Page 12 of Rhodes

No one else, including Libba? That's dramatic. Libba is perfect.

"When Mama was sick, you know who flew me home every single weekend on his family's jet so I could sit with her so Dad could sleep? He didn't do it because anybody asked him. He's got a way of acting like he doesn't care about anything so you won't notice he cares about everything."

That lands somewhere I wasn't guarding.

"That's not fair," I say. "Bringing Mama into it."

"I'm not bringing her into it. She's already in it. She's in everything right now." His voice goes rough on the last word, and he looks at the ceiling for a second, and I have to look away, because if he cries, I'm done.

I'll agree to anything, and he knows it. The worst part is he's not even doing it on purpose.

"Look. Here's the deal, and then I'll shut up. You take the room at Rhodes' place, or I don't go. That's it, plain and simple. I'm not getting on a plane to Spain and leaving you to live alone in a foreign city with no family. So if it's not Rhodes, it's me. I stay, I defer the program until after graduation, we live together in my place, and I hover so hard you'll wish you'd taken the irresponsible trust funder."

"You can't defer. Mama made you promise."

"Then help me keep the promise." He spreads his hands. Checkmate, and he knows it. At least he has the grace to look a little sorry about it. "Take the room. Let me go. I'm begging you."

I can fight being managed all day long. I've got years of practice fighting being managed. What I can't do is be the reason my brother breaks a promise to our dead mother.

"For the record," I say, "this is emotional blackmail."

"For the record, I learned it from you." He almost smiles. "Is that a yes?"

I look at the empty canvas bag on the floor, the flat boxes, and the unfolded sheets in the laundry basket and sigh.

"Do I have to stay there over the summer too? I had planned to stay here for the summer to keep my meetings, work on the reef. I hadn’t planned to go back to Charleston in May to be everybody's project for three months."

“When does your lease start with Jo?”

“August.”

“Let’s tackle one thing at a time. My program is over at the end of May, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing yet. Can we commit to the semester and then talk about summer? You never know, you may love living with Rhodes.”

It comes a half second late. My father did that same thing to me on the phone Friday about Oak Moss, blowing me off and not committing to anything. I make a mental note.

"Fine," I say. "I'll do it. But know I'm not happy about this. I'm begging you all to stop acting as if I'll break. Eventually, you have to trust me."

Coop lets out a breath like he's been holding it since the funeral. Then he crosses the kitchen and pulls me into a hug I don't want and need, and he smells like our dad's boat and the same soap he's used since he was fourteen. For one second I let myself be his little sister instead of his problem, and I hold on a beat too long.

Rhodes's place is one of those old Uptown shotgun houses off Audubon Street with a full, New Orleans front porch stretched across the entire side elevation of the house. A huge live oak that's buckled the sidewalk out front into something you could break an ankle on sits off to the right.

Coop parks at the curb and I stay still in my seat for a second, looking at it while the engine ticks. I've been at Tulane for six months, and this is the first time I've ever seen where he lives.

My whole life for the next four months is reduced to two boxes, my bookbag, a milk crate of books, and a laundry basket in the trunk of the car.

"It's a nice place," Coop offers.

"It's a frat house on a fancy street."

The door opens before we're even up the walk, and there he is, filling the frame of it in a gray T-shirt and bare feet, hair doing whatever it wants. Why does he have to be so damn good-looking?

I've known that face since before I could talk, and it has stopped matching the one I've always associated with the boy I grew up with in the marsh grass and making tree forts with. Somewhere in the last couple of years, he picked up four inches on Coop and the shoulders that go with them. The same light hazel eyes are now more vibrant, framed by thick, dark eyelashes and high cheekbones. It's a good face. It has always been a good face. Right now I'd like to close the door on it, though.

He lifts a hand at Coop like this is the most normal thing in the world, like he didn't just agree to warehouse his best friend's damaged sister for a semester.

"You ready to go to Spain?" Rhodes asks him as they do the handshake-hug thing men do, the back-clap. He makes eye contact with me over Cooper's shoulder, and I look away.

"I think so. As ready as I'll ever be," Coop says, turning back to me, grabbing for my duffel. I keep it on my shoulder because I'll be damned if either of them is carrying it. I feel exactly like what I am: a piece of furniture being delivered between two men I love but am currently extremely annoyed with.