Chapter Text
The first thing I noticed when I stepped out of the airport was the air—it was heavier than I remembered. Like something thick and sticky had settled over the city while I’d been gone. My hair frizzed the second I crossed into the humidity. I laughed under my breath.
“Welcome back to America,” I muttered, adjusting the strap of my bag.
After four years in Paris, everything felt sharper here. The honking taxis. The fluorescent lights in baggage claim. Even the coffee tasted louder.
I’d landed in Philadelphia with three checked bags, one carry-on, and a purse that weighed more than a toddler. Somewhere in my exhaustion, I’d forgotten how much I’d packed. A whole life, practically. The girl who got on that plane in Paris was not the same girl who left this city years ago.
I was home for good now. Or, for now at least.
Grad school at Northeastern would start in the fall—sports psychology. And until then, I had the wedding. Jeremiah’s wedding. Which still felt insane to say out loud.
I dragged my suitcases toward the rental car shuttle, sweating through my shirt and trying not to care. It was too late to care. Too early to panic. Somewhere in the weird middle space of jetlag and nostalgia, I just let myself move.
Thirty minutes later, I was behind the wheel of a rented silver Subaru, driving through familiar neighborhoods with the windows cracked and a Taylor Swift playlist on shuffle. I turned up the volume when “Daylight” came on and let myself hum along.
The drive from the airport to my parents’ house wasn’t long, but it felt surreal. Like I was slipping into an old skin I hadn’t worn in years. The gas station on the corner still had the same blinking sign. The ice cream shop with the crooked bench. The red-brick crosswalk where I broke my flip-flop when I was nine.
Everything was the same. Just older. Or maybe I was.
I turned onto my old street, Willow Lane, and slowed when I saw the house.
There it was.
That little red door. The crooked lamp post that had never been fixed. The brick path I used to rollerblade down like I had no fear of skinned knees. My mom’s hydrangeas blooming in lazy tufts by the window.
I parked the car, turned off the engine, and just stared for a second.
Then I got out and grabbed my smallest bag. The one with my laptop and my Paris journals and the Eiffel Tower keychain Jeremiah had teased me for keeping. I found the spare house key buried at the bottom.
Slipped it into the lock.
Turned.
Nothing.
I frowned and tried again. No click. Just that dull resistance.
“Come on,” I whispered.
The key didn’t budge.
I circled around the back, tried the sunroom door, then the kitchen door. The code on the garage keypad had been changed, too.
That’s when it hit me.
They’d changed the locks. My parents had changed the locks on the house and forgot to send me the new key. Or maybe they thought I wasn’t coming until next month, like I told them. And maybe they didn’t think their daughter—who hadn’t lived at home in four years—would show up early and completely unannounced.
I sat on the brick step and pulled out my phone.
Called my mom. Voicemail.
Dad. Voicemail.
Right. They were in Italy or Portugal or somewhere else sun-soaked and Wi-Fi-optional. My mom had won a three-week vacation through her publishing company and packed matching luggage. I thought I’d have the house to myself.
Apparently not.
I stared at the red door like it had betrayed me. Then I laughed. A small, tired sound.
Of course this would happen.
I thought about driving to New York—Steven and Taylor were only a few hours away. But I didn’t want to barge in on them. I loved Taylor, but she’d ask too many questions I wasn’t ready to answer. About Paris. About boys. About what it was like to be back. And Steven would just smirk knowingly at all the wrong times.
So instead, I called the only person who always picked up.
“Bells?” Jeremiah answered on the second ring. His voice sounded warm, like sunshine and mischief.
“Hi. I’m locked out.”
“What?”
“Locked. Out. Like classic sitcom-level locked out. The key doesn’t work and I can’t reach my parents.”
He laughed. “You should’ve told me you were coming back today.”
“I wanted to surprise everyone.”
“Well, surprise.”
I dropped my head into my hand. “I have three suitcases and nowhere to go.”
“You can always crash at the summer house,” he said, easy as anything. “Key’s still under the mat. I’ll be down there this weekend to do wedding stuff.”
I blinked. “The summer house?”
“Yeah. Go. It’s been sitting empty all season.”
“I haven’t been there in years.”
“I know.”
Not since I was sixteen. Not since the Christmas before Susannah died. Not since the reception at the Fisher house in Boston, when I found Conrad—when he told me that being with me had been a mistake.
It wasn’t the kind of heartbreak that shattered all at once. It was slower than that. A quiet unraveling. A thousand things we never said. A thousand ways I tried to reach him—and came up empty every time.
I hadn’t been back since.
“I don’t know…”
“Belly. It’s just a house,” Jeremiah said gently.
But we both knew it wasn’t.
The drive to Cousins was like driving into a dream I didn’t remember having. Familiar but distorted. Like I’d imagined it all—the beach, the porch lights, the late-night swims—and was now trying to prove it had really happened.
I stopped halfway through for gas and a Coke, just like I used to. I rolled the windows down and let the salt air whip through the car like it had something to tell me.
Every mile I drove, I felt myself getting closer to a version of me I wasn’t sure still existed.
Belly Conklin at sixteen: all tan lines and hopes too big for her heart. The girl who loved Conrad Fisher so much it almost hurt.
In Paris, I’d dated boys who wore linen shirts and smoked too much. I’d kissed a boy named Leo on a rooftop in the rain and laughed through tears when he said I had sad eyes. I told myself I’d moved on. That Conrad was just my first love.
That I would have many more.
But as the GPS counted down the minutes to Cousins Beach, my heart started to race in a way I hadn’t expected. Like it knew something I didn’t.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. Turned the music up.
And kept driving.
The sun was just starting to dip when I pulled into the driveway.
It was exactly how I remembered it.
That soft blue-gray siding. The white trim. The long porch with the rocking chairs still in the same place. Like someone had pressed pause five years ago and never unpaused it.
My headlights cut across the hydrangeas and the stone path that led to the front steps. I turned the car off but didn’t move right away. My hands were still curled tight around the wheel, like I wasn’t sure I was really here.
But I was. Cousins.
I opened the door, stepped out, and felt the weight of the whole day settle over me. My shoulders ached. My lower back throbbed. But something else ached, too—something I hadn’t let myself name yet.
The porch creaked under my shoes as I climbed the steps. I crouched by the mat and felt underneath. There it was.
Same old key. Still scratched. Still a little bent. Still tucked under that floral mat with faded lettering that once read welcome home.
I stood, hesitating.
Then I slid the key into the lock.
It clicked.
And just like that, the door opened.
I stepped inside and the air hit me all at once—cooler than outside, but thick with memory. It smelled like sea salt and lemons and old sunscreen. Like wood floors and laundry detergent and a hundred summers folded into one.
The house was quiet. That still kind of quiet you only get when the ocean is nearby. I didn’t turn on any lights. I just stood in the doorway and breathed.
Everything was the same.
The rug by the stairs, frayed at the corners. The row of hooks still hung with hats and canvas totes. The soft slam of the screen door catching behind me. The echo of my heartbeat in the silence.
This house used to be my favorite place in the whole world.
I walked toward the kitchen without thinking, trailing my fingers along the hall wall. My sandals clicked softly on the wood floors. I passed the living room with the old sailboat paintings, the sunroom with its wall of windows, and stepped into the kitchen like I belonged there.
Because I did. I had.
The counters were clean. There was a basket of lemons by the sink. The sunlight filtered in through the curtains just right, soft and golden and warm enough to make me forget—for a second—that this wasn’t a dream.
The kitchen was still perfect.
I dropped my keys on the island, let my bag slide to the floor. My heart slowed, just a little.
And then I turned around.
And saw him.
He was standing by the back doorway, frozen like I’d startled him mid-step.
Conrad.
The breath caught in my throat.
He looked like a memory I wasn’t ready for.
Slightly taller than I remembered—maybe not, maybe just straighter. His hair was longer, messier in that way that looked deliberate. He wore a worn gray t-shirt and black athletic shorts. Barefoot.
He looked like summer.
His eyes were the same. Wide, unreadable, impossibly dark. And right now, fixed on me.
For a second, neither of us said anything. The kitchen held its breath.
And then—quiet, like he wasn’t sure he was really seeing me—he said:
“Belly.”
My name in his mouth sounded like a question.
Like a memory pulled from somewhere too deep to forget.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My heart was pounding in my ears. Loud and fast and reckless.
I hadn’t seen him since Susannah’s funeral. Since I walked away and never looked back.
Five years.
And yet.
Here we were.
Standing in the same kitchen where we grew up stealing popsicles and sneaking sips of soda when the adults weren’t looking. Where we made late-night pancakes and dared each other to eat raw cookie dough straight from the bowl. Where I used to sit on the counter swinging my legs, watching him talk and laugh and never once look at me the way I hoped he would.
I swallowed, cleared my throat. My voice felt too small.
“Hi.”
It was all I could manage.
He blinked, like he was trying to catch up. Like I was something that had appeared too suddenly. And maybe I was.
Jeremiah hadn’t told me he was here.
And Conrad looked just as surprised as I felt.
For a moment, it was just the two of us again. In the house that had once been our everything.
And outside, the summer kept going like it didn’t even know we were holding our breath.
I didn’t know what I was expecting—awkward silence, maybe, or him brushing past me like I was just someone he used to know. But Conrad just stood there, barefoot in the kitchen, like he couldn’t believe I was actually standing in front of him.
“Jeremiah didn’t tell me you were here,” I said, tightening my grip on the strap of my bag. My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
He blinked, like the sound of my voice pulled him back into the room. “He didn’t tell me you were coming early.”
“I got back this morning. Philly,” I added, like that explained something. “I was supposed to stay at my parents’ place, but they’re out of the country and forgot to leave me the new key.”
He nodded, slow and unreadable. “So… you came here.”
“I didn’t really have anywhere else to go.”
The silence that followed was thick and uneven. Not angry. Just… uncertain. Like neither of us knew the rules anymore.
Then Conrad cleared his throat and glanced up the stairs. “Sure. You can stay in your old room.”
Something in my chest twisted.
“Thanks,” I said quietly.
He gave a short nod and stepped aside so I could pass.
I walked by him, and maybe it was my imagination, but I could’ve sworn I felt his eyes follow me—not all the way. Just long enough.
The stairs creaked under my feet as I made my way up, dragging my suitcase behind me one step at a time. My heart beat louder with every thud of the wheels.
At the landing, I paused. The air up here still smelled like lemon detergent and sunscreen. Like summer. Like Susannah.
I turned left, toward the last door on the right. My door.
I opened it and froze.
It hadn’t changed.
Not even a little.
The same seafoam wallpaper with the curling blue palms. The same white iron bedframe with the chipped gold knobs I used to hang my necklaces from. The same pale yellow lamp with the ceramic shell base—Susannah bought it for me when I was thirteen because she said it looked like me. Soft, but bright.
Even the bedding was the same. Faded blue polka dots. Folded just the way she used to do it.
I stepped inside like I was afraid I didn’t belong here anymore.
In the corner, still sitting on the dresser, was the old photo of us at the last Fourth of July cookout—me, Jeremiah, Steven, my mom, Conrad. Susannah standing in the middle, arms around all of us. Like we were hers.
The sight of it knocked the wind out of me.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under me the same way it always had. That same, soft give. Like nothing had changed. Like I could close my eyes and be sixteen again.
But I wasn’t.
They hadn’t touched a thing in here.
I thought maybe they would’ve—maybe they should’ve. Painted over the walls. Donated the books. Washed out the summer.
But they hadn’t. It was like someone had pressed pause. Like they were waiting for me to come back.
I ran my fingers over the quilt, the one that always ended up in a heap at the foot of the bed by morning. I used to lie beneath it for hours, staring at the ceiling, imagining what it would be like if he ever looked at me the way I looked at him. Back when dreaming about Conrad Fisher felt like the only thing I was ever sure of. The first boy I ever loved, even before I understood what love really meant.
And just like that, it all came rushing back.
It wasn’t just one moment. It was all of it. Every word we left unsaid. Every slow way we came undone and pretended we weren’t.
The way he looked at me that day. The way I left.
It wasn’t loud. But it was enough to end everything.
I left that house swearing I’d never let Conrad Fisher hurt me again.
And for five years, I didn’t.
But now I was here.
In this house.
In this room.
With him downstairs and everything exactly the way we left it.
I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapped my arms around them, and rested my chin there. My eyes scanned the wallpaper, the ceiling, the framed photo that hadn’t even tilted in all this time.
Everything else had changed.
Conrad looked older now. Tired. Like he’d lived a whole life I wasn’t part of.
And I wasn’t the same girl who waited for him to love her the way she deserved.
I’d crossed oceans since then. Dated Paris boys who smoked too much and talked too fast. Learned how to drink espresso without sugar. Slept with the windows open.
I’d rewritten myself.
But now, sitting in this room—the one Susannah made just for me—that version of me, the one who loved him, didn’t feel so far away.
And the worst part?
I wasn’t sure I hated it.
Not yet.
I woke up thinking it was morning.
The light on the ceiling was soft and blue, the kind that usually meant dawn—except when I checked my phone, it was only 11:07 p.m.
I’d barely made it up the stairs earlier. My eyes had closed the second my head hit the pillow, my body heavy from the flight and the jet lag and the emotional whiplash of seeing him. But now I was wide awake.
The house was quiet in that way only beach houses are—peaceful, but full of creaks. The floorboards settled. A branch tapped against the window. Somewhere in the distance, waves.
I kicked the quilt off and sat up slowly. The air in the room was warm, even with the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles. I padded across the room to the dresser, opening drawers like I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for.
And there it was. Folded in the back corner like it had never been touched. My old navy blue swimsuit with the white straps. The one Susannah called “classic.” The one Jeremiah once said made me look like a lifeguard in a movie.
I hadn’t thought about that in years. But my fingers remembered the way the straps twisted, the way the back always needed adjusting. I held it to my chest for a second. Then I changed.
Outside, the porch light cast a soft glow over the deck. The air was sticky but still. The kind of summer night that clung to your skin and made everything feel closer. I moved quietly, barefoot, careful not to wake Conrad if he was asleep.
But when I looked up toward the side of the house, I saw it.
His bedroom light was still on.
A golden square in the dark.
Maybe he couldn’t sleep either.
I didn’t let myself wonder why.
The pool shimmered under the moonlight, just like I remembered. Silvery and calm, tucked between the hedges and the porch and the old lemon tree that Susannah planted years ago. Everything still smelled like salt and sunscreen, even though it had probably been months since anyone swam in it.
I dipped my toes in first. Then I slid in all at once, letting the water close around me. It wasn’t cold. It was perfect.
I floated on my back, my eyes on the sky, the stars just visible beyond the porch roof.
This was something I used to do all the time growing up—swim at night, when the house was quiet and the moms were asleep and the only sound was the soft lap of water against the tile. It made me feel weightless. Invisible. Like the whole world stopped for just a second and let me breathe.
I hadn't felt that in a long time.
As I drifted across the water, I caught another glimpse of his light. Still on.
I wondered if he could hear the water moving. If he knew I was out here. If he was looking out the window. Watching.
And if he was, what he was thinking.
I wasn’t supposed to see him again until the wedding. That’s what I told myself. That’s what I’d planned for. Jeremiah’s wedding—him as best man, me as a bridesmaid. Practice smiles. Shared glances. A couple of old photos for the bride’s Instagram story.
That was the version I could handle.
Not this.
Not Conrad, barefoot in the kitchen. Not the look on his face when he saw me. Like I was something he never expected to see again. Like part of him didn’t know whether to speak or disappear.
I thought I’d closed that chapter. I really did.
But being here—with the air, and the walls, and the same old bathing suit clinging to my skin—it was like none of it had ever ended. Like I was still the girl who used to float in this pool and dream about the boy in the room upstairs.
And maybe, deep down, part of me still was.
I dipped under the water one more time. Let it cover my ears. Let it muffle everything.
When I came up for air, I knew where this was going.
Somewhere deep. Somewhere I hadn’t let myself go in years.
A memory was coming.
I could feel it.
And then I was back there.
Back in that house that smelled like lilies and grief. Back in that dress Susannah loved, the one I wasn’t sure I could wear without crying. My hands were trembling, even though I hadn’t touched a drink. My stomach was empty. My eyes hurt from trying not to blink too much, like blinking might break the floodgates wide open.
But I couldn’t find him.
The whole day, I hadn’t seen Conrad for longer than a second—the side of his face in the car, the back of his head in the pew. He sat beside his father like he was carved from something ancient and hollow. I watched him during the eulogy, but he never once looked up.
So I went looking.
It wasn’t about confrontation. Not at first. I just wanted to see him. To sit beside him. To grieve with him .
But when I opened the door to the rec room, my whole body stalled.
Conrad. On the couch.
His head in his ex-girlfriend, Aubrey’s lap.
She was stroking his hair, her hand gentle and easy, like it belonged there.
I froze.
She looked up first. Her voice all soft and syrupy. “Oh, hey. That for us? Thanks.”
Something broke in me. Quiet and clean.
I didn’t answer. I backed out, my hand still on the doorknob like it might keep me from falling apart. I turned and bolted for the stairs, my breath ragged.
“Belly!” he called after me. “Belly, wait!”
I didn’t.
I hit the stairs fast, my heels clicking against the wood, my chest tight. The sound of his footsteps thundered behind me.
“What do you want?” I snapped when he caught my wrist at the landing. “Let go of me.”
He did, slowly.
“That was just Aubrey,” he said.
I laughed. Bitter and raw. “Sorry to interrupt your little moment.”
“She was helping me.”
“Oh, she was helping you?” My voice cracked. “So you’ll accept her help but not mine? Got it. Glad to know where I fall in the ranking of ex-girlfriends.”
He flinched. “Grow up.”
“Go to hell.”
His jaw clenched. “I should’ve known you’d be like this.”
“Like what?” I stepped toward him. “Say it.”
He shook his head. “Forget it.”
“No. Say it. Tell me.”
His eyes burned. “I knew it was a bad idea. Starting something with you.”
I staggered back like he’d hit me. “I don’t believe you.”
His voice was flat. Final. “It was a huge mistake.”
Silence.
That kind of silence that presses against your ears and makes your heart feel too big for your chest.
“I hate you,” I whispered.
“Good.”
We were standing in the middle of the hallway now, every guest from the funeral watching like they were seeing a car crash in slow motion. Someone muttered my name. Someone else turned away.
But all I saw was him.
“I never want to see you again,” I said.
I turned to walk past him. My knees were shaking.
And that’s when I tripped.
My ankle caught the corner of the rug and I pitched forward—hard.
Strong arms caught me just before I hit the ground.
Conrad.
His hands on my waist. His face too close. His tie brushing my cheek.
I shoved him away, hard.
“I don’t need your help,” I hissed.
He didn’t say anything.
I turned around—and that’s when I saw her.
Laurel.
My mom.
Standing at the end of the hall, watching.
She looked at me. Then away. Her face blank with something like shame. Or maybe disappointment. I didn’t know which hurt worse.
Heat rushed to my face.
The eyes.
The silence.
The funeral.
Everything cracked open inside me all at once.
I ran.
Out the door, down the porch steps, across the gravel until I couldn’t feel anything but the burn in my lungs.
Conrad didn’t follow me.
I made myself a promise that day. I would never let him affect me like that again. I couldn’t. If I did, it would destroy me.
That was the last time I saw him.
I was sixteen then, a junior in high school. After that summer, I threw myself into volleyball, into school, into anything that made it easier not to think about him. I finished my senior year with blinders on—practices, tournaments, college applications. I said no every time my mom or Steven asked if I wanted to go back to the summer house. I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready.
The day I got the scholarship offer for Paris, I didn’t even hesitate.
And that fall after I graduated, I left.
I never went back. Not once. Not even when I missed the ocean or dreamed about the house with the white shutters. Not even when I woke up in the middle of the night from memories I swore I’d buried for good.
I told myself it was easier that way.
And for a while, it was.
Until now.
The water was colder than I remembered.
I blinked up at the stars, gasping like I’d just come up for air. My hands were trembling. My whole body felt too still, too heavy—like I’d dragged that memory down with me and only now let it rise.
The porch light was still on. So was Conrad’s window, though I couldn’t tell if he was watching.
I told myself I didn’t care.
I climbed out slowly, the cool night air hitting my skin like a slap. My old bathing suit clung to me, soaked and unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else. I grabbed a towel from the deck chair and wrapped it around myself tight, like armor.
For a long second, I just stood there. Barefoot and dripping, staring out into the dark, wondering how I ended up back here—in this place I swore I’d never return to, with this boy I swore I’d never think about again.
Because no matter how far I’d run, I hadn’t really left him behind. Not completely.
Inside, the house breathed that old summer quiet. I crept up the stairs without a sound, passed his door, didn’t look in, didn’t stop. Just kept walking—one foot in front of the other—until I was back in my room. The towel was damp around my shoulders. My hair dripping down my back. My heart still racing like I hadn’t left that hallway four years ago.
I crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin.
I told myself again I wouldn’t let him affect me.
Not this time.
Not again.
But my body remembered what my heart wasn’t ready to admit.
It already had.