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We step inside. One wall is all tropical flowers and parrots. The effect is stunning with the rest of the white paint and plain tables. There’s a girl with tattoos and pink hair that matches the fuchsia florals behind the counter.

“Hey, welcome in,” she calls.

“Hey,” I call back cheerily.

There’s a row of chalkboards decorated with pink and blue drawings of fruit and smoothies. I’m getting so much serotonin from everything. Maybe when I get back home, I can convince Dad to let me update the ranch house. It’s been the same old beige in the kitchens and bedrooms since I’ve been alive. Then, I remember that with the way the finances are going, we’re unlikely to have money for home improvement any time soon.

“Get whatever you want,” he says, taking his wallet out.

“You don’t have to always pay for me.”

“I know,” he says firmly. “But I’m choosing to. Because that’s how I like it.”

“Oh,” I say, pulling back with a smile. “Somebody is a little sassy today.”

He laughs. “Just order, baby.”

I get a strawberry banana smoothie and a coffee, and we loiter by the door and wait. His phone goes off, and he looks at it briefly but doesn’t answer. He slips it in his pocket.

“Everything okay?” I press gently.

“Yep.”

I see my opening, and I go for it. “You know you can talk to me more. You’re really…bottled up still.”

He’s quiet, thinking, doing that thing where he flexes his jaw. “I know,” he says finally. “Sorry about that. It’s just been a while since I opened up to anyone but Jamie.”

“Why is that?” I ask softly.

“I found out real quick if you find a good friend in an industry like that, keep them, because you’re unlikely to find a second.”

It takes me a minute to make heads or tails of that statement. When I do, I feel a little bad.

“People use each other,” I say. “That’s what you’re saying.”

“It’s not a normal way to be,” he says firmly. “You shouldn’t live in paranoia if your friends are real friends or not. I’ve tried to keep the same team with me, but even a couple people who were there from the beginning started acting…weird.”

“How’s that?”

He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Cutthroat.”

The barista appears with my smoothie and our coffees. Coen grabs them both, and we slip back out to the arid outside. I don’t want to push him too hard, but I do think it would be good for him to talk about it. I can try to understand, even if it’s pretty far removed from my world.

I wince. Another painful reminder this won’t be working out.

Pushing the thought away, I climb into the passenger seat and take a sip of my smoothie. It’s absolutely not real fruit, but it’s still delicious. He gets in and pulls out onto the street.

“What do you want to do today?” he says, settling back.

I glance over, narrowing my eyes. “Oh, you know.”

“I do?”

“Maybe hide in the room for a bit before we have to check out?”

The corner of his mouth jerks up. He reaches over and slides his hand up my thigh, gripping firmly. My stomach flip flops like we went over a bump in the road. I don’t think I’ve really initiated yet. I hadn’t meant for that to slip out, but I’ve been looking sideways at that six-foot-plus tall glass of water for a few days now, and I’m parched.

I thought he was joking, but the minute the door closes, he takes both our coffees, sets them aside, and picks me up. All the air leaves my lungs, and we both fall backward onto the bed. He’s not messing around. His hand slides up under my shorts and pulls them down, revealing I didn’t grab my underwear this morning. The sound that escapes him is a half groan, half growl.