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“Well, we do.”

I laugh, but there is nothing sane in the sound. “That’s your problem.”

I shove him away, grab the keys, and reach for the motorcycle again.

Holt takes me down before I make it two steps.

All of them pile on top of me. I fight as though they’re the enemy. I punch whoever gets close enough. I curse them. I tell them I hate them.

They hold on anyway.

Eventually, I have nothing left.

I lie on the dirt floor of my mother’s barn and sob until there is no air left in my lungs.

Three days later, I leave Nevada.

I don’t say goodbye to my mother.

I don’t call Sean or Holt.

I sell my house because I can’t walk past the boys’ rooms without wanting to die. Mom and her friends pack everything that matters and put it into storage.

I keep the motorcycle, a change of clothes, and a bottle of whiskey.

Then I disappear.

For three years, I move from one place to another.

Arizona.

Texas.

Louisiana.

Florida.

Virginia.

New York.

I sleep in cheap motel rooms and drink in bars where no one knows my name. I find men willing to fight and women who don’t ask questions.

The fights help for a while.

The pain from a split lip or cracked rib gives me something else to think about. Jail cells are quiet, and the officers eventually stop asking who they should call.

There is no one.

I have a mother who leaves messages I rarely listen to and brothers who once fought beside me.

But I abandoned all of them.

It is easier that way.

If I love no one, I can’t lose anyone else.

Late one night in New York, I meet a woman with long red hair and green eyes.