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little, grabbing a new package of napkins and
    slicing the wrapper open with a little retractable X-Acto
    knife she keeps in her apron. “Julia,” she says, turning
    to me, “it’s complicated. And no, I don’t see you getting
    ungrounded anytime soon.”
I scowl and glance at my lingering guests. “What’s so
    complicated? You guys are—” I clamp my mouth shut,
    knowing pointing fingers isn’t going to get me anywhere,
    especially when I think Mom might be on my side. “Sorry.
    It’s just frustrating. I don’t feel like I’m doing anything
    wrong.”
“Whoa. Seriously? Leaving work, stealing the meatball truck and wrecking it, not to mention yourself, seeing a guy you are forbidden to see, and sneaking around with
    him at two in the morning?”
I try to breathe. “I wouldn’t have to sneak if you guys
    weren’t so—” Ugh. I catch myself again. “Look,” I say
    as a customer catches my eye, “I just think the AngottiDemarco rivalry is so . . . Middle Ages. Or whatever.
    Shakespearian. Overdramatic. It’s ridiculous that Dad
    can’t get over it.”
“It would have been a lot of money,” Mom says.
“Only if Dad had the drive to actually manufacture
    and sell the stinking sauce, like Fortuno did.” I pause. “Or
    do you mean the money you would have gotten from suing
    the Angottis over it?” I set down my last roll of silverware
    hard. “Customer,” I say as I walk off so she doesn’t think
    I’m stomping away mad.
“Who knows? Ask your father,” she mutters under her
    breath. I don’t think she expected me to hear that.
Eight
    The weekend is endless. I’m working when
    Sawyer’s off, he’s working or volunteering when I’m off,
    and we don’t even manage to connect for a quick phone
    call. I hate this. Hate not knowing what’s going on, hate
    that hours and days are ticking away and we’re not doing
    anything. I’m worried as hell.
    The phone vibrating in my hand wakes me at two in
    the morning. It takes me a second to pull out of my dream
    and figure out what’s happening. I sit up on one elbow and
    answer it.
    “Hey, are you okay?” I whisper, my voice full of sleep
    and air.
He doesn’t answer for a second and I think maybe it’s
    an accidental roll-over-on-his-phone-in-the-night call.
    But then he says in a quiet voice, “Jules, I’m—I’m just—
    I’m freaking out a little.”
I glance at Rowan and she hasn’t even moved. “What’s
    happening?” I turn my face away from the door, as if that’ll
    keep my whispers from slipping under it.
“It’s, well, I had a chance to watch the vision on TV a
    few times. Like fifty, I mean, and it’s—” I can hear the whir
    of anxiety in his voice notching up. He takes a breath. “It’s
    really horrible. It almost made me puke. I swear.”
I press my lids shut with my fingertips. “Oh, God,”
    I say. There are no other words. “Are you taking notes?
    Writing it all down?”
“Yeah. Some.”
I think I hear a creak of the hallway floor, but it’s nothing. I pull the blankets over my head. “What can I do?
    How can I help you?”
I hear the tightness in his throat as he swallows hard,
    hear the air rush from his nostrils into the phone, a tiny
    blast of emotion. And then it comes again, and he doesn’t
    speak, and I know he’s trying to hold it together.
“Shit, I remember this,” I say. My gut twists. “I know
    how tough it is.” I cringe, thinking I sound like a condescending jerk when what I really mean to say is, It’s okay to cry with me.
It turns out he doesn’t need my permission. After a
    few minutes of him in not-quite-silent sobs and me star
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    ing into the caverns of my blankets, wishing I could be
    with him, remembering and remembering, he blows out a
    breath and says, “I don’t think I can do this alone.”

    “You’re not alone, Sawyer.”

    His silence tells me he feels otherwise, and suddenly
    I’m furious. Not at him. At my parents, and at his parents. And at the ridiculousness of