Chapter two

"Dad!" I called out as I walked down the stairs the next night. "Where is Logan? He should be home already." I paused in the doorway, staring at my father. Or, more accurately, at the big bowl of ice cream in his lap.

"Hey, honey," he said, trying to conceal the bowl from my line of sight and failing oh so miserably. "I'm sure Logan is — "

"Dad, what are you eating?"

"Um…"

I walked over to him and jerked the bowl out of his hands. "I can't believe you," I said, taking it into the kitchen. I could hear the wheels of Dad's chair squeaking across the carpet, rounding the corner after me as I dumped the remaining chocolate-swirl ice cream into the garbage disposal.

"Oh, come on, Lissa."

"You heard what Dr. Collins said. You're supposed to be watching your diet." I ran the water to rinse out the bowl. "You need to lose some of the weight you've put on since the accident or you're going to have more health problems. Eating this isn't going to help you with that, Dad."

"One bowl of ice cream isn't going to kill me," he argued.

"You don't know that." I reached for a paper towel and turned to face Dad as I dried the bowl. The look on his face tore at me a little. The one that said he knew I was right but didn't want to hear it.

This wouldn't have been an issue five years ago, before the accident; his construction job and love of sports kept him in great shape. But it all changed on the January night his car slid on a patch of ice and sent him and my mother careening into the opposite lane. Even after Mom's funeral, with all the food no one could touch; after he started his new job as a counselor at the elementary school; after he began smiling again — he was still in the wheelchair.

No more biking. No more football. For some paraplegics these things were possible, but we couldn't afford any sort of special chair or bike that would keep Dad active.

So it was my job to watch out for them. For him and Logan. Without Mom around, they needed someone to take care of them. That was my responsibility now, even if it meant being a little harsh sometimes.

"So why isn't Logan back?" I asked again, glancing at the clock on the microwave. "He usually gets in right at five thirty-two. He's almost ten minutes late."

Dad laughed. My muscles relaxed a little at the sound, even if it was my neurosis he found amusing.

"Lissa, are you really stressing over him being less than ten minutes late?" Dad asked.

"Maybe," I admitted.

"Well, don't," he said, rolling his chair up to the kitchen table. "I'm sure he'll be home before Randy gets here. Randy is coming over to watch the game, right?"

"Yeah," I said, turning around to put the bowl back into one of the cabinets above the sink. "He'll be here at six."

Randy came to my house every Saturday night. First he'd watch whatever game was on ESPN with Dad, then we'd hang out for a couple hours before he went back home. In the year and a third we'd been together, he'd never missed a date. Even when I was mad at him.

Behind me, I heard the front door open and shut. I turned around and walked past Dad into the living room. "Where have you been?" I demanded as my brother untied his sneakers and tossed them into the pile of shoes next to the door.

"Um, work?" Logan said. "Where else would I be?"

"You're late," I told him.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are." I pointed at his wristwatch. "Look. You're eleven minutes later getting here than usual. I was getting wor — "

"Lissa," my brother said, reaching out and putting his hands on my shoulders in a way that was so belittling I wanted to scream. "Chill. I was talking to my boss after work."

"About what?" I asked.

"Don't worry about it," he said, patting my cheek and stepping around me to walk into the kitchen. "Anyone feel like ordering

a pizza? If Randy's coming over we should probably make it a large, right?"

I scowled and bent down to straighten up the pile of shoes on the rug. Why couldn't Logan just answer my question? I hated that he had to make me feel like a child. I was ten years younger than him, but I wasn't a baby — and eleven minutes may be nothing to him, but that's enough time for anything to happen. I had a right to worry.

Mom was killed in less than thirty seconds.

"Lissa!" he yelled from the kitchen. "What kind of pizza do you want? I'm ordering now."

I stood, having aligned the shoes and feeling happy that at least some part of this house was in order. "Sausage and ham. But Dad has to have a salad."

"Oh, come on!" I heard Dad whine as Logan laughed and began reciting his order into the cordless phone.

Through the living room window, I saw Randy's Buick pull into the driveway. Right on time. That was one of the things I loved most about Randy — he was always punctual, unlike my brother.

I opened the door for him as he made his way up the front steps. "Hey, babe," he said, leaning in to kiss me.

I let his lips brush mine for just a moment before pulling back.

"Still mad?" he asked.

"Not mad. Frustrated, remember?"

Randy ran his fingers down my arm, lowering his voice so Dad and Logan wouldn't hear. "I can un-frustrate you if you want."

I swatted him away, my whole body stiffening. "You sure you won't be too busy cleaning your windshield?"

"I'm never too busy for you, baby."

"You were last night."

He tilted his head to the side, batting his long, perfect eyelashes at me. "You'll forgive me. I know you will."

"We'll see." I meant it to be teasing, but it came out sounding cold.

"You always do!" he called over his shoulder as he strolled into the kitchen.

I shook my head, knowing he was right. I always forgave him, and I was sure I always would. I knew as soon as he walked into the kitchen. As soon as Dad smiled at him. As soon as Logan clapped him on the shoulder. I would always forgive Randy because he was part of my family. He had been since the moment I first brought him home.

Watching them now, as I stood in the kitchen doorway, I knew I'd fallen in love with Randy that first night, when he'd walked right up to my father as if he didn't even notice the wheelchair and shook his hand. He made my family happy, and after all we'd been through over the past few years, seeing them smile like that… well, it made me happy, too.

I forced myself to relax, to loosen up a little, as I walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table next to Randy. There was no need to be on edge right now. Not with my family. Not with Randy.

"So how's the season starting up?" Logan asked as he took a seat across from Randy. "The soccer assholes giving you hell yet?"

"Yeah." Randy sighed, leaning his chair back on two legs and

folding his arms behind his head. "But whatever. We're giving them hell right back."

I bit my lip. "Randy, can you put your chair on four legs, please?" I asked. "You'll fall that way… and hurt the chair."

"Yes, Miss Daniels," Randy said, rolling his eyes as he let his chair fall back into its proper position. "But is it me or the chair you're worried about?"

"I plead the Fifth."

Randy gave me a look of mock heartbreak.

"My senior year," Logan said, ignoring my deliberate change in conversation, "we gave all the freshmen soccer players swirlies in the boys' bathroom."

"Dude, that's so lame." Randy leaned forward, grinning. "There's actually a plan for tomorrow night that — "

"That you're not going to be a part of," I snapped before I could stop myself. Randy, Dad, and Logan all turned to stare. "I don't think you should be involved in all that, Randy. It's stupid. What kind of school has a rivalry between two of its own teams? Plus, what if someone gets hurt?"

"Oh, come on, Lissa," Logan scoffed. "It's harmless. No big deal."

"Maybe when you were in high school, but the fighting has gotten worse since then. This time last year, Randy and the football team busted all the windows out of the soccer goalie's car. They could have gotten into some serious trouble," I informed him, then turned back to Randy. "You won't participate, will you? Leave it to Shane and the others if they want to be idiots, but you don't have to do it."

Randy hesitated for a second, looking between me and Logan.

I gave him a nice hard glare. A wordless warning of what might happen if he didn't side with me here.

"Fine," he said. "I won't be a part of it."

"Promise."

"I promise."

"You're so uptight, Lissa," Logan grumbled.

"Leave her alone," Dad said. "She's looking out for people. It's sweet."

Sweet, I thought bitterly as the doorbell rang behind me. God, it was so condescending. Like I was an overly sensitive little kid. Couldn't they see how ridiculous the rivalry was? How continuing to retaliate would just make it go on forever? Soccer, football — they were just games. Neither sport was worth this much drama.

I went into the living room to get the door. The delivery boy handed me the large pizza and Dad's salad. From the kitchen I could hear laughter and cheers as the boys discussed the game they'd be watching that night. Betting on who would win and lose, the topic of torturing freshmen dropped and forgotten.

The rivalry wasn't brought up again until later that evening, when Randy and I sat out on the front porch steps, the game having ended and my dad and Logan already off to bed.

"I'm sorry about the other night," Randy said quietly, his arm sliding around my shoulders, pulling me against him. "Sorry those assholes had to show up and ruin everything."