SUNDAY SHIFTS ARE my favorite, partly because they're quiet, but mostly because Mr. Wilson and his lifelong best friend, Mr. Chen, come by to play checkers. The peachy-apricot glow of dawn paints the sky outside, and contentment rests over me like a warm blanket. After dropping off their plates of pancakes, I prop my hand on my hip and lean over their table.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson," I say, "but I think Mr. Chen has got you on this one."

"You think so, do you?" A sly smirk crosses Mr. Wilson's face as he taps his piece over the board. Mr. Chen tosses his moss-colored bucket hat on the table.

"Hey, at least I was on your side." I nudge him, and he wheezes out a laugh.

"Thank you, Jillian. I'll get him next time."

They always come bright and early, right before the breakfast rush. As they wait for their pancakes to cool, they reminisce about the old days—fishing in the lake, catching tadpoles in the pond, skiing down the hillside even though it was rocky and reckless. Mr. Chen even fractured his shin doing that once, but it didn't stop them from hitting the slopes again. I pull up a seat and listen. I love hearing them talk about their lives; I guess I'm an old soul. Maybe that's why I enjoy seeing my Dee's customers more than my classmates.

Carson's words from Friday surface in my mind, how he thinks he'll stay in Hull forever. When I'm an old lady living in the city, what types of stories will I tell about this place? I spend so much of my waking life dreaming about getting away, sometimes I forget to live in the moment. So I breathe in my surroundings; the table's wobbly but Mr. Wilson and Mr. Chen always pick it; the windows are smudgy but they still let the light in; the fabric of this chair is torn but a generation of Hull citizens have sat on it. It's all beautiful in its own, characteristic way. And I guess, sometimes, I do love it here.

My phone dings in the pocket of my apron and I quickly check it—another notification from YouTube. People actually like my song. I smile at my screen, pride rising in me.

"What's that grin for, Jillie?" Mr. Wilson asks, still focused on the checker board.

I slip my phone back into my pocket. "Someone just commented on my video and said they like my singing," I tell him. "I just uploaded it the other day, but I already have a few thousand views."

"You doing that Tube thing again?" Mr. Chen asks, and I laugh.

"Yes, YouTube. It's how I get feedback on my work."

"Your dad can get your music out there, can't he?" Mr. Wilson asks.

A pause. It stings to hear about my dad so casually, but I can't expect Mr. Wilson to be caught up on my relationship with my dad—everyone in town knows he left, but some people probably assume we still talk. We don't.

"I don't want my dad to promote me," I say. "I like knowing my success is my own and not his, you know? Besides, I haven't talked to him in a while."

A heaviness hangs in the air; my dad's ghost haunting me. He never even stepped foot in this diner, but sometimes I feel him here—imagine how life would be if he stuck around. Maybe he'd be the one working to help my mom stay on top of things, and not Carson Blue.

Fat chance.

Speaking of Carson, it's already 7:54 a.m.—if he doesn't show up in six minutes, he's going to be late. Worry spins inside me, because since he started working with us last week, he's shown up half an hour early every day, without fail. He's been busting his ass to show Mom he's worth it.

Carson did end up leaving the party with Clarissa on Friday, and he seemed genuine when he said he wasn't going to get high. I want to believe him. I want to believe in him, even though I've seen the way drugs can control a person's life.

But Carson isn't Dad. They're two different people.

As I'm cleaning up Mr. Wilson and Mr. Chen's plates, the door to the diner flies open and Carson rushes in with his hoodie half-zipped, his backpack dangling off his shoulder.

"Hey, there you are." I toss the plates in a bus bin behind the counter. "I was getting worried."

He's three shades paler than usual and deep bags are punctured beneath his panicked eyes. Not only that, but his neck has reddish-purple splotches all over it—as in the darkest hickeys I've ever seen.

"Jill, I fucked up."

"What the hell, Blue? You look like you were mauled!"

"I'm sorry." He wrings his hand along the back of his neck, looking ten different colors of guilty. Part of me wants to be pissed; coming into work like that is so unprofessional, but at the same time, it's not like this place is The Ritz. Besides, I've warmed up to the idea of having Carson around, and Mom will stress if she sees this.

"Come on," I say, "let's cover it up."

He follows me into the sunroom, and I rifle through the vanity drawer until I find a bottle of my old foundation, half-empty and separated.

"Here we go." I shake the bottle. "You're lucky I live literally upstairs, I always have junk lying around."

He shifts on his heels. "What're you doing?"

I grab his shoulders and direct him to a stool. Carson sits, lowering his height so his head reaches just below my chin.

"Just stay still." I dump foundation onto the back of my hand. "I'll do my best to hide this monstrosity."

"Are you sure that'll work?" He won't look at me, and I don't blame him. This is embarrassing, even for me.

"You're a little darker than me, but yeah, it should work. I've covered my fair share of hickeys on Val's neck." I touch him right below his jawline. His skin is warm, and when he doesn't jerk away, I dab the makeup on him. Heat rises to my cheeks. "Jesus, Blue. I didn't know Clarissa was a vampire."

His face reddens, and I can't help but picture Carson being so good in bed that Clarissa did this to him, and my heart beats faster because yeah, okay, it's a little hot. Thanks to small town gossip, I've heard all about how he's as "skilled with his hands" as he is with "other things." Not all rumors about him are bad.

Add that to the list of things I'll never say out loud.

"The, uh, trailer walls are thin," he mutters. "I needed her to, you know... not be loud."

I laugh to hide my lava-hot embarrassment. "Thank you for the much-needed explanation. Next time, tell her to chew on a stick or something."

"Sorry."

I'm close enough to smell the cigarettes and booze on him. Underneath is something nicer, like pine and wood. Grazing his skin with my fingertips, I ask, "So you were partying again last night, huh?"

"Nah. I was cooped up at home all weekend, but drank a bit last night."

I'm quiet. I want to ask if he ended up getting high at all, but that feels so nosy.

"I was just drinking though," he adds, as if he can read my mind.

My eyes dwindle on his face. We haven't been this close since the eighth-grade graduation dance. Even though Carson hadn't said two words to me all year, he asked me to dance during some sappy John Legend song, ribbons of purple streamers hanging over our heads in the midnight-blue darkness of Hull Middle School's gymnasium. Unlike some of the other guys I'd danced with, he kept his hands on my waist, far from my ass, and didn't try to make it weird. He didn't smell as much like smoke then.

Crazy how much people change. I was a scared little girl back then, graduated the eighth grade narrowly a year after my dad left. It was the only time in my life I was the center of Hull's gossip; everyone knew I was shattered, abandoned, left to dry. But now I won't let anyone see the scars. Now I'm stronger.

I brush away the memory and stand upright. "There, good as new."

Carson scratches the side of his head. "Thanks, Jill."

"S'okay."

Mom bursts into the room, and I tuck the bottle of foundation behind my back. "What the hell are you two doing? Are we all on break or something? The morning rush is starting!"

Carson and I exchange a grin before we get to work.

***

Dee's closes early on Sundays, so by the time sunset casts a golden glow over the tables, I'm ready for a night off. Carson whips by with more dishes than I can carry, dumps them in the kitchen, then zooms back out.

"Hey, slow down," I say, laughing. "What's the big hurry?"

He wipes beads of sweat off his forehead. "No hurry. Just trying to stay focused."

The bell dings. I look up and say, "Sorry, we're closing soon—Nolan!"

I run at him for a hug, but stop myself. It's strange—feels like only yesterday Nolan was a little boy who loved hugging his cousin, but now he's all moody and tall and yeah, I get he's embarrassed by me. Colleen walks in behind him wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses.

"What are you guys doing here?" I ask.

Colleen blows and pops some bubble gum. "Just getting some shopping done, thought we'd stop by." She raises her sunglasses and glances at Carson. "Damn, when'd you start working here?"

Carson holds his hands together and shifts his weight.

"He started last week," I tell Colleen. When she gives Carson a suggestive look, scanning up his body, I grit my teeth and turn her away from him. "Something I can help you with, Colleen?"

"Are you and your mom still coming over for dinner? 'Cause we eat at seven-thirty, no sooner, no later, got it? I like to keep on a schedule..."

Colleen keeps rambling, but I tune my ears to Carson and Nolan's conversation.

"Thought I heard someone playing the other night," Carson says. "Was hoping that was you. Glad you're still playing."

Nolan can't seem to meet Carson's eyes; he has awkward teenager written all over him, and I'm still not used to it. "Yeah, but I'm not good."

"You'll get better. Just gotta keep practicing."

"I hear you playing all the time. You're really good. Maybe you could teach me or something again?"

A smile lights up Carson's face. "Hell yeah buddy, I'd love to keep teaching you."

I wish Nolan would ask me to play with him. But according to him, it'd be lame if he learned from me. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy he's interested in music—but it still stings.

"Are you even listening?" Colleen's haggard voice cuts into my head, and I snap out of it.

"Sorry, what'd you say?"

"I said I got a job interview at the grocery store, could be really big for me."

"Oh, that's great, Colleen." I mean that. Colleen is certainly not the sharpest tool in the shed, so she has a lot of trouble finding work. We won't hire her here because she thinks she can slack off with family. As much as I hate to admit it, Nolan's smarts come from their dad—Tim Mills was a lazy asshole, but he was never stupid. There was nothing he couldn't fix. Except his marriage.

"Anyway, see you tonight." Colleen turns on her heel and snaps her fingers. "Come on, Nolan, let's go!"

With sad blue eyes, Nolan pulls himself away from Carson.

"Hey," Carson says, "we'll make plans soon, all right?"

As soon as Nolan and Colleen are gone, I lock the door before more customers can sneak in. Carson and I face each other under the flickering fluorescent bulb I was supposed to change. I'm silent for a moment, still a little burnt from overhearing Nolan ask Carson to play guitar with him. But I should be happy someone could make him smile, even if it wasn't me.

"Hey, thanks for that," I say. "Nolan doesn't exactly have any, um, men left in his life. He likes you."

"He wants me to teach him guitar." Carson takes off his apron and hangs it over his arm. "That okay with you?"

Chewing on my lip, I nod. "I guess so. Just... do me a favor? Don't let him think it's cool to do drugs."

"Wouldn't wish that on anyone."

Then why do you do it?

"Thanks," I say. "And when you're with him, can you make sure your brothers aren't giving him booze? It's not like Colleen doesn't have her fridge stocked—Nolan could take one anytime. But he only wants to when he's trying to impress people like—no offense—your brothers."

"I get it. No booze for the kid. You have my word."

It's strange, but I believe him. A smile sneaks to my lips. "Maybe you're a bit of a better influence than your brothers." I tap my neck. "Even with those."

Carson blushes and laughs. "I would've died of embarrassment if your mom saw these. Thanks again."

"You got it."

I decide to let Carson off the hook early—he seems tired, and he worked real hard today. When he leaves, I head to the sunroom to put away my apron. Face-up on the coffee table is a black Android phone. Carson must've forgot it.

I'll be at the trailer park later anyway, so I'll give it to him then.

***

When Mom and I agreed to come to Colleen's for dinner, I should've known we'd be having pork 'n' beans. To make it worse, she mixed a bunch of Kraft mac n' cheese in there, so there's this soupy, brown, cheesy, hot-doggy mess in front of me.

All four of us—Mom, Colleen, Nolan, and me—are crammed around the dinky kitchen table of the trailer. Nolan is eating out of a plastic Cars bowl with matching cutlery. Sometimes I wonder if Colleen is even aware Nolan is entering high school next year.

"I can't eat this, Colleen." Mom's nose scrunches as she shoves her bowl away. "Do you have any idea how carcinogenic hot dogs are?"

"Oh, shut it," Colleen says. "You grew up on hot dogs just as well as me. And that restaurant of yours might as well sell cat food."

"That is not true. I pay extra for organic, locally sourced meat. It's worth it to not feed people cancer-causers."

"Hot dogs aren't cancer-causers. It's a myth. You shouldn't believe everything you read on the internet."

"It's actually true," Nolan mumbles and pokes a bean. "Hot dogs are one of the worst foods for you."

Colleen drops her fork on her plate and glares at Mom. "There, you see? Now you've got my kid all paranoid with your bullshit."

Mom puffs up. Uh-oh, this isn't good. I have all kinds of respect for Mom, but sometimes when she's around Colleen, it's like they're both bratty teenagers. I'm glad I don't have a sibling to butt heads with, though I have always sort of secretly wanted an annoying little sister or a protective big brother. That's okay though. I have my cousin.

"Hey," I whisper to him, "you done eating? Carson left his phone at work, I've got to give it to him."

Without hesitation, Nolan pushes away from the table. Mom and Colleen keep bitching at each other as we slip into the chilly night. I shiver and pull my sleeves over my hands as we walk down the dirt road of the trailer park. A waxing moon gleams above us, and the lake rolls against the shore in the distance.

I'd rather not stop by Carson's and give him his phone while Nolan is with me—you never know what his brothers are up to, and I pissed them off pretty good the other day. I continue around the bend toward their place anyway. If Garnett and Lucas are home, I'll just have to make this quick.

The silence between Nolan and I is awkward, which is new for us. I wonder if he knows I overheard him ask Carson for guitar lessons. I wonder if he cares that it hurt my feelings, or if I even have the right to be hurt at all. Part of me wants to bring it up, but burdening him with that is selfish when he's going through so much.

"So, how's school?" I eventually ask. "Come on, you must have some interesting stories to tell."

"Not really," he mutters.

"You have that big dance coming up, you asked anyone out yet?"

"No..."

"Are you sure? You're looking pretty guilty right now." I say it teasingly, but Nolan doesn't look impressed.

"Fine, you really wanna know? I asked June McGee and she just ran away from me so I don't wanna talk about it." Nolan paces ahead, eyes glued to his feet.

"Shit, I'm sorry, buddy," I say, catching up.

"It's fine. Sorry, Jill. I'm just in a bad mood."

"It's okay. Dating at your age is hard. Believe me, I get it."

Dating at any age is hard, apparently. I've had guys ask me out over the years, but I never say yes. At this point, they mostly know to not bother, with the exception of Lenny. It's better this way.

"Is that why you never have a boyfriend?" Nolan asks.

I blush, trying to think of a response that doesn't make me sound like a total loser, just as we're passing by the Blues' place. There are two mobile homes on the property: one for Garnett and Lucas, the other for Carson and his mom. Silhouettes move behind the plaid curtains of Carson's. I know it's his because I've seen him go in and out of it before, though obviously, I've never been inside. The lights are off in the other trailer and Garnett's truck is gone, so maybe the brothers aren't home.

The porchlight clicks on when it senses us. Mosquitoes and moths zap at the lantern, and an unkempt row of sad-looking lawn gnomes frown at me from what used to be a garden. I suck in a breath and knock at the door. Someone's voice raises inside. Like a switch has been flipped, noise cuts into the night. Screaming. Crashing. Banging. Someone yells—I can't tell who, but a woman cries underneath the chaos. The trailer shakes. Glass smashes. Dread squeezes my trachea shut. My instinct is to bolt, grab my cousin and go, but shock keeps my feet embedded to the damp dirt. Everyone knows the Blues get into screaming matches like this; hell, I've even heard some myself. I shouldn't have come here, what was I thinking?

Nolan's voice snaps me out of it. "Is Carson okay?"

"I don't know, bud. Let's just go—" The trailer door whips open. It's Carson—and there's a gash down the side of his face. Blood oozes from the open wound, shards of glass twinkling against the red. It looks like someone smashed a damn bottle off his head.

"Jill?"

I'm stunned again, a deer caught in the headlights of his eyes.

"What the fuck, Carse?" Lucas shouts from inside.

"Just gimme a sec!" Carson replies, then steps outside and shuts the door behind him. He looked scared before, but frustration—or maybe anger—twists his features now. "What are you doing here?"

"I—I didn't know you were fighting, we—" I hand him the phone with a shaky arm. Heaving out a sigh, he takes it.

"I was terrified I lost this thing. Thanks." He glances at Nolan, then back at me. "You should go."

"Are you okay? You're bleeding, you're—"

Lucas yells something inside, followed by a shriek from who I'm assuming is their mom. Carson gently grabs my shoulders and turns me away.

"Go, Jill. Now."

"Blue, I—"

"Go." He gives me a small push. I nudge Nolan, beckoning him to follow me, but keep looking over my shoulder at Carson. Our eyes stay locked until he goes back inside, and the shouts of the Blue family resound through the whole trailer park.