Chapter 7: The First Conversation

Skylar picked her up at the corner of Aldermoor and Fifth at 3:30, two blocks from Zoey’s house and far enough from Jefferson that nobody would clock them leaving together. Zoey appreciated the discretion without being asked to. It was the kind of thing Skylar did automatically.

They rode mostly in silence. Skylar drove with the music low and didn’t fill the quiet with conversation Zoey didn’t have energy for. After about ten minutes the neighborhoods shifted outside the window — away from the school’s orbit and into a part of town that was quieter, older, the houses set back behind established trees.

“Where are we going,” Zoey said.

“His house. His parents are both at work until six.” Skylar glanced at her briefly. “You’ll have privacy and time.”

Zoey nodded and looked back out the window.

“He already said yes to meeting you,” Skylar said. “I want you to understand that going in. You’re not imposing.”

“Okay.”

“And you don’t soften it when you’re sitting across from him. I know you’re going to want to. Don’t.” She made a turn onto a residential street lined with oaks. “He can’t do anything useful with half the picture.”

Zoey didn’t answer because Skylar was right and they both knew it.

The house was a well kept two story on a corner lot, brick front, a basketball hoop at the end of the driveway worn to good use. Skylar pulled in and cut the engine.

“Last thing,” she said.

Zoey waited.

“He’s going to listen more than he talks at first. Don’t mistake that for indifference. When he asks you something he needs the real answer, not the managed one.” She looked at Zoey. “You ready?”

“No,” Zoey said honestly.

“Good enough,” Skylar said, and got out.

Derek answered the door before they knocked. Jeans, gray pullover, no shoes. He looked at Skylar first — that brief private exchange Zoey still couldn’t fully read — and then at Zoey.

Not the way boys at Jefferson had been looking at her since December. Nothing in it she needed to brace against. He looked at her the way her father looked at people he was taking seriously — direct, attentive, no agenda running underneath it.

“Come in,” he said.

The living room was comfortable and lived in. He’d set up in the back corner — an armchair angled toward a small couch, a glass of water on the end table that she understood was for her. Skylar stopped in the entryway.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said. And left.

Zoey sat on the couch. Derek sat in the armchair across from her, relaxed in his own space without being casual about why they were there. He gave her a moment.

“Water’s for you,” he said.

“Thank you.” She picked it up and held it.

He waited. The silence was comfortable enough that she didn’t feel compelled to fill it badly, but she understood she was the one who had to begin.

She looked at the glass in her hands and started talking.

She told him about the accident. The frontal lobe contusion, what it had done to her impulse control, what it felt like from inside — the signals firing without permission, the helplessness of watching herself from inside and being unable to stop what her brain was doing. She told him about coming back to school and her eyes giving her away and knowing exactly what was happening and having no power over it.