on his fist, with Zac lying on the floor beside him in the same position. It had made me smile.
Back when I had really known Zac, when he’d been my friend, he’d been rolling around in a car with no air conditioning and a bumper with so many dents he called them freckles. And now? Well, the last time Boogie had sent me a picture of them together, they’d been in some BMW that probably cost more than the house I’d grown up in.
But he’d worked hard for everything he had and more. The big house, nice car—or maybe cars—and positive attention. And according to my current view, he had plenty of people surrounding him too.
Of course he did.
He’d been busy all those times I’d texted him and hadn’t gotten a response, I knew. That knowledge needed to comfort me the way it had a decade ago when we’d… lost touch. Lost touch. That’s what I was going to call it.
From the look of it, the house he was in now was just as big and more than likely just as luxurious as the one he’d been living in back in Oklahoma—two stories, wide, and with a circular driveway. I was only a little bit surprised to see that it was packed with cars. So was the street in front of it.
Three people happened to be walking up the path in front to what was one of the biggest homes I’d ever seen, and they were nicely dressed. I pulled my car over two giant houses down and hoped like hell no one would call to get it towed.
And why the hell did he have to be having a party today?
I locked my car and sprinted across the street in my black tennis shoes, eyeing each mansion for a second.
I palmed my cell and looked down at the screen, triple-checking the address that Boogie had texted me, just in case.
Yep, it was still correct.
I opened my text messaging app before I forgot and shot my sister a new message. She still hadn’t replied to me about needing a date to the quinceañera.
Me: I’m going into a house I’ve never been in before. If I don’t text you back in an hour, call the cops. The address is 555 Rose Hill Lane.
I stopped, thought about it, and sent her another message.
Me: Don’t invite anyone I don’t like to my funeral.
Then I sent her another one.
Me: And don’t forget to drop my laptop in a swamp if something happens.
I thought about it for another second.
Me: And don’t forget you’re the only one I want to clean out my nightstand. Wear gloves and don’t judge me.
I slipped my phone back into my purse as I stopped in front of what had to be at least an eight-thousand-square-foot home and eyed the combination of brick and stone walls, telling myself that I had to do this. Boogie had asked.
And the sooner I did this, the sooner I could go home.
Through the oversized glass and iron door, I could spy a whole lot of people inside, but I still knocked. And of course, no one heard, or at least they pretended not to hear or look over.
I rang the doorbell, watching the people hanging out inside some more, and still nothing. Why there were so many people over was beyond me. It wasn’t his birthday. He’d already been in Houston almost two weeks by this point. Maybe it was a party just for the hell of it. To celebrate entering a new chapter of his life without the Thunderbirds? If it were me, I’d probably be balled up on my couch eating marshmallows and crying. What did I know though?
I waited a little longer, hoping someone would happen to look over… but still, no one did. A couple of the guys I could see inside were huge, and my gut said they had to be football players too. Like Zac. That’s why he was here in Houston now, because he was going to be training with some special people or something before the preseason started. From the bits and pieces I’d collected from my cousin’s comments, he’d gone on a long vacation before coming here.
I wondered what he was going to do now that he wasn’t with the Thunderbirds anymore.
Bouncing on the balls of my feet for a second, I eyed my Maio House polo shirt and decided not to give a shit. I knocked once more, and when still no one looked at me