“Yeah, I was a real crybaby.”

“Oh, stop it, you were not. You were so quiet and so curious. That whole first night we just stayed awake looking at you, and you just looked back at us and didn’t make a sound—”

“Mom,” Jack says from the table.

“We knew you were special, and now look at what a smart, talented—”

“Mom, I think something’s on fire,” Coco says, without glancing up from her phone.

“What?” Mom spins back to the stove, immediately harried by the blackening omelet caked to her cast-iron skillet. “Shit.”

“I didn’t know you spoke French, Mom,” I say.

“Did you hear Mom say ‘shit’?” Jack asks Coco, his mouth full of more bacon.

“Yeah, she’s so weird,” Coco answers flatly. They’re polar opposites—Coco the goal-oriented perfectionist type and Jack the goofy, go-with-the-flow jock—and yet they’ve always been inseparable. I guess that’s what cohabitation in a womb for nine months does.

Mom waves a dishrag at the smoke plume. “Give me five minutes. I’ll make you another one.”

I pour myself a mug of coffee and step through the glass-paneled door onto the deck, where Dad stands, drinking coffee in his long-sleeved denim shirt, despite the hot morning mist. “Morning,” I say.

He flinches in surprise before turning back to me and ruffling my hair. “How you doin’, sugar cube?” I shrug, and Dad sets his mug down on the railing, folding his arms. “Nightmares?”

Dad has this way of knowing things, at least when it comes to me and horses, without understanding the nitty-gritty of how or why, but he won’t pry. I want to tell him everything, but I can’t speak, and I suddenly realize why: I’m terrified it’s him—what if it’s Dad I’m supposed to save?

I shake my head and lean out over the shadowy yard. Dad takes a long sip. “You remember those tantrums you used to have? I don’t know why, but I was just thinking about those. You’d lie down and scream and kick and bite and sob, no matter where we were.”

I sigh. “Some things never change.”

The sun peeks through the woods beyond our yard, turning everything golden at the fringes, even Dad’s brown eyes. It used to make me so happy when people who didn’t know any better would tell me I had his eyes. When I was little I thought maybe mine were the same shade as his because I really did belong so wholly with and to Dad.

“You know, when a horse bucks or bites, it’s just frustrated communication.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

He rubs the back of my neck like I’m a filly. “If you need to talk, I’ll always listen.” He kisses the crown of my head, then turns to go inside.

“Dad?”

He turns back. “Yeah?”

It would be a relief to tell him about Grandmother’s warning, but I can’t get the words out. Sometimes it’s so hard to speak, scary even. My heart rate goes up, my hands shake, and it feels easier to keep things in the dark than to drag them into the light. “Be careful,” I manage.

Though he furrows his thick chestnut eyebrows, he doesn’t ask any questions. “For you, sugar cube, always.”

Three months to save him, and I don’t even know who. I’ve got to find Alice Chan.

I skip lunch and slip off to the bathroom, where I plug in my dying phone and resume my frantic Googling. I click through every result I can (Alice Chan the Local Dentist, Alice Chan the Criminal Lawyer Two Towns Over, Alice Chan the Professor at NKU) until the bell rings, then run back to my locker. I’m getting my things for class when I feel a pair of hands slide down around my eyes. “Guess who.”

“Harry Styles?”

“So close it’s insane.”

“Okay, give me a clue.”

“I’m one of your biggest fans.”

“I’m having a hard time, because the only thing that’s coming to mind other than Harry Styles is the ghost of River Phoenix, and I wouldn’t be able to feel his hands.”

Matt uncovers my eyes and leans against the locker beside mine, smiling that perfect golden-boy smile that not even the best orthodontist could’ve faked. His sandy hair’s pushed up off his forehead, and he’s sporting his football jersey. “Natalie Cleary, has anyone ever told you you’re really weird?”

“I think at some point that assessment even became Kentucky state law, which is partly why I’m going to college in Rhode Island.”

He sticks out his bottom lip. “I’m going to miss your weird.”

“Only because you were born without any.”

“Probably.” He holds my gaze for a little too long, and his fair skin starts to flush. We’ve been broken up for nearly a year, and we’ve both done our fair share of exploring since, but sometimes those old feelings seem ready to resurface.

As if prompted by my subconscious, which definitely knows I do not want to end up married to Matt Kincaid, living on his farm in Union, Kentucky, I break the silence with “Although your mom only eats beige food. That’s pretty weird.”

His forehead creases. “What are you talking about?”

“She told me she hates anything that’s green. She also once said the sentence ‘I don’t like fruit.’ ”

“Lots of people feel that way.”

“Yeah, people under the age of ten.”

“And, like, lots of people in general.”

I shrug.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I was just gonna see if you were going to Senior Night.”

“I am, in fact, a senior.”

“But you’re not on any teams anymore.”

“Yeah . . . ?”

“And you and I broke up.”

“Wait—what? When?”

He rolls his eyes. “So you’re coming?”

“I’m coming.”

“Okay, cool,” he says, smiling. “We should do something after. For old times’ sake.”

“Old times?” I say suspiciously. It’s not like Matt and I totally stopped hanging out when we broke up, but ever since we relapsed into old habits six months ago, for the third time, I’ve made it my solemn duty never to be alone with him outside school walls. The kiss itself had been fine, but the bottom line was, no matter how much I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, I did not want to keep dating Matt, and I was pretty sure he did want to keep dating me.