“The tennis ball,” I whisper.
It’s the final straw. The dam breaks, and the secondCooper puts the truck in park, I’m out the door, making a beeline for the entrance.
“Amara!” Cooper calls after me in a panic.
“You know, I had to learn about your grandpa passing in aFacebook post?”I spit, voice ricocheting off the walls of the garage as I turn around.
Cooper comes to a stop in the middle of the room.
“One of the people I loved most in the world. I lost you. Your sister barely talked to me. And I learn he died on social media.”
The tears fall, and all I want to do is lie on the ground and let them overtake me.
It feels like reliving it all over again.
Cooper opens his mouth to say something, but I turn around, making a beeline for the elevator.
The doors close just as Cooper comes into view again, his face ashen.
But it’s not until I get to his entrance that I realize I forgot the key he gave me.
I’m stuck in front of his door, my head resting on the wall as I will myself to stop crying.
Cooper is there only a few minutes later, looking pale as a ghost.
He unlocks the door, letting me in first.
And he disappears into his room without a word.
CHAPTER 20
COOPER
Late Fall, 2008
“Now, why do you think that’s hanging there? Just for shits and giggles?” Grandpa Kenny scolds as the front of the truck hits the back of the garage.
“Oh my god,” I groan, smacking my face.
“You gotta be careful, Son. Once you reach halfway into the garage, roll to a stop. And stop completely the second that tennis ball hits the window.”
“How many times did you hit the back wall until you had to put that tennis ball up?” Amara grins from the backseat, loving the pain I’m in.
Grandpa brushes her off with an eye roll, the toothpick in his mouth looking more and more like a weapon as the minutes go by.
“It’s always been up,” he says gruffly, popping his door open.
The three of us crawl out.
“Kenny, you’re going to teach me to drive, too, right?” Amara asks.
The truth is, I shouldn’t be driving. I’m still a few yearsout, but here, in the off-season, no one really cares. Grandpa has been teaching me to drive since I was little—mostly in parking lots.
As we get everything into the kitchen, Amara lets us know she’ll be right back. The second she’s out of the room, Grandpa turns to me.
“You better watch it, kid.”
My eyes widen, a sense of dread settling at the base of my stomach. “What do you mean?”
