He hops in his truck and pulls out of the parking lot in time to see Carly turn down a dirt road in the distance. Even better. It’s a shortcut through the woods between the main road that runs through Roaring Brooke and the county road that leads to the interstate. The only downfall to this route is that now he’ll appear even more creepy, stalking her down a deserted trail and all.

But he’s got no choice. Why, with Carly Vega, am I always down to no choice?

By the time he reaches the cutoff, she’s already made it halfway down the road. He slows down, letting the truck idle beside her. She whips her head in his direction, startled. Until now, Arden would be hard pressed to imagine anything could startle this girl.

Just as he’d suspected though, her surprise morphs into something that looks a lot like rage. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says, stopping abruptly.

“I have your bike,” he blurts. Putting the truck into park, he hops out and shuts the door behind him. “It’s in the back.” He shoves his hands in his pockets because fidgeting in front of Carly is out of the question.

“Great. Get it out.”

“Not until you talk to me.”

She takes a step forward. Arden thinks she just might have the longest eyelashes in the county. “You’re a jackass, you know that?”

“I’m not really. Just let me explain.” It’s a weird feeling, to plead with a girl. She takes another step toward him. He’s disturbed that he notices she smells like honeysuckle on a humid day.

“There’s not an explanation on the planet that will excuse what you did last night.”

God, but she’s amazing when she’s angry. “What if I told you Cletus—Mr. Shackleford—is my uncle? That I was just trying to scare him out of driving home drunk?”

Carly’s mouth drops open. And he knows he’s got her.

Seven

I step away from him, shaking my head. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not. He’s my great uncle. His name is Cletus Shackleford and he’s my mom’s father’s brother.” Arden fills the space I’d created between us. His wide back blocks the sun, saving me from the inconvenience of squinting up at him. “He lives at Eighty-Six Weston Road, but only uses up two rooms in that whole big house of his. His wife was my aunt Dorothy. She died when I was a kid, but I remember she used to make the best biscuits and gravy every Sunday.”

I blink. Mr. Shackleford had a wife and her name was Dorothy. He lives in a big house. He used to have someone to fix him breakfast on Sundays. These added dimensions of him make what Arden did that much worse. I choke down an emotion I can’t name. “Why would you do that to him?” I whisper. “He was so scared.”

Arden sighs. “How well do you know my uncle?”

I shake my head. On top of what Arden just told me, all I know is that he comes into the Breeze Mart every night for a new bottle of vodka. That we have philosophical debates. Everything else I imagined, made it all up in my head as if Mr. Shackleford were a character instead of a real person. I didn’t even know Arden was his nephew. Maybe Mr. Shackleford drinks because he lost Dorothy.

Then I remember what Arden said. I was just trying to scare him out of driving home drunk. “He drives himself back and forth from the Breeze Mart,” I say. “Nothing’s ever happened to him.” Still, I feel the anger dissipating as a bigger picture of the situation comes into view. And I want to find fault in the bigger picture. But I can’t.

Arden says what we’re both thinking now. “It’s only a matter of time.” Which could be true. I have no idea where 86 Weston Road is—I’d always hoped Mr. Shackleford lived close. But I never in a million years would have called him out on driving drunk.

Because I’m a coward.

“And my uncle is stubborn,” Arden is saying. “It takes drastic measures to get through to him sometimes.”

“You scared him. He … He messed himself. He was embarrassed.” I try to sound more informative than accusatory, but it still makes me mad.

Arden scratches the back of his neck. “I know. I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t think he would … I swear, Carly, I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

And I believe him. His eyes are big. Sad. I swallow. “Have you checked on him?”

“My mom went over there last night. Helped him get cleaned up. Said when she left, he was sleeping like a baby.”

I nod, feeling relieved that Mr. Shackleford had somebody to check on him. Feeling guilty that I’ve been so nasty to Arden. Feeling speechless because of all of the above.

Arden keeps his eyes fixed downward. He kicks at a rock embedded into the dirt road in front of him. “Look, I’m sorry I scared you in the process too. I didn’t expect for you to … do what you did.”

Me neither, is what I want to say. But Arden’s not finished. He looks up then, meets my gaze. “And I wanted to say that what you did was brave. And…” He runs his hand through his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t realize until just now that I suck at having a serious conversation.”

It’s true, he does kind of suck at it. All broken sentences and half explanations. In fact, he says more with his eyes than he does with his mouth. And if he was trying to say these things to me at lunch earlier, he totally blew it. All I heard was “I’m a jerk.” But now I’m hearing something different. Now he’s struggling—more than that, he’s trying. And I want to come to his rescue. “So stop being so serious.”