"And do you have any experience?"

"Why would I be sitting here without experience?"

"Trust me, a lot of amateurs have applied for this job. So what are your experiences?"

"I did track for ten years when I was younger and still go on a run almost every day. Is that good enough? I mean, it's just a few kids I have to encourage to run."

"You have to train them to run better, just how your coach trained you in those ten years."

I nod. "I can do that."

"And why? Why do you want this job?"

"For money, duh."

The look he gives me makes my breathing hitch. I might've just ruined my chance for the only job that seems fun.

But then his gaze softens. "Honestly, that's the spirit." He claps me on the back. "You can help me around for a few weeks and then I'll decide if you get to coach on your own. Deal?"

"Deal." I shake his hand. "And how much do I make?"

"You said you're almost nineteen?"

"Uh-huh."

He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking slightly under his weight. "For someone your age, it'll start at $15 an hour," he says. "But if you're as good as you say you are, and the kids start showing improvement, we might bump it up. Sound fair?"

I nod slowly, keeping my expression neutral even though part of me feels disappointed. It's not like I was expecting a fortune, but $15 an hour doesn't exactly scream the luxury I want. Still, money's money. I'm not in a position to be picky. "Fair enough," I agree.

"Good," the coach says, pushing his chair back and standing. He's taller than I realized, broad-shouldered. "You'll start Monday. Be here at 4 p.m. sharp. We'll go over the basics, and you'll shadow me for the first week. After that, I'll see if you're ready to take on the kids yourself."

"Got it," I say, standing as well. I hold out my hand again. He grips it firmly, his handshake strong but not overly aggressive.

"Don't be late," he warns. "And come prepared. Most kids aren't just here for fun—they want to improve. That's on you."

"I won't let you down," I say with as much confidence as I can manage.

He nods. Just like that, the interview is over. I turn and head toward the door, the sound of my sneakers squeaking in the quiet room. As I reach for the handle, his voice stops me.

"Hey, one more thing."

I glance back. "Yeah?"

"This job is about being a role model. These kids are going to look up to you, whether you want them to or not. You ready for that kind of responsibility?"

The question catches me off guard. I hadn't really thought about it like that. In my head, this was just a way to make some cash doing something I'm already good at.

"Yes," I confirm after a moment of considering. "I promise you."

He studies me for a long moment, then nods again. "Alright, Minho. I'll see you Monday."

While I walk away from the building, I can't help but feel a small spark of excitement. I've got something to look forward to. Something new. Something that Dariel—or anyone—won't be able to ruin.

Embarrassment hits me every time I think about him. I did not want to hug him and especially not as I was in tears. It just happened. I'm still pissed at him for exposing me like that, even though he was right, and I don't think I'm capable of facing Luciana for another week. She might be oblivious for now, but Dariel isn't. I need to be careful with what I do and how I look.

I jog back to Mom's house, grinning. Dinner will be ready in about an hour. It's the best with Mom.

Maybe tonight, I'll try asking her for my driver's license. I mean, I got it a few years ago, but she was too worried 'for my safety' as if I'm still a minor. Ever since she took it, she never gave it back and it's getting ridiculous to bike everywhere while my friends and Dariel have a car. I mean, even Luciana drives! What if I take her out one time and she has to sit behind me on my bike—

She'd like that, actually. No big deal.

I slow my jog as I turn onto Mom's street. The scent of something delicious wafts through the air—it's probably stew. Mom's stew is always perfect, no matter how bad her day's been. It's the one thing that hasn't changed since we were kids. She's been working too much lately, though. That's one of the reasons I wanted this job so badly—if I do better, maybe she will feel better.

I walk up the driveway, taking a moment to stretch my legs before heading inside. The lights are already on. I close the door behind me. The smell of stew is even stronger inside the house. My stomach automatically growls. "Mom?" I call out, kicking off my shoes and heading toward the kitchen.

"Hey, honey," she answers. She's stirring a pot on the stove, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She turns to smile at me. "How was it?" she asks. "The interview?"

"It went great," I say. "I got the job. Sort of. Need to prove myself first, but that'll work out."

Her face lights up. "That's wonderful, Minho. I'm so proud of you." A fat kiss on my forehead.

"Thanks." I feel a little heat rise to my cheeks before I glance at the pot of stew. "Smells amazing."

"It'll be ready in about twenty minutes," she says. "Why don't you go wash up?"

"Sure," I say, but I linger for a moment, debating whether to bring the driver's license up now or wait until after dinner. Eventually, I decide to just do it. "Hey, Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think... I mean, could I get my driver's license back?"

The spoon hovers over the pot. Then she sighs and sets it down. "Minho, I don't know. We've talked about this—"

"I know," I interrupt. "But, come on, Mom. I'm almost nineteen. I have a job now. I can't keep biking everywhere, especially if I need to stay late. I'm no longer going to bike around like a little kid."

She crosses her arms, her expression guarded. "It's not just about practicality, Minho. You're still reckless sometimes—"

"Mom," I plead. "I can handle it. Please. Just give me a chance."

She studies me for a long moment. "I'll think about it," she murmurs.

Relief floods through me, even though it's not exactly a yes. It's progress, at least.

"Thank you," I say. "I appreciate it."

She shakes her head, but there's a hint of a smile on her lips. "Go wash up," she repeats.

Luciana's face flashes through my mind again as I splash water on my face in the bathroom. She's been in my head more than usual lately. I can't decide if it's comforting or maddening. Probably both.

We sit down for dinner after a few minutes. Mom serves it up in heaping bowls. I dig in almost without thinking. The warm flavor fills my mouth. It takes my mind off Luciana—for maybe one second.

I can't help it. The way she laughs, the way her eyes light up when she likes something. Even as I scoop another bite into my mouth, I'm thinking about the way she leans toward someone when they're talking.

Mom talks about work, about how her day went, about the little things that happened around the house while I was out. But I barely hear her. Instead, my mind keeps slipping back to Luciana. The thought of her hands touching Dariel's, how they fit so naturally together. It's torture. I've never wanted something someone else has so badly before.

I finish my stew quickly. "Thanks, Mom. It was good." Impatiently, I wait for her to finish her food. The second she does, I load the dishes away and run up the stairs to sit down on the edge of my bed, my hands running through my hair.

I hate this. I'd rather take a lemon bath with cuts all over my body than long for another minute. I hate feeling so small around her, but I can't help it. My throat tightens, my confidence ebbs away, my mind goes blank.

I stand up again and pace the room, trying to shake the thoughts from my head. It's pointless. All of it. She'll never look at me the way I look at her. She's with Dariel. And even if she weren't, I'm not the guy for her. She made it very clear that I'm just Dariel's cute little brother.

Thomas's words drift back to me. Not the ideas—of course not—but the thought of catching her attention somehow.

I shove it aside, disgusted by my own weakness. Ruining a relationship to save myself is horrible.

I head downstairs a few minutes later. The house is quiet except for the sound of the TV in the living room. Mom's sitting on the couch, her legs tucked up underneath her, her eyes glued to the screen. I hesitate for a moment, then sit down beside her.

She looks over at me. "Everything okay?" she asks. "You left quickly."

I nod stiffly. "Yeah. Just... thinking."

She switches the channel, settling on some old show that neither of us really watches but serves as background noise.

"Seems like you've been thinking a lot lately." A pause. "I've noticed you've been acting a little different recently. More distant, quieter, sweeter. Is it really just 'puberty' when you've been the complete opposite for eighteen other years?"

I stare at her, not knowing what to say. Did she really notice? Well, probably. Too many people know.

"Mom, I—" I start to say, but she cuts me off.

"It's okay, sweetie. You don't have to say anything right now," she says, as if she's guilty. "I just want you to know that you don't have to hide things from me. I can tell when something's on your mind, and you don't have to be ashamed to share it."

I feel a lump form in my throat. I do want to tell her everything, about Luciana, about how I can't stop thinking about her, about how I hate and love Dariel, about our argument. But the words get stuck in my throat.

"I'm fine, Mom. Really. Just thinking. It's nothing."

"You know I'm here if you need to talk, right?"

I nod, forcing a smile. "Yeah. I know."

She smiles back, yet there's something in her eyes that tells me she knows I'm not being entirely truthful. But then reaches over and pats my hand reassuringly.