Mom puts the pan on the drying mat, then dries her hands and puts one on her hip. "Why are you giving your time to someone if you can't trust them?"
"I can trust her," I say before I think, and instantly regret it.
"You trust her so much you worry about her spreading gossip about our family?" Mom questions.
Guilt gnaws at me. I soften my tone, confessing, "Okay. I only trust her with certain things."
"Like what?" Mom asks.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I shut it and swallow hard.
"That's what I thought," Mom states.
I stare at her.
She adds, "If you can't trust someone, they aren't your friend."
My stomach dives. Is she right about Hazel and our friendship?
Mom returns to washing the dishes, and I go outside, taking laps around the barn and front yard until I hear a vehicle. My heart races again. I turn the corner, but disappointment hits me when it's only Ava.
She parks her car, gets out, and wags her finger. "You owe me."
"I did it for Wyatt," I claim.
"That girl doesn't belong in our house. She's a nightmare. You're playing with cyanide hanging out with her," Ava warns.
"She's not that bad," I protest.
Ava crosses her arms and tilts her head. "Keep telling yourself that lie. Don't say I didn't warn you when she burns you." She stomps off into the house.
I return to pacing the yard. It feels like forever until I hear the throaty growl of Dad's diesel truck.
Relief fills me when everyone gets out. Jagger and Sebastian grab items from the truck bed. They go into the house, and I follow them.
"Willow, this isn't your business," Dad declares when I step into the kitchen.
"I can help Mom," I offer.
"No. This isn't your business," Dad repeats in a sterner tone.
I glance at Wyatt's face, which has swelled even more, and my heart sinks.
His open eye meets mine. He mutters, "I'm fine, Willow. Go play, and stop worrying about me."
"Play? I'm not a little kid," I proclaim.
"Willow. Mind your own business like Dad told you to," Sebastian demands.
I cave, leaving the house in a sulk. I go for a long walk, thinking about all the things Hazel said, what my mom said, and Wyatt's bruised and battered body.
It's not fair. He doesn't deserve a nasty father, but no one has ever been able to do anything about it. Now that he's almost eighteen, at least he won't have to return to his house.
The afternoon sun begins to set. I turn the corner and catch Wyatt entering the barn. I make my way across the field and slip past the heavy wooden door, passing the dozens of stalls until I reach the final one.
He's sitting on a bale of hay with his cowboy hat on his knee. His head leans against the wall, battered fists clenched, and eyes closed.
I step closer.
