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“You can’t respond to every idiot who says something you don’t like by putting them on the ground,” I reasoned. His shoulders were high enough to touch his ears. I searched his hazel eyes; he acted out of impulse because he cared, and he’d never handled unexpected touch well.

“He wasn’t just saying something I didn’t like.”

“I know,” I said, resigned.

“You don’t know.” His voice cracked. “You weren’t there.”

I remembered what it was like to live on the outskirts, to hear the things that people said when they thought I couldn’t hear them.

“What did it feel like?” I asked quietly.

“What?” He blinked away glassy eyes, thrown.

“When he said those things,” I said.

His jaw trembled once before he locked it down.

“It felt like . . .” He swallowed. “Like he thought he could say it because it was true.” My chest split open.

“It’s not true,” I said immediately. He shrugged one shoulder, but his eyes were shiny.

“I don’t know what’s true,” he admitted. “I don’t know anything about this place. I don’t know anything about you before me.”

He didn’t know because I hadn’t told him.

“You don’t talk about it,” he went on. “About why we left. About why we came here. About why people look at us weird.” His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “I’m not stupid, Cal,” he blurted.

“I know you’re not.” And I couldn’t easily distract him with Nerf guns and building a Lego car like I could when he was eleven years old.

“Then stop acting like I am,” he said.

I couldn’t keep him in the dark forever. I exhaled slowly.

“You’re right,” I said. He froze.

“I should have told you more.” His brows knit together.

“I thought I was protecting you,” I continued. “From my mess. From my mistakes. From the way this town can chew people up and spit them out. I had hoped that maybe things had changed.”

“I can handle it,” he shot back.

“I know you think you can.”

“I can,” he said as if trying to convince himself.

His hands were shaking. I reached out carefully and wrapped my fingers around one of his fists. He stilled for half a second before his muscles relaxed.

“You don’t have to fight every battle for me,” I said.

“I’m not fighting for you.”

“No?”

“It’s not right.” He huffed. “When someone talks about you like that,” he said, eyes bright now, “it feels like they’re trying to take something away from me.”

My throat burned because he understood what it felt like to have something taken.

“What are they trying to take?” I asked gently.