Tinsel Tina, he’d called her. And then he’d turned those blue eyes on her and said, “But you’re the real deal, Ellie. You’re the first person Frank has dated that I think is deserving of him.” She had tried to tease him, make light of his stout love for his brother, but Scott was having none of it. He remained serious. “I’m not kidding,” he said. “I know this boy can come across as if he’s all light and play, but he’s not.” And then he told her about the months that followed their dad’s leaving, the porchside vigil his brother kept, the promises and bargains with God that he’d overhear as he walked by Frank’s bedroom. Ellie shook her head, wanting and not wanting to know. But Scott’s words had their effect. The image of the twelve-year-old boy sitting on the front porch day after day weaved its way into her head. Which may be why as soon as they pulled out of the city, she picked a fight with Frank. He looked stunned at first, tried to ask her what was upsetting her so, but she wouldn’t—couldn’t—tell him.
