“Like… I don’t know. I’ve heard stuff.”

“Such as?”

“Like, you’re all distant,” he said. “Finn’s girlfriend won’t even kiss him, and ever since last weekend, you’ve been acting weird. Shane says even Chloe’s not putting out, and she’s a slut, so we know something’s wrong.”

“Don’t call my best friend a slut,” I told him. “Just because people think so doesn’t make it true.”

“But it is true.”

“It’s relative,” I said. “I’d bet money Shane has slept with more people than Chloe. Correct?”

“Probably. Shane’s the man.”

“You don’t call him a slut, so please don’t call Chloe one.”

“Okay, okay.” Randy shrugged and turned the Buick onto my street. “Sorry. Whatever… But you never answered my question.”

“What question?”

“What’s up with all the girls?”

Crap, I thought. Changing the subject usually worked with Randy. He got so distracted that he didn’t even notice I’d nudged him away from the original topic. That was part of the beauty of dating him; I never had to worry about him cornering me into a conversation I didn’t want to have.

Except now.

Naturally, when sex was involved, Randy managed to stay focused.

“We’ll talk about it later,” I said as his car slid into my driveway. Before he could argue, I climbed out of the passenger’s seat and started walking toward the front door.

I could have slapped myself. There was a huge hole in my strike plan; we’d never discussed when or how to tell the boys. Eventually we’d have to, obviously, because the whole point was to get them to hear us out, to listen to our demand that they end the rivalry. But now, with Randy asking questions, I was nervous about answering him.

“Hey, honey,” Dad called from the kitchen when I stepped into the house. “I just got in from work and decided to make a sandwich. You want one?”

“No, thanks,” I said, walking across the carpet toward the kitchen. Behind me, Randy shut the front door and began to follow. “I brought company. I figured I’d make a real dinner tonight.”

Dad looked over his shoulder and smiled when he saw Randy standing next to me in the kitchen doorway. “Hey there,” he said. “No football practice?”

“No, sir,” Randy said. “Coach gave us the day off—said he couldn’t look at our faces after the loss on Friday. But I’m sure he’s going to kick our asses tomorrow.”

“Oh, yeah.” Dad grabbed his sandwich from the counter and put it in his lap so he could turn his wheelchair toward us. “I heard the game was pretty brutal. I couldn’t make it—I needed to return some e-mails and get a situation with a student straightened out—but Logan said Oak Hill has really shaped up this year.”

“Yeah, none of us was expecting it,” Randy agreed. “So weird. They sucked last year.”

Dad wheeled over to the table and Randy sat down next to him. I let them talk sports for a bit while I sorted through the fridge, trying to decide what to make for dinner. When I realized we didn’t have much of anything (living with two adult men meant food never lasted long), I decided to call and leave Logan a voice mail, asking him to stop by the grocery on his way home and pick up the stuff I’d need to make pasta.

When I hung up the phone, I heard Randy ask, “So how’s work going, Mr. Daniels?”

I smiled as I walked over to the round wooden table and sat down beside my boyfriend. He reached over and put an arm around my shoulders. I glanced self-consciously at my dad, and stiffened a bit at the contact. But Randy didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he was just used to it by now.

“Work’s good,” Dad said. “Been a bit crazy this week. There’s a student having some pretty sudden behavioral issues. I think she’s having a difficult time at home, but she won’t say. Poor kid. She’s never had problems before.”

When I was little, he’d worked construction, building houses in the newer part of town. After the accident, he decided to go in a different direction. That’s how he ended up as the guidance counselor at Hamilton Elementary.

“You’re so patient,” Randy said. “I can’t stand kids. I’d get so frustrated. I never want to be a parent.”

“You’ll change your mind,” Dad told him. “Especially if you and Lissa end up getting married. You two would have to give me some grandkids.”

“Logan can do that.” Randy laughed. “Lissa and I aren’t going to have kids. Maybe a few dogs, though.”

I cleared my throat, reminding them that I was sitting right there. I hated when Randy planned my future for me.

“Logan’s going to pick up a few things at the store on his way back from work,” I said. “It’ll be an hour or so if you two want to go watch TV.”

In an instant, Randy was on his feet, pushing Dad’s wheelchair into the living room as they bickered over which of our six ESPN networks to watch.

When they were gone, I pulled out my cell phone to text Chloe.

Randys asking questions. I think he knows

Within seconds, she replied.

What r u gonna tell him???

I glanced into the living room. Some sports talk show was on the TV, and I could hear Dad and Randy laughing as they disagreed with the commentators. I smiled to myself. Randy was already a part of my family. Part of me. I shouldn’t be afraid to be honest with him.

Without even looking at the screen, I moved my thumbs across the keypad and texted Chloe back.

The truth.

By the time dinner was on the table, I was on the verge of pulling my hair out. Logan came home almost an hour late and refused to tell me where he’d been. Dad had to make me stop asking him. And, of course, my brother had picked up the wrong kind of noodles. I mean, I guess the noodles didn’t really matter—they all taste the same—but it was the principle of the thing.

I’d been able to relax a little at the dinner table, though. Logan gave Randy a hard time about Friday’s game, everyone complimented my cooking (not that pasta was difficult, but it was still nice to hear), and no one mentioned the soccer team or hazing.

After we left the table, still smiling from a joke Dad had told us, Randy offered to help me wash dishes.

“Why don’t you use the dishwasher?” he asked.

“Pipes are messed up,” I said. “Have been for weeks. The plumber hasn’t come by to fix it yet.”

“That sucks.” He set a stack of plates on the counter as I filled the sink with water. “I might be able to fix them. I’ve helped my uncle fix the ones in his house before. I can give them a look when I come over this weekend, if you want. Then you don’t have to pay a plumber.”

“That’d be great,” I said. “Randy Vincent, pro-bono plumber.”

“Pro what-o?”

“Never mind. Just bring your wrench and your saggy plumber pants on Saturday.”

Randy grinned. “Saggy plumber pants, huh? Lissa, are your pipes really messed up, or is this just your way of trying to see my ass?”

“Hardly,” I said, flinging a little water at him. “Only if you hire a butt double.”

Randy stuck his tongue out at me and flung some water in my direction.

I had to admit, I was pretty impressed that he was helping me clean up. I figured he’d be running back to the TV the second his plate was clear, the way he usually did.

“So back to what we were talking about earlier,” he said after a pause. “What’s up with the girls?”

Of course he had an ulterior motive. I was on my guard again instantly. I shut off the tap just as the bubbles from the dish detergent began to ease over the rim of the sink.

“Do you really want to know?” I asked quietly, gesturing for Randy to move the plates into the soapy water.

“Yeah.”

“All right. We’re on a sex strike.”

Randy, God bless him, just sort of blinked at me, confused.

I reached into the top drawer and pulled out a sponge and a dishrag. “Okay,” I said, handing the rag to him. “The girls are tired of the rivalry. It’s been going on for too long, and you guys don’t even have a reason to fight.”