“Or,” Leo said softly, “sealing things that need to be opened.” She didn’t want to. God knows she didn’t want to. But Leo had that quality—the kind of quiet honesty that made people tell the truth. Maybe that’s why Tyler loved him. Maybe that’s why, when Leo gently asked again, Mindi fetched a hammer.
Or so she thought. The night everything broke open, Leo was helping Mindi rearrange furniture. Tyler had gone to get pizza. Leo tugged the old green armchair away from the wall, and the leg caught a loose baseboard. The wood groaned. A chunk of drywall fell out. mindi mink sons friend patched
Mindi had known Leo since he was seven years old—spaghetti-stained T-shirt, scraped knees, asking for seconds of her meatloaf. Now, at seventeen, Leo was still that boy in many ways, except for one thing. “Or,” Leo said softly, “sealing things that need