“Okay, Gidget!” Ty calls out. “Get over here. Connor and the virgin are goin’ down tonight!”

My face flushes as heads turn in my direction. “I’ve never played this game before!” I clarify in a loud voice, though Ty’s not wrong in any regard.

“Heads, we start,” Ty announces as a coin flies up into the air. They win the toss and a crowd quickly forms. Apparently, Beirut is a spectator sport. I soon find out it’s because you get to watch people get really drunk. Really fast.

Connor explains the basic rules—if your opponents sink a ball or you completely miss the table with your ball, you drink. Well, there are two problems with these rules for me. One: our opponents are outstandingly good, and two: I am outstandingly bad.

Even with Connor’s talent at sinking balls, it’s not long before Ty and Reagan are in the lead. And when alcohol-induced relaxation spreads through my limbs, my aim gets even worse, to the point that people step away from the table when it’s my turn, to avoid a ball to the groin.

“You really aren’t getting better at this with practice, are you?” Connor teases, pinching my waist.

I stick my tongue out in response, slyly studying Connor’s ripped arms and perfectly shaped backside in a rare pair of jeans as he assesses the table, a look of concentration on his face. Almost brooding, but not quite. It’s attractive. Enough so that I’m annoyed when it’s interrupted momentarily by a cute blond placing her arm on his bicep. “Hey, Connor.” Her smile is unmistakably flirtatious.

“Hey, Julia.” He flashes those winning dimples at her but then he’s immediately back to the game, studying the shot, obviously disinterested in her. Obvious enough for me and certainly for Julia, who appears crestfallen.

By the time we reach the last cup—Ty and Reagan winning—I’ve given up on following along. I just drink when Grant—the self-appointed referee—yells the order at me.

Connor lays a kiss on my cheek and murmurs, “You’re a trooper. I think you need to get outside for some air. Come on.” With an arm wrapped around my waist, partly for affection but also for support, I’m sure, Connor leads me up the stairs and through an exit to a quiet space.

“This is nice.” I inhale the cool, crisp air.

“Yeah, it’s getting hot and sweaty down there,” Connor murmurs, his hand pushing my hair off my face. “You having fun?”

I’m sure my grin speaks for itself but I answer anyway. “Yes, this is a lot of fun, Connor. Thanks for having me here.”

Planting a kiss on my forehead first, Connor then turns to lean against the wall next to me. “Of course. I’ve been dying to bring you. Especially now that we know your dad was a member.”

I smile wistfully as I lean my head back. “Was your dad a member?”

“Nah, he was part of Cap. Another big one.”

“Didn’t he want you to join that one?”

Slipping his fingers in between mine, Connor says, “He’s just happy that I ended up at Princeton.”

“Yeah.” Just like I’m sure my dad would be . . .

Connor appears deep in thought. “You know, I never appreciated how good I had it with my dad growing up until these last few years.” There’s a long pause and then he adds, “Until I met Ashton.”

I had been so distracted by Beirut and the girl hitting on Connor that I’d actually managed to stop thinking about Ashton for a while. Now he’s back and I feel uneasy. “What do you mean?”

Connor sighs, his face twisting as if he’s deciding how to answer. “I’ve been around Ash when his dad comes to see a race. He’s a different person. I don’t know how to explain it. The relationship is just . . . strained. That’s the impression I get, anyway.”

Curiosity gets the better of me. “Well, haven’t you asked him?”

A snort answers my question before his words do. “We’re guys, Livie. We don’t talk about feelings. Ashton’s . . . Ashton. I know you think he’s a dick, but he’s a good guy when he wants to be. He’s had my back more times than I care to admit. You remember that story about me in the rowing boat? You know . . .”

“Ass up? Yes, I remember.” I giggle.

Dropping his head with a sheepish grin, Connor admits, “I think Coach would have kicked me off the team if it hadn’t been for Ashton. I don’t know what he said or did, but he bought my pardon somehow. I know I joke about Ash being a lousy captain but he’s actually a good one. A great one. The best we’ve had in my three years here. All the guys respect him. And it’s not just because he gets more action than all of us combined.”

That earns my eye roll. I’m hating the idea of Ashton with anyone—girlfriend or otherwise—more each day, and that comment created a stomach-wrenching visual.

“Anyways, sorry for bringing Ashton up. I love the guy but I don’t want to talk about him. Let’s talk about . . .” He rolls around to grasp my waist with his hands. Leaning down, he slides his tongue into my mouth with a kiss that lasts way longer than anything we’ve ever done before. I find I don’t mind it, though. I actually enjoy it, allowing my hands to rest against his solid chest. God, Connor really does have a nice body and, clearly, other girls have noticed. Why are my hormones only beginning to appreciate this tonight?

It’s probably the beer.

Or maybe they’re finally starting to accept that Connor could be very right for me.

“I did warn you,” I remind her as I stretch my calf muscles.

“You can’t be that bad.”

I make sure she sees my grimace in response. Outside of required track and field at school, and that time Dr. Stayner had me chasing live chickens at a farm, I’ve avoided all forms of running. I don’t find it enjoyable and I usually manage to trip at least once while doing it.

“Come on!” Reagan finally squeals, jumping up and down with impatience.

“Okay, okay.” I yank my hair back into a high ponytail and stand, stretching my arms over my head once more before I start following her down the street. It’s a cool, gray day with off-and-on drizzle, another strike against this running idea. Reagan swears that the local forecast promised sunshine within the hour. I think she’s lying to me but I don’t argue. Things have still been kind of strange between us since her dad’s party. That’s why, when she asked me to go running with her today, I immediately agreed, slick roads and all.

“If we take this all the way to the end and turn back, that’s two miles. Can you handle that?” Reagan asks, adding, “We can stop and walk if you flake out.”

“Flakes are good at walking,” I say with a grin.

She sniffs her displeasure. “Yeah, well, you probably lose weight when you sneeze.”

It takes a few minutes but soon we manage a good side-by-side pace, where my long, slow strides match her short, quick legs well. That’s when she bursts. “Why didn’t you tell me about your parents?” I can’t tell if she’s angry. I’ve never seen Reagan angry. But I can tell by the way she bites her bottom lip and furrows her brow that she’s definitely hurt.

I don’t know what else to say except, “It just never came up. I swear. That’s the only reason. I’m sorry.”

She’s silent for a moment. “Is it because you don’t like talking about it?”

I shrug. “No. I mean, it’s not like I avoid talking about it.” Not like my sister, who shoved everything into a tomb with a slow-burning stick of dynamite. Since the morning I woke up to find Aunt Darla sitting by my bed with puffy eyes and a Bible in her hand, I’ve just accepted it. I had to. My sister was barely alive and I needed to focus on her and on keeping us going. And so, at eleven years old and still half-dead from a flu that saved me from the car accident in the first place, I got out of bed and showered. I picked up the phone to notify my school, my parents’ schools. I walked next door to tell our neighbors. I helped Aunt Darla pack up our things to move. I helped fill out insurance paperwork. I made sure I was enrolled in the new school right away. I made sure everyone who needed to know knew that my parents were gone.