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I swallow against the burn in my throat. Suddenly, it feels like Tate is here in the truck with us, sitting between us.

Faye tells me, “He’s saying he doesn’t feel good. I—” Her eyes swing to me and they’re shining bright with water. “I have to pick him up, Holt.”

Just the sound of my name on her lips like that, as much as I hate to admit it, to even consider the truth of it, I’d do anything for this woman. Anything.

I say nothing as I swing my truck into the parking lot of the department store, kicking open the door. “Wait here.”

“Holt?”

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her and swing the door closed.

I haven’t been to a high school in years. It feels surreal now, sitting here beside Faye. I recall entering this very building every day with her hand in mine. My dreams of the future, of her, had seemed so solid then. So unshakeable. I wouldn’t have hesitated to hold her. To pull her in close and taste her mouth. Now, I’m afraid to even steal a graze of her fingertips. I wouldn’t dare take the hand that clutched her phone anxiously in her lap.

It feels like a lifetime has passed.

The main door opens and Owen trudges out. He’s a shade paler than he was that Thursday before Dad’s surgery, which went well. Although he’s recovering fantastically, Mom says he’s being a bit of a wimp about it all. I think he’s just taking advantage of having her to wait on him hand and foot.

Owen climbs into the back seat. No one asks how he’s feeling, and he doesn’t say. There’s more than one kind of sick, and we all know which one Owen’s feeling right now.

I pull away from the curb. I’m not hungry, not with the weight of Tate settled heavily between us all. Still, it’s lunch time and I’m supposed to be an adult, so I ask, “Who likes subs?”

Faye, desperate to soothe her son’s pain, twists in the seat with painted excitement on her face. “Oh, I love subs.”

“Sure,” Owen replies.

“Can we go to the Italian sandwich place?” From my peripheral vision, I can see she’s bouncing in her seat.

I can’t help it. My lips twitch. As angry as I’m trying to be with her—as I want to be with her—I can’t deny she’s adorable.

My eyes flick to the rear-view mirror to land point blank on Owen’s. A get a sharp kick to my heart, because his dark eyes, clearly inherited from Dad’s side, saw that reluctant grin. The kid sees more than his mother thinks he sees. I’ll have to be cautious around him.

I clear my throat. “Never been to the Italian sandwich place.”

“Mom loves it,” Owen tells me. I can still feel his eyes burning into me from where he watches me in the mirror.

I don’t reply. We get our sandwiches and I drive to the park. I pull the ball I bought on my quick trip to the department store from the bag. I don’t miss Faye’s sharp inhale as I slam the truck door, ball under my arm. I avoid the woman and look to her kid.

His jaw is hard, and his eyes are dark and watchful. There’s a bit of a shadow under them that twists the blade of grief that lodged itself in my heart fourteen months ago when I first got the call.

I give the ball a spin on my finger, earning myself a reluctant grin.

“Feel like kicking it around with me?”

“Don’t you play hockey?”

“Hey.” I do the only trick I know with a soccer ball and nearly mess it up, but it’s worth it because Owen laughs. The kid’s got a good laugh. Solid and real, if a touch pained. A little rusty. “I can hold my own, kid. Besides, all I gotta do is kick it in the right direction.” I poke at him, sensing a lightening in his mood. “Hockey is where the real challenge is at.”

Challenge rolls through Owen’s eyes. It’s a good look on him. “All right, old man. Let’s see what you got.”

I’ve always loved sports and I’ve kicked around my fair share of balls with Tate in summer’s past, trying to pass the time. Owen gives me a run for my money, though, I’ll admit. He’s not taking it easy on me. And I don’t dare take it easy on him.

“For a hockey player, you’re not half bad,” Owen says as he runs his hand through his hair before snatching the ball from the ground. We’ve both worked up a sweat, and I’m momentarily jarred by the action. Tate was always the soccer player, and right now, seeing Owen like he is, it’s the first time I think the kid looks like his dad.

It’s a cool reminder of how fucked up life can turn in the blink of an eye.

My gaze drags to Faye, as though pulled by some magnetic force I have no hope of fighting. While I can’t deny there’s anger and hurt simmering in the depths of me, there’s something else, too. Something I’ve been working to turn off, to shut down, for the last thirteen, nearly fourteen years.

Weeks stand between this family my brother had—and the family I could have, should have had.