some original songs, too, if you’d like to hear one sometime.”

“Sure,” I say, as if I’m not inwardly screaming that he wants to see me again. On purpose. But the last thing I want is to get him in trouble. “Do you need me to head out? What time’s your dad—”

His fingers clench on the neck of his guitar and he gives me a measuring look, before apparently deciding to spill. “I won’t see him again for a while.”

“Where is he?” That’s not what I want to ask, and he knows it.

“He’s a truck driver. He didn’t even have a place until the court dumped me on him. He just put up at short-term motels between long hauls.”

Judging by the crappy accommodations, Shane isn’t close to his dad, as the guy didn’t go out of his way to provide. “I shouldn’t even say anything, but—”

“Don’t say it. I’m not reporting him.”

“Why?” I demand. “He can’t get away with hurting you.”

“I made him a deal,” Shane says, surprising me. “He bought this place … and signs off on any paperwork. In return, I look after myself.”

“But … your face…” I really thought his dad had hit him. But he’s not even here?

“You’ve seen the front porch. Try going out the door when you have an arm full of stuff.”

“You’re trying to convince me you fell.”

He smiles. “I really did. I promise. After I broke my history project, I said screw it.” So it’s the project in the trash, not liquor bottles? “I didn’t feel like going today. My dad is many things … and a good father isn’t one of them, but he doesn’t punch me in the face. He’d just rather not see me.”