“Where did all this come from?”

The kids stopped immediately. Mary stood up. “I don’t know,” she said, stopping next to me and putting her arm around my shoulders. “Damnedest thing. We got home, and it was all laid out on the porch. The kids’ names were attached to each set. Whoever got it must know the family well and care enough to buy the protective gear.”

I shrugged out of her hold and turned to her. “Yeah,” I agreed, pushing through the lump in my throat. “Maybe a little too much.”

“Maybe he’s just doing it to get in my pants.”

Clayton’s laugh grated on my nerves. “Sure, Chloe. If that’s all he wanted, then why break up with his girlfriend? Why not just score with you and keep it a secret?”

“I don’t even know if they broke up. It’s just what I heard from all the jerks who were standing around my whore-painted locker, laughing at me.”

“So you haven’t spoken to him about it?”

“No!” I huffed. “What am I supposed to say to him? That he did it for nothing? That I can’t be the girl to replace her? That he’d have had better luck just scoring with me and moving on?”

He chuckled under his breath.

“What’s funny?”

He shook his head, his eyes wide, but his smile stayed in place.

I slumped down onto the sofa and watched him set two coffees on the table.

“I don’t know.” He sat down next to me. “Seems like he cares about you.”

“That’s the problem, Clay.”

He laughed again.

“You’re not helping.”

“Fine. He’s a jerk. An asshole. How dare he show any sign of caring? Or friendship? What a dick. Did I say he was a jerk? We should go egg his car.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

He hid his smile by taking a sip of his coffee.

I rolled my eyes and scanned the walls of his apartment. He didn’t have much. A single bedroom, a bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and the living room, where we both sat. My eyes caught on a picture, framed, resting right above the TV. I’d never seen it there before. “Does Mary know you have that?” I motioned to the photo before standing up and walking over to it. It was of him and me, sitting on the porch steps, I was smiling at the camera. Clayton was smiling at me. That same sad smile I’d known ever since he had moved into the house. I wore one of those paper party hats on my head. It was my thirteenth birthday. I remembered it because Clayton had given me so much shit about being a teenager.

I had been with Mary and Dean only a few weeks when Clayton had joined us. We were both withdrawn and quiet, and somehow, that attracted us to each other. He’d never had a mom, I’d never had a dad, and that was the basis of our early relationship. Soon after I’d moved in, I’d told him about my life, about losing my mom and my aunt. Clayton—even though he was young at the time himself—had known enough to keep his secrets until I was old enough to understand them. When I was twelve, he’d told me about his past. And that had been when Clayton had become my hero. Because despite the fact that I’d lost everyone close, I had been loved, and I was left with those memories. The love, and the laughter, and the joy of my family. Clayton—he was left with nothing but nightmares.

He cleared his throat, standing behind me now. “No. I stole the album and got a bunch copied, then returned it. She never knew. She’d kick my ass if she knew I’d taken it.”

I laughed. He was right, she would.

“Mary and Dean are amazing people, huh?” There was something about his tone. A sadness I recognized but hadn’t heard in a while.

I turned to him, but his gaze was still on the picture. A slight smile graced his face. “Are you okay?” I asked.

His eyebrows furrowed before he looked at me. “Of course. Why?”

I shrugged. “Nothing,” I said, even though a part of me didn’t believe him.

Sighing, he sat back down on the sofa. “I’m just tired, Chloe. Don’t take it personally. The shifts are taking their toll. Lisa being away in college and barely having time for phone calls. You—with this whole Blake thing—”

“It’s not a thing.”

“Are you sure? Because I never thought I’d see the day when I had to start turning boys away for you.” He grinned now, the amusement evident.

“I’m positive,” I assured him, then changed the subject. “Did I wake you when I showed up?”

“No,” he said quickly, though I knew it was a lie. My expression must have shown it, because he added, “Yes, but it’s no big deal.”

I grabbed the cushion from behind me and set it on my lap, patting it twice as an invitation. He didn’t hesitate, just set his mug down on the coffee table, rested his head on my lap, and kicked his legs up, settling them over the arm of the sofa. His eyes slowly drifted shut while I ran my fingers through his hair. “This is nice,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, you stopped having nightmares after a while—actually, right after my thirteenth birthday—and you didn’t need my help anymore.” I knew why he’d stopped having them, but I didn’t want to bring it up.

It was silent for a moment before a chuckle escaped him. His eyes snapped open.

“What?”

“Remember you used to sing to me while you did this? I tried to deal with it for like, a week, but then I couldn’t take it anymore. Your singing voice is ass.”