"Do you have copies anywhere else?" I ask, and when he glares at me without answering, "I haven't decided whether or not I'm pressing charges yet-tell me the truth and maybe I won't."

He's still sneering, but his eyes are a little wider and I think maybe my words are sinking in. Finally, he shakes his head. "Those were the only ones."

I throw the phone at him. It ricochets off his chest, and one of the bouncers grabs it-then he's hauled away and thrown out the side employee entrance.

And the entire patio erupts in cheers.

I turn, realizing only at this moment the spectacle we've created. But nobody looks mad. Clark catches my eye from behind the bar, where we've been working silently together, and mouths, "Good girl."

"Next round's on the house," Zach calls out.

Someone else yells, "It was already free," to which Zach replies, "Exactly!" People laugh and a few minutes later things are back to normal. Except Nicole's in Gage's spot on stage and Clark's manning the bar solo for now. Because Zach wants Gage and me in his office.

I hope Gage isn't in trouble, but damn if that wasn't completely worth it.

He cradles his hand while we walk together, and I see the knuckles are bleeding. His lip is, too. I want to reach out and wrap his injured hand in my own still cut-up palm. "Are you okay?" I ask, instead.

"God, that felt good."

"Really? The fight felt good?"

"My fist connecting with his face is the best I've felt in weeks..."

"Why did you hit him?'

"You know why." He glances at me from under those long, thick lashes. "He deserved it."

"Well..." I pause to swallow and combat the attraction seeping furiously under my skin. It's hard. I don't think of myself as someone who loves violence, but something about seeing Gage lose control over me, something about the rage he took out on Jared on my behalf...It's making me hot. Or maybe it's just Gage altogether. Being around him in general makes it hard to control myself. "Thank you."

He shrugs. "You looked like you were about to handle him yourself-sorry I cut you off. I couldn't help it."

"You took him down way better than I could've."

We sit next to each other in Zach's office. He doesn't even yell at Gage. Just throws him an ice pack for his hand and asks if we're okay. And apologizes that Jared made it back in at all.

A few minutes later, I'm behind the bar. And Gage goes home, his hand too swollen to hold his guitar for the night.

I can't help but hope that something between us is changing. That the one glimmer of light in this otherwise entirely shitty situation is that he's working toward forgiving me.

Toward letting me back in.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE.

Yeah. No. Gage isn't letting me back in.

He's friendly at work, a little less stiffly polite, but that's about as far as we get. He sings each shift, but his hand is too swollen to play guitar the first few nights so Nicole does it beside him. He doesn't stop by my apartment again. He doesn't mention hitting Jared again. I ask him about Katy, and it sounds like she's slowly working her way through the hard-hitting first few weeks of grief.

But that's it. I get nothing else from him.

And I have to be okay with it.

I mean, I'm not. But I'm trying my hardest to respect what he wants, which is apparently nothing more than friendship in the loosest of terms.

"He still wants you," Teagan swears, when we're out to dinner with Vera a couple weeks later-after promising me she has zero hard feelings about the time I spent with Gage. I had to check, though, after what Vera said to me in all her anger over the photos. "A boy doesn't do the things he's done for you without some serious L-O-V-E in his heart."

"Or he's just a good person," I counter and sip the whiskey I've ordered, enjoying the heat against the back of my throat, the ice clinking around the glass as I set it down, reminding me of my father. But that's another sadness for another day. One that I have plans to fix. At least a little...

"Nope." Vera shoves a chip in her mouth, washing it back with a beer. "Teagan's right."

"No shit," Teagan says, drolly. "Cassidy, I told you before and I'll tell you again. He's not over you."

"Can we not talk about Gage anymore?" I beg. "I just want to have fun with you girls before I go back to school."

"Yeah-no more boy talk!" Vera says. "Boys are the fucking worst."

"Says the girl who can't stop checking out our waiter," I tease. But it's a relief to see her enjoying herself. She's had a rough couple of weeks. Ignoring calls from Jared. Generally feeling low for falling for someone like him. But I tell her over and over that we've all made mistakes-and that she'll be happy with someone else before she knows it. Or even by herself. She just needs time. And I think it's starting to sink in.

"Juan's hot," she says. "Just because I'm on a diet doesn't mean I can't look at the dessert menu from time to time."

"Anyway." Teagan rolls her eyes. "Hurry up and leave for North Carolina so Vera and I can become like totally best friends forever and ever and forget all about you." She raises her voice in mock valley girl tone, and I can tell by Vera's expression that she's not sure whether or not to be offended. I can't really tell either, but that's Teagan for you. And a second later she's making us laugh, telling all sorts of-only some true-stories about me in high school. Unfortunate hair decisions. When I accidentally told my old-enough-to-be-my-grandfather math teacher I loved him. (It was first period. I hadn't had coffee yet. I meant to say, "Thank you.") The time I laughed so hard I peed a little in gym class... Almost enough time has passed for the memory to make me laugh.

Almost.

We spend the rest of the night drinking and dancing salsa with strangers and by the time I'm in bed, I think maybe they will actually become friends, even without me around.

A few mornings later I wake up and it's somehow already the day of the Franklin Charles concert. It's also my last day of work before heading back to school. My senior year. Something I both look forward to and dread. But there's too much to do today to let that anxiety sneak in.

Starting with a phone call to my mother.

Coffee first, I tell myself. Coffee is a must.

Then a shower, I decide. Because hygiene is important, even if I had a lapse there a few weeks ago.

Then some packing, though most everything is already good to go. But maybe I left something under the bed. Or the couches. Or... Oh, hell. There's nowhere else to look. I can't put it off anymore.

I head into my room and perch on the edge of my mattress, nervous anxiety making it hard to scroll through my phone, but I manage to make the call.

She answers on the first ring. "Cassidy? Oh, honey, I'm so glad you're calling."

"Really?" It's a rush to hear her voice, a relief, too. After the response I got from my dad in North Carolina, I wasn't sure how my mom would react to hearing from me. But she sounds happy. The real kind of happy, too. Not the zombified BS from earlier this summer.

"I've missed you," she says.

"Oh, sure," I say, drily. "It was very evident in all the phone calls I had from you this summer." I meant to keep this call light. Easy. But I can't take back the words-and now that they're out, I don't actually want to.

She hesitates; the sound of her breathing comes lightly through the phone. "I knew you'd reach out when you were ready."

"So it's my job to make up with you and Dad?" I stand and begin pacing, my fingers itching to throw something breakable, but all of my things are already packed. I ball them, unfulfilled, at my sides.

"No, honey, that's not what I mean." This time a deep breath reaches through the phone and I'm struck with the memory of the day I found her just standing there in the great room, crying. "I'm struggling with what to say."

"You're my parents. You're supposed to care that I'm gone." Hurt feelings are an avalanche, forcing the words from my mouth, even if the memory of her tears is still stuck in my mind.

"I cared-we both cared, Cassidy. You left home, and it broke our hearts-"

"Maybe you broke my heart, too, did you ever think of that?"

"Every day," she says, her voice cracking. "But I didn't want to put that pressure on you. You made it clear you needed space."

"I..." I close my mouth, damming the anger ready to roll out of it. Not in a million years have I imagined this was the reason for radio silence. "You were keeping your distance because you thought I wanted it?"

"I wasn't sure what you wanted," she says, quietly. "I haven't been myself. I didn't know what to do. I'm sorry."

I'm not sure I understand, not entirely, but it's true she hasn't been herself. None of us have. And...maybe it's like the times I wanted to scream Jason's name in her face, the times I wanted to force her to speak about him, to acknowledge he existed. I kept it all inside because I was afraid I'd break her heart even more. I didn't want to push too hard. Maybe that's what she's saying. She didn't want to push me, either.

Now, though...I don't think I have to keep my feelings-my memories-about Jason locked inside. She doesn't sound as fragile, as fake. "I saw the flowers at Jason's grave. The picture, too."

She's silent for a long time and I wonder if I spoke too soon. Then she says, "We're trying to move forward. We've been visiting him every Sunday."

Her words are like the sweetest song and as she says them, a huge chunk of the boulder of my resentment chips and slides away. "Maybe I can come with you sometime, when I'm back from school again."

"I would love that."

"I'd like to come to your place later, if you and Dad aren't busy?" Please don't be busy.

"Not our place," she says. "Home, Cassidy. Come home."

I tell her I'll be there at five, and when we hang up, I have tears in my eyes, but for the first time in a long time, they're of the happy variety.

I am a mass of anxiety when I pull up at five. I'm tempted to go inside, just for a moment, to see if the pictures of Jason are back up. But if they are, if I step through the doorway and see the house the way it used to be, I may never want to leave. And tonight's too important. So I call my mom, instead, and tell her that she and my dad need to come outside. To me.

I step out to wait for them and when the front door opens my heart is in my throat-but it turns out I don't need to be quite so apprehensive.

My mom darts toward me, throwing her arms around me. It's the first time she's hugged me, truly hugged me, in over eight months. And, finally, the house in front of me begins to look like home again.

Well. Almost.

My dad stands a few feet away, his arms crossed. "Cassidy," he says, his voice as gruff as ever. "Will you be staying for dinner?"

It's as much of an apology as I'm going to get about his refusal to help me in North Carolina. Not that I'm letting him off the hook for it. But for now, all I need is a bridge over it to the place where we can start speaking to each other again, and he's just begun building it.

"Actually," I tell him over my mom's shoulder, "I'm kidnapping you both. Get in my car."

"To where?" he asks.

"Can't tell you that yet." I'm pretty sure he won't come if he knows our destination.

"I don't think so." He doesn't move, but my mom spins around and I can hear the glare she shoots him in the tone of her voice.

"Bradley Evans, get in the car. We talked about this."

And just like that, he does it. All businessman all the time-unless it comes to my mother. Then he's nothing but a softie. And even though things between us are far from okay, I find myself warming to him a little. Even if he grumbles the entire ride-and especially when he realizes we're headed to BackBar. "Really, Cassidy. A concert? There's too much to discuss before you leave for school tomorrow. We don't have time for this."

Guess he didn't notice the name on the billboard because there's no way he'd sound quite so grumpy if he knew who we're about to see. After I park, I turn to face him. "You taught me pretty much from birth that there's always time for music. And now I'm bringing music back to you."

He scowls, not ready to give in, but when I glance at my mom in the passenger seat, her eyes are filled with tears. She reaches over to grip my hand in her own. "You did that the moment you called."

Zach meets us at the entrance, ushering us through the patio-I wave to Nicole and Clark at the bar and look around for Gage, but don't see him-and across the walkway, all the way to our front-row seats. The ones I asked him to set up for me that day in his office. He winks at me when he walks away, though, because his job for the night's not quite done.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," my dad says, completely uncomfortable in his seat. But I refuse to let this night be anything less than perfect.

"Dad, sit back and relax. I promise this is going to be worth it." Then, because it's true-but, if I'm being honest, also for the shock factor: "You were right, by the way. I was behaving childishly."

Surprise startles the scowl from his face.

"I ran away from you guys this summer, and from responsibility. I'm sorry for disappointing you. But I've also had the craziest summer of my life and I don't think I'd change it even if I could. Well, some of it maybe, but not taking this job. It changed my life. I am sorry, though, for letting you down."

He clears his throat. "I'm still paying for what you did at work."

"Bradley," my mom hisses beside him. "Enough."

And his expression actually softens. "We can talk about it another time."

I look past him to my mom. "I thought you were avoiding life-and I couldn't stand watching it anymore. But I turned around and did the exact same thing. I'm sorry for hurting you."

"You never need to apologize to me," she says. "Especially not about this."

Then Franklin Charles takes the stage and the expressions on their faces get added to the list of things I'll remember for a long, long time.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR.

"I didn't know Franklin Charles was in town," my dad says after the opening song.

"You haven't paid attention to music in ages. When would you have noticed?" I ask. He frowns, but I nudge him out of it, saying, "Now you know."

"Thank you for this, Cassidy," my mom says, but her voice is a little shaky. I wonder if maybe I've pushed too hard too fast, but when the next song begins, "Get Lost with You," her eyes go soft and I don't have to wonder anymore. It's their wedding song, and by the time it's halfway over, my mom's slipped her hand over my father's on his lap. He's staring at their hands instead of the stage, and I think it may be the first time she's reached for him in a long time.