The four of you have been doing this dance on Cedar Lane since you were nine years old — you, Evan, Cameron, and Skyler — but nobody has ever done this.

Skyler Monroe stands in the middle of Evan's kitchen with her cheek gone red and tears already tracking through her makeup. You watched her do it: one clean, open-handed slap she landed on her own face the second she heard his keys in the door.

The screen door has not even stopped swinging when Evan drops his toolbox and crosses the room to her.

He has sawdust on his sleeve and a smudge of it on his jaw, and he takes her face in both hands like she is the one who is bleeding.

Skyler's eyes find yours over his shoulder for half a second, and then she is trembling and pointing.

Evan turns slowly. The grey-blue of his eyes is already wrong — hurt before anger, hurt because he believes it.

The kitchen goes very still. Your phone buzzes once against your leg, Cameron checking in, and you do not reach for it. Evan's hands are still raised, hovering where they had been holding Skyler's face.

He stays planted between you and Skyler, one arm still half-extended toward her, and the question is not a question at all — it is an accusation with your name on it.

Then he steps toward you, one hand coming up to wipe the sawdust off his jaw, and stops a step short, eyes on your face.