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like, doing something you’d rather ditch?”
    Hudson drops his eyes and starts tracing the hand-drawn letters scrawled across his sneaker. My heart pangsatthefamiliarpose.
    “Unlikely,”heconcludes.
    “Whydo you thinkI’mhere?”Iaskhim.
    “Don’tknow.”Heshrugs.“Whyareyouheretonight?Whyweren’tyoutherelastyear?I’vestopped tryingtofigureyouout.”
    Guilt seeps, thick and viscous, through my chest. It was slow, getting to know Hudson. Every word wasearned.Eachconfidence,agift.Butlosinghim,thatwaseasy.
    Quick.
    “Krisneededme.”
    Hudson’shandhoversoverhissneaker.
    “ I neededyou.”Eachwordisquiet,clipped.Thesamewayhesoundedthenightofthemanhuntgame.
    Meetme, he’dsaid,mouthpressedclosetothephone. Promise.
    ButIwasn’tthere.
    I clutch the arms of my chair and think about Jolene, bare shouldered and buzzed on the couch upstairs,waitingforhim.
    “SeemslikeJolenewasadecentstand-in.”
    Hudsonsinksbackinhisseatandstaresatapointinmidair,asifJolene’ssittinghere,betweenus.
    Ilookinthesamedirection.
    “She was there.” He casts a quick glance my way, drops his crossed leg to the floor, and runs his handsupanddownthethighsofhisjeans.“ShegotwhatIwasgoingthrough.”
    Thebackofmythroatburns.Jolenedidn’t get him.I gave himtoher.Shedrewhimoutofmeonso manyJuneafternoons.Wordbyword.Storybystory.Itoldherhowhehatedtotalkonthephone.How hishandfeltinthedarkandhisskinsmelledupclose.Howhismomhadleftandhisdadwasdrinking, pickingfightswithhim.Howhewasshy,thenbold,closed,butopening.Italkedandtalkedandtalked, andsheingestedeverythingIsaiduntilitwashers,andsowashe.
    “Atleastshedidbackthen,”hesays.
    “Andnow?”Iasktentatively.
    “Now?Idon’tknow.”Hudsontensesatsomememory,likeitphysicallypainshim.Idon’tknowwhat he’sthinking,butIdon’thaveto.IknowJolene.I’vegotplentyofmyownscarsitchingtoopenupand bleed.
    “Ishouldn’thavementionedher,”Isay.“Sorry.”
    “No,it’sokay,”hesays,andsighs,resigned.“That’swhyIbrokeupwithher.”
    “Noshit,”Iexclaim.TheideaofHudson,oranyone,willfullydisobeyingJoleneseemscompletely impossibletome.
    “Shit,”heconfirms,rollingastraystripofsneakerrubberbetweenhisfingers.
    Andtheneverythingabouttonightfallsintoplace.WhyHudsonwashangingbackintheshadowsat thebonfire.WhyhetoldmeIwasblowinghiscover.Itwasn’tjustabouthimkeepingtheusualdistance fromeverything.Itwasbecausehedidn’twantJolenetoseehim.
    “Don’tactsosurprised,”hecontinues.“It’snotlikeI’mthefirstpersontowalkawayfromher.”
    Ilowermyeyebrows.Heraiseshis.
    “Really?”heasks.Ishakemyhead.Idon’tknowwhathemeans.
    Hudsonpropshiselbowsonhiskneesandleanshiswholebodytowardme.“Youdidn’tjustleave methatnight.Youlefther,too.”
    I left her .
    Technically,he’sright.IwalkedawayfromJolene.Twice.Butitdidn’tfeellikeleaving.Itfeltlike beingbent.Likebreaking.
    “Hey,”hesays,hisvoiceclosertomenow,socloseIcansmellhisbreath—themixofmintandbeer.
    “Areyouokay?”
    Myhandsareshaking.Hudsontakestheminhisandtightenshisgripuntilthey’restill.
    “Thanks,”Isay,staringathishands,howtheycoverminecompletely.
    “It’scool,”hesays.AndforasecondIworryhe’sgoingtotakethemaway,buthedoesn’t.Instead,he runshisthumbsupanddowntheinsidesofmywrists.
    Nowthatmyhandsarestill,therestofmetrembles.
    Untilheavythudsbeatdownonus,shakingtheceilingandswayingthechandelier.Thedanceparty must have started. Either that or a stampede—people running from the police. I stiffen again. Hudson’s griptightens.Icanfeelthecurveofhissilverringonmywrist.
    Welookup.Listen.Theheavythudssettleintoarhythm.Soit’sdancingthen,notasignaltoescape.
    We’resafe.Irelaxmyhandsintohis.
    “Istillcan’tbelieveyouleft,”hesaysunderhisbreath.
    Somethingplummetsinthepitofmystomach.Evenhere,withmyhandsinhis,evennowthatI’vetold himKrisneededme—he’sstillangry.
    “Look,IknowIdidn’tshowupforyou,andthatIstoppedspeakingtoJolenethatnight,too,andthat youguysprobablybondedoverhowmuchyouhatedme;butwhateverJolenetoldyou,whatevershesaid,