My gut aches as if he punched me. “No. I

don’t think they were free. I’ve offered to get a job.”

“I’m not looking for you to get a job, Ryan.

I’m looking for you to do something with your HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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talent. I’m looking for you to make a name for this family. I want to know that the years your mother and I have sacrificed financially, emotionally, with our time are not in vain.”

Mom calmly folds her hands on the table.

“He does have talent, Andrew. You’re angry he doesn’t want what you want. You’re angry he’s choosing something different.”

“Baseball is what he wants!” Dad’s knuckles turn white as he grips the back of the chair.

“You have no idea what anyone in this

family wants.”

His voice shakes as he talks. “What do you want, Miriam? What will finally make you

happy? You always wanted me to run for

mayor and I’ve agreed to it. You wanted me to expand the business and I am. I have done everything to make you happy. Just tell me what you want.”

“I want my family back!” Mom screams.

Over the past months, my mother has been

sarcastic and rude to my father. But in

seventeen years, I’ve never known her to

scream.

The shock wears off Dad’s face. “You can’t have it all! Do you want your friends to know HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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that your son is gay? Do you want your

church to know your son is gay?”

“But we could talk to Mark. Maybe if he

agreed to keep it a secret—”

“No!” my father roars.

I lean back in my chair, disgusted with them.

Disgusted with myself. Since Mark walked

away, I’ve been so obsessed with the fact that he left that I never really listened to what my parents were saying. It makes me realize that I probably never really listened to Mark either.

No wonder he left. How could anyone live

with so much hate?

A sickening nausea strikes and I grow dizzy.

Does Mark believe I feel the same way as my parents?

Dad rams the chair into the table, then stalks away. “Mark made his choice. You wanted to talk to Ryan tonight—talk to him. I’ll be in my office.”

Mom stands. “He should hear it from you.”

In the door frame, he pauses and looks back at me. “I’ll be running for my party’s

nomination for mayor in the spring. Your

mother and I don’t want you dating Beth Risk.

Be her friend at school, but we can’t risk the HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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bad publicity if she’s trouble. Do you

understand?”

My mind races to process. Dad’s running for mayor. Mom wants Mark back in the house.

I’ve let down my brother. They both want me to dump Beth. “You said that you never wanted to be mayor.”

But Mom has wanted him to. Her dad was

mayor. Her grandfather was mayor. It’s a

tradition she’s always craved to continue.

Neither Mom nor Dad will look at me or at each other, and neither appears to want to discuss his nomination. “About Beth…” I say.

Dad cuts me off. “The girl is off-limits.”

“You should date Gwen again,” Mom says.

“Her father is going to back your father.”

The seat jerks under me when I stand and

my sudden movement causes Mom to flinch. I stare at them both, waiting for one of them to make sense of anything they’ve said. When they remain silent, I finally understand why Mark left.

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Beth

I DON’T OWN A JACKET. Never have. I always told Isaiah and Noah my body temperature

runs hot when actually it runs low. In

Kentucky, autumn weather can be a bitch. Hot in the afternoons. Cold at night. This morning, the slick dew covering Ryan’s pasture

permeates past my worn shoes to my socks.

Few things suck more than cold, wet feet.

I stop in my tracks. Losing my best friend sucks. I let myself feel the ache, then continue forward. One day Isaiah will realize that we’re just friends. One day he’ll find me—even if I’m at the ocean. Friendships like ours are too strong to die.

Today is parent–teacher conferences and I can’t think of a better way to spend a day free from school than with Ryan. Actually, I can’t think of a better way to spend any day. My HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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time with Ryan is dwindling and I want to make the most of every moment with him.

Thump. I first heard that sound when I came out of the woods. Every few seconds, the

sound repeats. Thump. Instead of heading

straight for Ryan’s house, I decided to follow the thumps and I’m glad I did when I see

beautiful, glistening, sun-kissed skin. Wearing only a pair of nylon athletic pants, Ryan winds back then hurls a ball toward a painted target on a piece of plywood. Thump. The ball hits square in the middle.

“And you wonder why people think jocks

are stupid,” I say. Ryan whirls around with wide eyes and I continue, “It’s fifty degrees outside and you aren’t wearing a shirt.”

A cold breeze blows through the open

pasture, causing goose bumps to prick my

arms. Okay, possibly not the smartest opening line since rubbing my arms would be the

definition of both hypocrisy and irony.

Ryan grabs his shirt off the ground and

walks over to me. The early-morning rays

highlight the curves of the muscles in his abdomen. My heart flutters like a bird shaking water from its wings. God, he’s gorgeous.

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Sexy. A vision. Too perfect for someone

like me.

“I’m cooling down,” Ryan says. Caught up

in staring at his body, I have to pause to remember what I last said. Ryan gives me a cocky smile and to my mortification, I blush.

What is with me and all this blushing?

Ryan caresses my burning cheeks, and my

heart trembles again.

“I love it when you do that,” he says.

Pull it together, Beth. This is not why you’rehere. Ryan has dealt with enough of my crap over the past two months and for some reason he insists on looking at me like I’m the

princess to his prince. He is a prince. I’m not a princess, but I can help with his happily-ever-after before I leave his life for good.

Ryan withdraws his hand, but remains

annoyingly close—with his shirt still off.

“Don’t you ever get tired of baseball?” I ask.

“No.” Ryan finally pulls his shirt over his head. “I wake up every morning at six, run two miles, then pitch. There’s not a morning it gets old.”

His routine fits him. Perfectly. But then I think of him at his computer. His fingers flying HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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over the keyboard. His eyes seeing a world beyond the one his body belongs to. “Do you write every night?”

Ryan combs his fingers through my hair and my roots flip over. What normally is a motion that sends tingles down my spine instead

brings a sense of dread. His eyes narrow at the roots and I know what he sees: a half inch of golden-blond hair.

He tears his eyes away and does a good job of pretending the malformation doesn’t exist.

“With that short story due? Yeah, I write every night.” Ryan shrugs and stares at the ground.

“And I think I might keep it up when the story is done. I don’t know, maybe start another.”

Good. It’s the image I’ll take with me when I go: Ryan pitching balls in the morning and lost in his beautifully written words at night. I kick at the ground. “Do you have plans for today?”

“I do if they include you.”

I try to hide my smile, but I can’t. “Get cleaned up and pick me up in an hour.”

Tickling my skin, Ryan’s fingers graze the pink ribbon still tied to my wrist. “Yes, ma’am.”

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Ryan

“YOU’RE A WUSS.” My little black-haired threat flips through the University of Kentucky

student directory. “You can move a car across a pasture, but you can’t see your own brother.”