She threw her arms around my neck, her hair smothering me. I buried my face deeper into her golden locks, welcoming suffocation if it meant I was close to her.
“Your room is really clean, and so is your room at the apartment,” she whispered. “I’m not a clean freak.”
“I know.”
“You might get sick of me.”
“Not possible.”
“You’ll love me forever?”
“Longer.”
She squeezed me tight, breathing out a content sigh, the kind I worked my ass off for because it would make me so damn happy when she did it. Her sweet, happy sighs were like the first day of summer, like anything was possible, like it was my superpower.
“Shepley!” Mom called.
I leaned back and took America by the hand, leading her out of my room, down the hall, and into the downstairs living room. My parents were sitting there, together in their worn love seat, holding hands. That furniture was the first they’d ever bought together, and they refused to get rid of it. The rest of the house was full of contemporary leather and modern rustic design, but they would spend most of their time in the lower level, down the hall from my room, on the itchy blue floral fabric of their first love seat.
“We’re going to have to run an errand soon, Mom. We’ll be back in time for dinner.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
America and I traded glances.
“Abby just called. She wanted us to stop by the apartment for a little bit,” America said.
She and Abby were well versed in off-the-cuff half-truths. I imagined Abby had taught America well after she moved to Wichita. They’d had to do a lot of sneaking around when they were making underage trips to Vegas, so Abby could gamble and help her loser dad get out of debt.
Dad scooted forward on his seat. “Think you could hold on for a minute? We need to ask you a few questions.”
“I just have to get my purse,” America said, gracefully excusing herself.
Mom smiled, but I frowned.
“What is this about?”
“Have a seat, son,” Dad said, patting the arm of the brown leather recliner adjacent to their love seat.
“I like her,” Mom said. “I really, really like her. She’s confident and strong, and she loves you that way, too.”
“I hope so,” I said.
“She does,” Mom said with a knowing smile.
“So …” I began. “What do you need to tell me that you couldn’t say in front of her?”
My parents looked at one another, and then Dad patted Mom’s knee with his free hand.
“Is it bad?” I asked.
They struggled to find the words, answering without speaking.
“Okay. How bad is it?”
“Uncle Jim called,” Dad said. “The police were over at the house last night, asking questions about Travis. They think he is responsible for the fight in Keaton Hall. Do you know anything about it?”
“You can tell us,” Mom said.
“I know about the fight,” I said. “It wasn’t the first one. But Travis wasn’t there. You were right here when I called him. He was at the apartment.”
Dad shifted in his seat. “He’s not at the apartment now. Do you know where he is? Abby is missing as well.”
“Okay,” I said simply. I didn’t want to answer either way.
Dad saw right through me. “Where are they, son?”
“Travis hasn’t talked to Uncle Jim yet, Dad. Don’t you think we should give him a chance first?”
Dad considered that. “Shepley … did you have anything to do with those fights?”
“I’ve been to some of them. Most of them this year.”
“But not this one,” Mom clarified.
“No, Mom, I was here.”
“That’s what we said to Jim,” Dad said. “And that’s what we’ll tell the police if they ask.”
“You didn’t leave? At any point during the night?” Mom asked.
“No. I got a text about the fight, but this weekend was important to America. I didn’t even respond.”
Mom relaxed.
“When did Travis leave? And why?” Dad asked.
“Dad,” I said, trying to remain patient, “Uncle Jim will tell you after Travis talks to him.”
America peeked from my bedroom doorway, and I signaled for her to join us.
“We should go,” she said.