to talk, I can listen to you, too,” I say.
“Nah, it’d be like reading the same book twice, back-to-back. Who does that?” he says with a snort laugh.
I stare at him and blink slowly, my mind picturing the book on my nightstand that I’m reading right now—the second time through. He does a quick double take when he realizes I’m staring at him, and by his third glance, he gets it.
“Oh, shit. You do that? I’m sorry. I mean . . . that’s cool. What do I know? I read Sports Illustrated.” He shrugs and looks back to the road.
“You look at the swim suit issue,” I crack.
His body shakes with quiet laughter and he eventually nods.
“Yeah, I do.”
I muse at his humility. It’s rather charming, which is the opposite of the objective I set. I’m not supposed to find Tory likeable. The plan is to aim for tolerable. But likeable goes with friendship, so maybe I can shift my end goal.
“Hey, if you want, we can trade. You can run lines with me, and I’ll play you some one-on-one.” I throw this out there not to flirt, because Tory knows damn well that I am not athletic in the least.
He blurts out a quick laugh.
“Yeah, okay, Abby.”
His eyes soften when he says my name, and I feel it in the dead center of my chest. Time to move that goal line back where it was.
With only a mile or two left until we reach his house, we spend the last few minutes letting the radio fill in the dead air in the car. It’s nothing but commercials for pot roast sales at the grocery store, snow tires at DJ’s Pit Crew, and a laundry list of side effects for some drug that helps you keep your hair. I’m thankful when we pull in the driveway and see Lucas’s truck.
He’s already pulled a ball out of Tory’s garage and is shooting hoops in his driveway as we pull in. A pile of branches and debris forms a mountain near the street, and I survey the new bare spots in the D’Angelo front yard before Tory shuts off his car. His house seems intact from here. We lost a patio cover, but it was basically only a board held up by two crooked posts, so I’m shocked it didn’t fly away sooner.
We both get out and Tory jogs over to his friend, stealing the ball from him and palming it in one hand to dunk it easily. He’s graceful in the air.
“Dude, how’d you get here so fast?” Tory asks. He punts the ball and catches it off the bounce, then passes it back to Lucas. I lean on the back of Tory’s car, dropping my purse between my feet, to watch boys be boys.
“They got Main all cleared right after you took the detour,” Lucas says. “We saw you guys drive by. Dropped June off on the way, and maybe, just maybe, I sped a little to beat you here.”
“Just a little, huh?” Tory slaps the ball from Lucas’s hands again and jogs to the end of his driveway, putting up a shot that bangs off of the rim.
“Oh, so close,” Lucas teases.
Tory flips him off, then moves my direction.
“Come on, let’s go see what this movie you’re in is all about,” he says.
I grab my purse, noting how Lucas isn’t far behind as we march into the garage and enter through the back kitchen door. I sense that Lucas is trying to protect Tory from me. Or maybe to watch Hayden’s back, like I’m some super predator out to double-cross twin hotties.
Shit. Am I?
Tory stops at the fridge, bending over and reaching in deep for a bottle of water. He offers one to me, which I take, then holds up another for Lucas.
“I’m good. Mind if I hit up your PlayStation?” He’s already flopped on the couch and turned on the TV.
Tory’s glare shifts from Lucas to me and he shakes his head slightly.
“I don’t even need to answer that, I guess,” he says.
A laugh puffs out as I take my first drink from the water bottle. Tory nods to my purse, where I’ve stashed the script I have to memorize. I’ve actually got a lot of the early part down. I read it over and over every night, picturing the scenes in my head. My mind works like a movie in many ways, where I can visualize something as if I’ve already seen it. It’s like memorizing your