She doesn’t because this time when I pick her up, she’s got her laptop along.

The entire ride, she contents herself with whatever book she’s editing, computer glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, fingers tapping away or lightly running over the computer screen in a straight line, as if she’s tracing the sentence in front of her and committing it to memory. Hollis also bites her bottom lip a lot when she’s concentrating; if I’ve glanced over at her once to mentally imprint the image of her in those tortoiseshell glasses, I’ve glanced at her three dozen times.

She’s just that pretty.

She’s busy until, nearly two hours later, we pull into my parents’ driveway, the blacktop lined with trees my dad planted the year Tripp and I bought the place, flanked by a meticulously manicured lawn.

Roger Wallace likes his grass green, trimmed, and pristine.

Hollis removes her glasses. “This place is so cute.”

Cute?

“We didn’t grow up here. They moved in a few years ago when Tripp and I both went pro. It’s closer to Chicago than they were before by three hours.”

She turns to me. “So they can come watch you play, but still out in the country where it’s private?”

I nod. “Exactly. They wanted to be closer so they could see us, but don’t like the city.”

“That makes sense—the city isn’t for everyone.”

It’s really not for me, either, but for now, there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Tripp, True and I are here a lot. Lots of family dinners. Family first.” I shrug it off, though inside, my heart leapt out of my chest at the tender expression on her cute face. A little.

I said it leapt a little—everyone relax!

Her eyes soften. “I love that.”

Whoa.

What is that look? Is she…making doe eyes at me, or is she feverish?

Before either of us can say another word or even unbuckle our seat belts, my mother comes busting out of the front door, kitchen hand towel thrown over her shoulder, smile on her face.

When I told her I was bringing the girl home I’d been talking about for Sunday dinner, she thought I was joking. Tripp was sitting next to me, rolling his beady, mistrusting eyes, snorting and grunting the whole time—which only fueled my mother’s disbelief.

“You wouldn’t joke about something like that, would you, Trace?” she asked me three different times.

“Mom—have I ever lied to you?”

“Only a few hundred times.”

Good point. “Well I’m not lying this time—and please don’t go overboard on food or anything. Hollis won’t want you to make a fuss.”

“Hollis,” she’d said breathlessly. “I just love that name. So unusual.”

Unique, like the girl herself, who’s now sitting in my car, staring at the house.

“Oh my god your mother is adorable,” Hollis is saying. “Jesus, I hate lying and I hate you right now. Look how excited she is, you asshole.” She pushes her car door open and steps out. “Mrs. Wallace, hiiiiii!”

Women. I’ll never understand them.

How can she be hissing obscenities at me one second then going at my mother like they’re long-lost sisters?

I climb out at a leisurely pace, giving them time to greet each other without my interference, and then amble over, hands in my pockets.

“Mom, this is—”

“Hollis, come inside. Trace Robert, can you get the grill going out back? Your father is dragging his feet.”

Then she ushers my date into the house, leaving me standing there, the entire speech I prepared a complete waste of time.

“Mom, this is Hollis,” I mumble to myself, locking the car with the remote and heading into the garage. “No, no, go on in. I’ll just start the grill. No, I insist,” I pout, deserted and alone.

No one comes to help me.

Not my dad. Not Hollis.

I look up at the sky as I walk through the grass, to the side yard, up onto the wooden deck Dad, Tripp, and I built last summer. Hit the igniter on the gas grill. Stand there while it warms up, scraping the char off the grates.

“This is what I love doing, being outside by myself while my date is inside being hoarded by my mother,” I grumble some more.

“Are you talking to yourself, dill hole?”

Shit.

My fucking brother.

Just what I do not need right now.

How did he even get here, anyway? “Who invited you, asswipe?” I accuse, turning to face him.

“It’s Sunday, asshat.”

Asshat? Real original. I just called him asswipe—that’s like stealing. Or copying.

“So what if it’s Sunday. Did Mom tell you I brought someone or is this a coincidence?”

“Yup, she sure did. Told True, too.”

“You drove all this way, by yourself, just so you could be here to spy on me.” He hates driving alone and hates having to pay for the gas it takes to get here.

“Yup.” He pops the P then pops a can of beer, sipping the foam off the top with an annoying slurp.