9
BythetimeIget home, the Nevada sun is high and unapologetic, heat shimmering over the cracked sidewalk. I'm not waddling — not exactly — but I'm definitely moving slower, sore in places I didn’t know could be sore. It feels like a secret under my jeans, a private echo every time I move.
I slip my key into the lock and step into our small, slightly shabby house.
The TV is on, volume low. Dad is at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and the newspaper spread out in front of him. Drew leans against the counter, munching on dry cereal.
They both look up at me at the same time.
Crap.
"You're late," Dad says mildly, which is how I know he's actually furious. Bobby Wells doesn't yell. He weaponizes quiet disappointment like a professional. "You were meant to be home two hours ago."
I stay by the door, dropping my bag at my feet. "Morning," I say, willing my legs not to wobble. "I texted. The night shift ranover and Madeline called in sick, so I had to work the grill until Murphy could get in."
Drew snorts into his cereal. "Night shift, huh? You’ve been getting quite a few of those. Every other Friday, it seems like."
I shoot him a look. He lifts his spoon in a lazy salute to the lie I just told.
Drew knows something.
Dad folds his paper. "Sabrina."
Uh-oh. Full-name voice.
"Yes, Daddy?"
He studies my face like he's inspecting a painting for flaws. "You think I don't know you've been sneaking around with that Farrington boy?"
Double crap. Here we go.
I take a few steps into the kitchen, gripping the strap of my bag. "His name is Jordan, Daddy."
Drew makes a low, ominous sound. "Yeah. The demon pervert with the perfect smile."
"Drew," I warn.
"What? I’m just saying what your old man’s too polite to. A full-grown man rolls into town with money and charm, and goes straight for his foreman's daughter? That’s the beginning of someone’s cautionary tale."
"Drew," I grind out. "He’s not like that."
"Of course not," Drew says dryly. "They never are. Till they are."
Dad shoots him a look, then returns his eyes to me. "Why him? There are plenty of other nice boys your age—"
"I don’t want anyone else, Daddy."
He curses under his breath. "He’s not good for you."
My chest tightens, but I lift my chin. "That’s too bad. Because I love him."
Silence crashes over the kitchen. The TV hums in the background, canned laughter playing over an infomercial.
"You love him?" he repeats. "You love him! Does he love you? Listen to you? Value your opinions? Or is he just more interested in sleeping with you?"
"Daddy!" I gasp.
"I bet he reminds you every 'night shift' how lucky you are to have him," he spits, red-faced.
