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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.

Chapter Text

The alarm on my phone went off at 8:30.

I blinked against the light, confused for a second about where I was. The room was too quiet. The air smelled like old laundry detergent and sea salt. Then I saw the polka-dotted quilt half-kicked to the foot of the bed and remembered.

Cousins.

The summer house.

And Conrad.

I sat up slowly, rubbing the heel of my palm against my eyes. I’d gone to sleep wet-haired, still damp from the pool, still shivering from the memory that had dragged me under and spit me back out. I didn’t even remember climbing into bed, only that I had pulled the covers over me like I was bracing for a storm that had already passed.

The sun was already high outside the windows. I stretched, cracked my back, and reached for my phone to turn off the second alarm I didn’t even need anymore. I was trying to reset my time zone, get back on some kind of schedule that didn’t include midnight swims and emotional time travel. But my body wasn’t cooperating yet.

I pulled on the same oversized t-shirt I wore to bed—it was old, soft, and hung to the middle of my thighs—and padded barefoot toward the stairs.

I was halfway down the staircase when I heard his voice.

Conrad. In the kitchen.

He was on the phone. On speaker.

I stopped, one hand on the railing.

A woman’s voice filtered up toward me, low and familiar and unmistakable.

“I get in around 6:45 on the Wednesday before. Terminal B, I think. I’ll text you when I land, just in case.”

Conrad’s voice was easy, casual. “I’ll pick you up.”

She laughed a little. “Thanks. I wish I could come back sooner. I miss home.”

I didn’t move.

My foot hovered mid-step.

The name rose in my throat before I even heard it. Aubrey.

Of course.

The voice was older, a little more polished maybe, but it was still her. The girl I found him with. The one who got to hold him when he wouldn’t let me near. The girl whose lap he rested his head in while I stood in the doorway, heart cracked and aching.

I shifted my weight without thinking, and the stair under me creaked, sharp and loud in the quiet.

There was a pause in the kitchen.

Then Conrad’s voice. “I’ve gotta go, Aubrey. I’ll call you later, okay?” 

“Yeah,” she said. “Okay. Talk soon.”

I waited, breath shallow, then stepped down the rest of the stairs like nothing happened.

When I rounded the corner into the kitchen, he was standing by the counter, phone in his hand, screen dark.

He looked up. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I said. My voice felt rough. “Is there coffee?”

He stepped back instinctively, like he was clearing the way. “Yeah. I made a pot earlier.”

I brushed past him, the side of my arm catching against his. My t-shirt clung to my back in the heat. I felt too exposed, too aware of every inch of skin and space between us.

The coffee machine blinked steadily. I reached for a mug without looking at him.

He cleared his throat. “So… Paris.”

I poured the coffee, kept my eyes on the swirl of cream I added. “I loved it.”

He nodded. “Laurel told me you’re starting at Northeastern in the fall?”

“For my master’s. Sports psych.”

“That’s great,” he said, and I could hear the effort in his voice, like he meant it but didn’t know how to say it without it sounding like small talk.

I turned, leaned my hip against the counter, fingers wrapped around the warm mug.

“What about you?” I asked. “How’s life in California?”

His gaze flicked toward the window. “It’s been nice. I like it.”

I nodded. Another pause stretched between us, long enough to start to ache.

“So,” I said, careful and quiet. “You and Aubreyare back together.”

He took a breath. “We reconnected around Christmas. She’s in California too. Graduated from USC last spring. She’s working out there now.”

“That’s great,” I said, even though it didn’t feel great. It felt sharp. Familiar. I took another sip of coffee.

I turned to leave.

“Belly,” he said.

I stopped, my fingers tightening around the handle. I didn’t turn right away.

“I should’ve said this yesterday,” he said. “But I’m sorry. For how we left things.”

I turned slowly.

He was standing a few feet from me, barefoot in a faded navy t-shirt, his hair a mess of waves like he’d barely slept. His eyes, always too clear and too dark at the same time, were steady on me.

He looked older. Taller, maybe, but I wasn’t sure. There was something quieter in him now. Something like restraint. Or regret.

He looked like a stranger who knew all my secrets.

And part of me hated how familiar he still felt.

I searched his face. This was the boy I had once given everything I had to. The boy who let me hold his hand at night but pulled away in the morning. The boy who pushed me away when his mother was dying, and I tried to hold on tighter, thinking love could anchor us both. The boy who left me standing in the rain at prom, mascara on my cheeks and my heart in my hands.

“That’s in the past,” I said, voice low. “We’ve both moved on.”

He nodded, slow and unreadable. But his eyes didn’t leave mine. He looked at me in that way he used to—like he was trying to read something written just beneath my skin.

And for a second, I let him.

Then I turned.

The coffee was already cooling in my hands.

I didn’t say anything else.

I walked upstairs with the weight of his gaze pressed between my shoulder blades, like a fingerprint I wouldn’t be able to scrub off.

By the time I reached the landing, I didn’t know if my heart was racing because of what he said.

Or because part of me still remembered what it felt like when he said nothing at all.

Back in my room, I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a second.

The mug in my hands was still warm, but the moment had already cooled.

I walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside. From here, I could just barely see the edge of the pool, the sunlight scattering across the water like it had something to prove. The deck chairs were still empty. The lemon tree still swayed. Everything looked normal. Like the past hour hadn’t happened.

But it had.

I crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath me in the same familiar way it always had. I set the mug down on the nightstand and curled my legs up underneath me. My wet hair from the night before had dried in waves, and I twisted one strand around my finger, absently.

So you and Aubrey are back together.

The words had tasted like something sour even as I said them. Not because I hadn’t expected it, but because part of me still hated how easily it made sense. Of course she was in California. Of course they reconnected. She was the last person to hold him before everything fell apart. Maybe she was always meant to pick up the pieces I couldn’t.

I didn’t know what stung more—his apology, or how long it had taken to get it.

I told him we’d both moved on. And maybe that was true.

Paris had changed me. I wasn’t that girl anymore—the one who used to float in the pool and wonder what it would feel like if he ever chose me out loud. The one who waited for the rain to stop. The one who stood in a black dress and watched him rest his head in someone else’s lap.

But sometimes, healing doesn’t come with some big, cinematic moment. Sometimes it just looks like sitting on your childhood bed with yesterday’s coffee and an ache you can’t quite name.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I reached for it, already expecting my mom, or Taylor asking for updates.

But it was Steven.

My thumb hovered for a second before I smiled and answered. “Hey.”

“Damn, it took you long enough.”

“I literally picked up on the second ring.”

“I’ve been counting. You’re slow.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the way my smile widened. “What do you want, loser?”

“To check on my emotionally complicated sister who’s been back in the States for like, two minutes and is already dodging family dinners.”

“I didn’t dodge. I got locked out.”

“Sure you did.”

I pulled the blanket over my lap and leaned against the headboard. “How’s New York?”

“Loud. Taylor’s mom is visiting and she keeps trying to force-feed me green juice. You saved me by answering, honestly.”

I laughed for real that time. “Glad to be of service.”

He paused for a second, then his voice dropped just a bit. “Seriously, though. You okay?”

I hesitated.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “I think I am.”

He didn’t push. That was one of the things I loved most about Steven—he knew exactly when to back off, and exactly how much space to give.

“Jeremiah told me you’re staying at the summer house?”

“Yeah. He offered.”

“Did he mention that Conrad’s there?”

I closed my eyes. “Nope.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah.”

There was a long pause. Not the awkward kind. The kind where your sibling knows just how much you’re not saying.

“Want me to come down this weekend?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Don’t change your plans. I’m fine. Really.”

He didn’t sound convinced. “If he says anything out of line, I give you full permission to hit him with a lemon.”

“I’ll keep that in my back pocket.”

“Good. Now get some sun, get some bagels, and try not to spiral.”

I smiled again. “Love you, Steven.”

“Love you too, Bells.”

When the call ended, I stayed still for a minute.

Then I picked up my coffee and took another sip. It had gone cold, but I didn’t mind.

Outside the window, a breeze caught the edge of the porch flag and fluttered it sideways.

Maybe everything didn’t have to feel heavy all the time.

Maybe some things could just be simple.

Like a call from your brother.

Or knowing that you made it through the first morning in Cousins without falling apart.

Not entirely, anyway.

The afternoon sun had settled into that sleepy, golden kind of warmth that made the whole house feel quieter. I had thrown on a pair of denim shorts and an old tank top and pulled my hair into a braid that already felt too loose at the crown. My canvas tote was slung over my shoulder, the keys to the rental car in my hand, and my phone buzzed every thirty seconds with some kind of irrelevant promotional email from a French pharmacy I forgot to unsubscribe from.

I was halfway down the porch steps when I saw him.

Conrad was in the yard, just off the side of the house, crouched next to a stack of paint cans and a tangle of tools. He was shirtless. A pair of old board shorts hung low on his hips, streaks of white primer dusted across his shoulder blades like he’d leaned into something too quickly.

He was fixing something near the deck—maybe repainting the posts, maybe tightening up the trim before the wedding. His back was turned toward me, and without meaning to, my eyes lingered. The muscles in his shoulders flexed as he twisted something into place, a small furrow of concentration etched between his shoulder blades. He looked sun-touched and focused and older in a way I hadn’t seen up close before.

I blinked, confused by the sudden weight in my chest, and looked away just as he stood up and turned toward me.

“Oh,” I said, too fast. “I didn’t know you were out here.”

He squinted in the sun, brushing a hand through his hair. “Trying to get some stuff done before Jeremiah and Kate get here. It’s mostly touch-ups. Loose boards. Little things.”

I nodded. “Looks good.”

He shrugged. “Thanks. Gonna grill some chicken later, if you want any. Might do corn too.”

The words surprised me. He said them casually, but they landed somewhere soft. Like an offering.

“Thanks,” I said. “But I was gonna grab groceries. Stock up while I’m stuck here.”

He nodded, then bent to pick up a piece of sandpaper.

I turned, started toward the car.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

ALERT: Reminder—Rental Car Return Due Tomorrow
Drop-off Location: Northshore Auto Center – 20.3 miles

Right. I’d changed the location yesterday before I fell asleep.

I hesitated, then turned halfway back toward him.

“Hey,” I said.

He looked up again.

“This is kind of random,” I said, shifting the keys in my hand. “But I have to return the rental car tomorrow, and the closest drop-off is, like, two towns over. I was gonna Uber, but it’s kind of far. Would you maybe be around? If you’re not busy.”

He wiped the back of his arm across his forehead, leaving a streak of paint along his temple. “Yeah. I can take you.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he said again, and this time there was no hesitation.

I nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

I turned back to the car and opened the door, the heat inside pressing up all at once. As I slid into the driver’s seat, I caught one last glance of him in the side mirror—back to sanding again, his head ducked, sweat glinting at the base of his neck.

And even though the air was still hot and the car seat stuck to the backs of my thighs, I shivered.

It wasn’t like yesterday.

Not exactly.

And that almost made it harder.

The paper bag on the passenger seat tipped over on the drive home, and now there were lemons rolling around the floor of the rental car like they had somewhere better to be. The ice cream I definitely didn’t need but bought anyway was sweating in the cooler bag at my feet, and my phone buzzed with another reminder to "hydrate or die-drate" from an app I regretted downloading.

I pulled into the gravel driveway just as the sun started to slip lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the porch. The cicadas had started humming in that lazy, buzzing way that always made the air feel thicker.

I got out, opened the back door, and started juggling two bags and my keys.

“You need help?” a voice called.

I looked up.

Conrad was at the side of the house again, this time with a garden hose in one hand and a rag in the other. His shirt was back on, but barely—faded gray cotton that clung to his chest in places still damp from sweat or maybe water.

“I got it,” I said quickly, adjusting the bags on my arm.

He didn’t listen. Of course he didn’t.

He walked over and reached for the bag hanging low on my left wrist, the one cutting into my skin just slightly from the weight of the milk and canned soup. His fingers brushed mine, just for a second.

“I said I got it,” I repeated, a little sharper this time.

“I heard you,” he said, lifting the bag anyway. “You don’t.”

I frowned, but I didn’t argue.

Together we climbed the porch steps, and for a moment it felt like we were kids again, back from a grocery run Susannah had orchestrated, arguing over peanut butter brands and who got to pick the chips. Back when things were simpler. Or at least when I thought they were.

Inside, the house smelled like wood and lemon cleaner. I kicked the door shut behind me with my foot and led the way into the kitchen.

He set the bag down on the counter beside mine.

I started unpacking—milk, strawberries, pasta, coffee filters.

Conrad leaned against the edge of the island, watching me. “You went a little overboard.”

“I’m here for a while,” I said without looking up. “And I’m a snacker.”

He smiled faintly. “Still.”

I shrugged and pulled out the cooler bag with the ice cream. “Don’t judge me. You invited me to eat grilled chicken and then made me grocery shop for emotional support carbs.”

“I never said you had to eat the chicken.”

“I never said I wouldn’t,” I muttered, sliding the ice cream into the freezer.

He watched me for a second longer. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

I stood there for a beat, listening to the quiet creak of the floorboards, the faint click of the screen door behind him.

It didn’t feel like closure. Or forgiveness. Or anything that clean.

But it also didn’t feel like the end of the world.

I unpacked the rest of the groceries, slow and steady, and let myself breathe.

Later, after the groceries were put away and the sun had started sinking into the trees, the smell of charcoal drifted in through the open windows.

I told myself I wasn’t going to eat with him. That I’d make my own pasta or reheat something from the freezer. That sitting across from him like it was normal would be too much, too soon, too close.

But somehow, when I wandered onto the porch with my book, there was already a plate set at the small patio table—chicken, grilled corn, two sweating glasses of lemonade.

He didn’t say anything, just nodded toward the empty chair and went back to poking at the grill with the same tongs his dad used since we were kids.

Against my better judgment, I sat down.

I wasn’t doing anything wrong. This wasn’t prom night. This wasn’t the funeral. This was grilled chicken on a deck with someone I used to know.

Conrad had a girlfriend. Aubrey.

And I had dated too—boys in Paris who made espresso in their boxers and said things like mon cœur when they kissed me. I had built a whole life away from this porch.

I could sit here and eat dry grilled food like a functioning adult. I could do this.

I picked up my fork and took a bite of the chicken.

Chewed. Swallowed.

Made a face.

“This tastes like… nothing,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

He looked up from his own plate. “It’s chicken.”

“It’s punishment.”

He shrugged. “This is the only thing I know how to cook.”

I snorted. “That explains so much.”

And then, for the first time since I stepped back into this house, we laughed.

It was short, a little awkward, but real. And it felt like something cracked open—not the past, not the future, just the space between them. Just now.

He looked at me like he was relieved to see me smile. I looked away before I could read into it.

I took another bite. Still bland. Still edible.

I could do this.

I really could.

Even if I wasn’t sure what this meant.

For now, it just meant dinner.

Chapter Text

The air conditioning in the rental lot office was working overtime, but I still felt flushed by the time I signed the paperwork and handed over the keys. The drive hadn’t even started yet and I already regretted asking him.

Conrad was waiting outside in his car, the silver Range Rover that somehow managed to look both clean and lived-in, like every inch of it had a memory attached. The windows were rolled down. His arm rested along the driver’s side, fingers drumming against the top of the wheel.

I slid into the passenger seat and closed the door, the sound too final.

“Thanks again,” I said, clipping my seatbelt in place.

He nodded once. “No problem.”

He didn’t say much else—just shifted into gear and pulled out of the lot, merging back onto the road like he’d done it a thousand times. Like this wasn’t weird at all.

The ride was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind that made you hyper-aware of things you weren’t supposed to notice anymore.

Like the way his hands gripped the steering wheel. How his knuckles flexed with every slight turn. The way the tendons in his forearms moved under his skin.

I looked out the window, then down at my lap, then back to the road ahead. It didn’t help.

The car felt too warm, even with the A/C humming. My thighs were sticking to the seat. I rolled down the window and let the wind rush in, wild and loud and welcome.

Conrad glanced over but didn’t say anything. His jaw was tight, like he was focused on the road—or maybe on something else entirely.

I counted the trees we passed. I traced the shape of my knee through my jeans. I adjusted the radio volume just to do something with my hands.

Ten minutes in, he finally broke the silence.

“You hungry?”

I turned toward him, surprised.

He kept his eyes on the road. “We could stop somewhere. If you want.”

I wasn’t hungry. Not really. But I needed to get out of this car. Out of the space between us. Out of the heat that had nothing to do with the temperature outside.

“Sure,” I said. “That’s fine.”

He nodded and signaled right, pulling off onto an exit like he already had a place in mind.

I looked out the window again, the wind tugging at the edge of my braid.

This was fine.

This was normal.

Just two people who used to love each other, pretending they didn’t remember how it felt.

The diner was a blink-and-you-miss-it place off the highway, the kind with a chipped neon sign and a screen door that slammed too hard behind you. Inside, it smelled like bacon grease and syrup and air conditioning that had been fighting for its life since 1994.

We slid into a booth near the window. The seat was cracked vinyl, the menu laminated and sticky around the edges. There was a jukebox near the back that played old country songs no one had asked for.

I kept my eyes on the menu like it was a contract.

Conrad sat across from me, drumming one finger lightly on the table. The silence stretched too long between us, thick and awkward. I could feel him looking at me, but I didn’t look up. I wasn’t ready to meet whatever was in his eyes.

A waitress came over and took our order—grilled cheese for me, burger for him, two iced teas. She left without asking if we were ready, like she already knew we didn’t want to talk to her.

The silence returned.

I stared out the window at the gravel lot. There were two other cars and a pickup with a busted taillight. Across the highway, a billboard for a lawyer named Barry smiled down at us like everything was fine.

After a few minutes, Conrad shifted in his seat. “So,” he said. “Sports psychology?”

I glanced at him, surprised. “What about it?”

“You never mentioned it before. I just… didn’t know that’s what you were going for.”

I traced a drop of condensation down the side of my glass. “Senior year. Volleyball championship. I tore my MCL diving for a ball we didn’t even save.”

He winced. “Steven told me. I remember that.”

I nodded. “They made me see a sports psychologist during recovery. I thought it was going to be stupid, honestly. But it helped. Not just with the leg—mentally, too. I couldn’t stop spiraling about everything I was missing. She helped me find my way back.”

Conrad nodded slowly, then looked down at his napkin. He folded it once, then again.

“I see a therapist,” he said.

I blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Started a couple years ago. For panic attacks.”

I sat up slightly. “I didn’t know you had those.”

He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t smile either. “It started after I found out about my dad. And then the cancer came back. I think my brain just… cracked a little. Couldn’t keep it all in anymore.”

My throat tightened. I didn’t know what to say to that.

He hesitated. “The day of the funeral. When you found me in the rec room… that wasn’t what it looked like.”

I went still.

“I had a panic attack,” he said. “That’s why Aubrey was there. She found me. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want anyone to see me like that.”

I looked down at the table, at my fingernails pressed against the seam in the laminate.

The ice in my tea clinked as it melted.

I didn’t say anything.

Because it didn’t matter. Not really.

It didn’t matter why he hadn’t reached for me.

It didn’t matter that he had a reason.

What mattered was that he hadn’t chosen me.

I took a breath, deep and careful. “Anyway,” I said, picking up my straw wrapper. “This grilled cheese better be amazing. I’m starving.”

He looked at me for a second longer. Then he nodded.

The waitress came back with our plates. The food was fine. The silence stayed.

And I told myself, again,

I wasn’t going to let him affect me.

Not anymore.

The gravel crunched under the tires as we pulled into the driveway.

Neither of us said much on the ride back. The windows were halfway down, the air warm and salty and full of that late-summer quiet. Conrad had the radio low, just enough to fill the silence with soft guitar strums and lyrics that didn’t mean anything unless you were looking for them.

I unbuckled my seatbelt the second the car stopped and grabbed my bag from the floor. Conrad rounded the front of the car to get to the porch first, unlocking the door like it was muscle memory. He held it open for me, and I muttered a thanks as I slipped past him.

Inside, the house was cooler than I remembered—shaded and still, like it had been holding its breath all day. I set my bag on the kitchen island and reached for a glass of water, my fingers still a little shaky, even though I didn’t want to admit it.

My phone buzzed just as I took a sip. Incoming FaceTime: Mom

I swallowed quickly and answered.

Laurel’s face filled the screen, the background behind her a blur of terracotta rooftops and blue sky. She was wearing sunglasses on top of her head and a light linen shirt, and she looked about ten years younger than she had last month.

“Hey, bean,” she said, slightly breathless. “You’re alive.”

“Barely,” I said, leaning my hip against the counter. “Jet lag is trying to kill me.”

Laurel smiled, but then her expression shifted. “I’m so sorry we forgot to give you the new key. I thought your dad sent it.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “Really. I’m staying at the summer house.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “With Jeremiah?”

I hesitated. “He’s not here yet.”

Before she could ask anything else, I felt movement behind me. I turned halfway just as Conrad appeared, barefoot, hair tousled, a glass of water in his hand.

“Hi, Laurel,” he said easily, his voice close. Too close.

I hadn’t realized how close he was until I turned and caught the heat of him behind me. His arm brushed mine as he leaned against the counter, casual and oblivious, like we did this every day.

My entire body went still.

Laurel smiled through the screen. “Connie. You look healthy.”

He laughed softly. “Trying.”

I took a breath, pretending like my heart wasn’t suddenly thudding behind my ribs like it had something to prove.

The call lasted maybe another minute—Laurel asking if I needed anything, reminding me to text her when I figured out my class schedule, promising to bring me olive oil from Florence because “American olive oil is just sad.” The usual.

When we finally hung up, I set the phone down and turned away too quickly, knocking my glass over in the process.

Water sloshed onto the counter and dripped down to the floor. I grabbed a towel from the drawer, willing my cheeks not to burn.

Conrad crouched to pick up the fallen lemon wedge from my glass and set it in the sink like it was a bomb.

“I’ve got it,” I said too fast, wiping the counter. “It’s fine.”

He didn’t argue this time. Just nodded and stepped back.

But I still felt it. The way his presence lingered.

Like the heat of someone just out of reach. Like the memory of a touch that never fully landed.

I pressed the towel harder into the counter.

I was not going to fall apart in this kitchen.

Not over him. Not again.

Chapter Text

I spent the next two days trying to avoid him.

It wasn’t that hard, at first. The house was big enough. Conrad had taken over the porch repairs and some garden project that involved getting dirt everywhere but the actual soil. I stuck mostly to my room, reading, organizing things that didn’t need organizing. I went for super long walks on the beach. I made complicated salads I barely touched.

Every time I heard his footsteps on the stairs, I waited.

Every time I heard the front door creak open, I held my breath until it closed again.

Avoiding him made me feel like a teenager again. But I didn’t know how else to stay sane in this house with these walls and that boy and everything I still hadn’t let go of.

There was only one moment I slipped up.

It was late morning, the second floor quiet and hazy with sun. I had just come out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around my hair, makeup half-smeared under my eyes. I was wearing an old tank top and shorts and had no reason to believe anyone was upstairs.

Until I turned the corner into the hallway and ran directly into him.

Literally.

He was barefoot, wearing a soft blue t-shirt and gym shorts, carrying a laundry basket in one arm. His shoulder brushed mine as I stumbled back, too fast and too close.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low.

“It’s fine,” I muttered, stepping sideways to pass him.

But the hallway was narrow. And his shoulder brushed mine again, slower this time, accidental but unmistakable.

I hated the way my breath caught.

I hated how my skin buzzed where we touched.

Most of all, I hated that he still had this effect on me... Even now, just days before my twenty-first birthday, I still didn’t feel grown-up enough to stop caring.

I didn’t look at him.

I just kept walking, faster than necessary, like I could outrun it.

The truth was, I had never been good at pretending when it came to Conrad Fisher. But I was trying now. I was really trying.

Even if every cell in my body still wanted to betray me.

After he brushed past me in the hallway, I stayed in my room for a while.

I didn’t read. I didn’t write. I didn’t scroll.

I just laid back against the pillows with a towel still knotted in my hair and stared at the ceiling, letting the quiet fill up the space around me.

It was like my body hadn’t caught up to the rest of me. Like my skin was still trying to memorize the shape of something I swore I didn’t want anymore.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Because when you swear you’ve moved on, even the smallest flicker of memory feels like betrayal.

I closed my eyes, and without meaning to, I was back there.

Back in the kitchen at my mom’s house. The one with the chipped tile and the humming fridge and the barstools that wobbled if you sat too close to the edge.

It was spring. A Saturday. My mom had gone out to pick up dry cleaning. Steven was at a friend’s. The house was still.

I was perched on the counter, barefoot, wearing one of Conrad’s old hoodies and a messy ponytail. He stood in front of me, arms crossed, eyes heavy with something I couldn’t name.

He’d been quiet that whole weekend. Even quieter than usual. He’d driven down from Brown like he always did—two and a half hours straight through, no breaks, no music. Back then, he did it almost every weekend. I didn’t realize until later that I had started to expect him. That I counted the hours without meaning to.

That weekend, though, he hadn’t smiled much. He barely touched the waffles I made. When I asked if he was okay, he’d said he was just tired. That school was a lot.

But that day, in the kitchen, he finally said it.

“I’m worried about my mom,” he said quietly.

I remember tilting my head, confused. “I thought the meds were working?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked down at the floor like it had more answers than I did.

“She’s been more tired lately,” he said finally. “She’s not bouncing back the way they thought.”

I’d nodded, too quickly. Too certain.

“She’s going to be okay,” I told him. “She always bounces back. She’s Susannah.”

I really believed that. I believed it with the kind of faith only a sixteen-year-old could have.

I didn’t know he already knew the truth.

I didn’t know he was holding it alone.

He looked up at me then. Just looked.

And then he leaned in, resting his head against my chest like he was too tired to hold it up any longer.

I wrapped my arms around him, my hands sliding into his hair, my chin resting on top of his head.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that.

I didn’t know it then, but I was already losing him.

Right there on the kitchen counter, in a sweatshirt that smelled like him and a house that felt safe, he was already slipping away.

And I couldn’t stop it.

I didn’t know how.

I sat up and let my legs dangle off the side of the bed. The floor was cool beneath my feet. I ran my hands over my knees, trying to shake the memory off.

It didn’t work.

Some things stay with you even when they shouldn’t.

Even when they weren’t yours to carry.

The smell of coffee hit me before I even reached the stairs.

It was barely nine, and the house was too still for how awake it felt. My socks made no sound on the wood floor as I descended, hair still damp from the shower and pulled into a low twist that would probably fall apart before noon.

I padded into the kitchen, ready for coffee and nothing else.

But the second I stepped through the doorway, I stopped.

Mr. Fisher was sitting at the kitchen table.

Conrad stood across from him, leaning against the counter, coffee mug in hand. He looked…tense. Not angry, not distant. Just tight around the edges.

They both looked up at the sound of my steps.

“Oh,” I said, like an idiot.

Mr. Fisher smiled, polite and surprised. “Is that Belly Conklin?”

I nodded, trying to return the smile. “Hi, Mr. Fisher.”

“I didn’t know you were in town. Or staying here.”

“She got locked out of her parents’ house,” Conrad said, without looking at me.

I moved toward the counter, walking behind him to get to the coffee pot. I felt the air shift between us as I passed, his body heat brushing mine. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for a mug, but I kept my back straight.

“I haven’t seen you since—” Mr. Fisher stopped himself. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” I said, pouring coffee. “It has.”

We didn’t say what we meant. We didn’t mention the funeral. The empty house. The way Susannah’s absence had filled every corner of that day.

I took a cautious sip.

“Jeremiah rope you into this wedding of his, too?” Mr. Fisher asked.

I glanced at him. “I’m a bridesmaid,” I admitted, giving a small, guilty smile.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “That boy. Can’t believe he’s actually going through with it.”

Conrad shifted beside me. “He’s going to do what he wants.”

“That’s the problem,” Mr. Fisher said. “He’s twenty-one. He doesn’t know anything about marriage. Neither of you do.”

I could feel the tension flare again between them, sharp and quiet.

Conrad didn’t answer.

Mr. Fisher turned to me, his tone lighter. “Well, at least you’re around to keep him grounded. And I bet Conrad’s glad to have his little sister back for a bit.”

I nearly choked on my coffee.

I swallowed quickly, eyes widening just slightly.

Conrad went still beside me.

“Right?” Mr. Fisher went on, oblivious. “You used to follow Conrad and the boys around like a little shadow. Laurel always said it was a miracle you didn’t try to pitch a tent in their room.”

My fingers tightened around the mug.

Conrad cleared his throat. “Dad—”

Mr. Fisher waved a hand. “Anyway. Before I leave town tonight, I want to take you to dinner, Conrad.”

“I’m busy tonight,” Conrad said flatly.

“Lunch, then,” Mr. Fisher said, undeterred. “Today.”

Conrad didn’t respond right away.

Then Mr. Fisher turned to me again. “Belly, you’ll join us, won’t you?”

I opened my mouth to decline—automatically, instinctively.

But Conrad gave me a look.

One of those looks.

It wasn’t pleading. It wasn’t a command.

It was quiet and serious and very clear.

Don’t leave me alone with him.

I nodded. “Sure. I can do lunch.”

“Good,” Mr. Fisher said, standing. He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket like he was already halfway out the door. “I’ll make the reservation for one. Don’t be late.”

He gave a nod to both of us and let himself out, the screen door slapping gently behind him.

The silence he left behind filled every inch of the room.

I sipped my coffee again, even though it had already gone lukewarm.

Conrad hadn’t moved.

I didn’t look at him. I didn’t have to. I could feel the way his eyes stayed fixed somewhere just above the counter, jaw clenched like he wanted to be anywhere else.

“Thanks,” he said finally.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

The silence stretched again, heavier now.

Because of what Mr. Fisher said.

Because he didn’t know.

Because Conrad didn’t tell him.

Because I didn’t either.

I turned and walked back toward the stairs, still holding the mug in both hands, even though I didn’t want the coffee anymore.

It was going to be a long lunch.

And somehow, I already knew—there were things waiting there that neither of us were ready to say.

I stood in front of the mirror for longer than I should have.

The sundress I pulled from my suitcase was one I bought in Paris last fall, from a boutique on Rue Oberkampf that smelled like rose oil and incense. It was soft yellow, lightweight, fitted through the waist and looser toward the hem. The kind of dress you wear on long walks with no destination. Or to pretend you’re not walking into something you can’t control.

I hadn’t worn it in months. But something about today felt like armor dressed up as ease.

I didn’t do much else. Just pulled my hair into a low twist, swiped on mascara, and slipped into flat sandals. Casual. Effortless. Except not at all.

By the time I came downstairs, Conrad was already waiting by the door.

He wore a crisp white t-shirt and slate gray pants that sat just a little too low on his hips, like he had gotten ready without thinking. His hair was damp, like he’d just showered. His car keys dangled from one hand.

He looked up when he saw me.

Did a quick double take.

And then said nothing.

I didn’t expect him to. But the way his eyes flickered over the dress—just once—was enough to make my pulse stutter.

He opened the door wordlessly, stepping outside.

I followed him out, the hem of my dress brushing against my legs with every step. The breeze was warm but soft, and I caught the faintest scent of ocean salt riding the air. I wrapped my arms loosely around myself, not cold, just needing something to hold.

The car beeped as he unlocked it, and I slid into the passenger seat, smoothing the dress beneath me.

It was quiet again.

Not the sharp-edged silence from yesterday.

Not exactly.

This one felt more like a held breath.

Like the space between them was full of things we weren’t saying, and too afraid to hear if we did.

He backed out of the driveway, hand on the wheel, his jaw tight.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. The same boy who used to drive two and a half hours to see me just for a Saturday night. The same boy who never told his father about me. The same boy I couldn’t stop looking at.

And now, we were going to lunch with the man who had no idea what we used to be.

I looked out the window, my voice low but steady.

“This is going to be fun.”

Conrad let out the faintest breath of a laugh.

“I doubt that.”

And still, we went anyway.

The restaurant was nicer than I expected.

One of those coastal places with clean lines, blue-and-white tablecloths, and big windows that made the light feel like it belonged to the ocean. The kind of place where the water glasses were always cold, the bread always warm, and the conversation always a little too polite.

We were seated at a small round table near the window. Mr. Fisher sat across from Conrad and me. The hostess set down menus with a too-bright smile and a promise that our server would be “right with us.”

For the first few minutes, it was all noise—the clink of silverware, the soft hum of other conversations, the scrape of chair legs.

Conrad flipped open his menu like it was a shield. I focused on folding my napkin across my lap. Mr. Fisher was the only one who seemed perfectly at ease, hands steepled on the table like he had a script and we were just here to read our lines.

“So,” he said, glancing at Conrad. “How’s Aubrey?”

My spine went stiff before I could stop it.

Conrad didn’t look up from the menu. “She’s good.”

“She still in LA?”

“Yeah. Working for a nonprofit out there. Doing community health.”

“And you’re still at Stanford.”

“Mmhmm.”

“That’s a long drive.”

Conrad finally looked up. “We make it work.”

Mr. Fisher nodded. “It’s good that you’re trying. Long distance is never easy, especially when you’re both that busy.”

Conrad didn’t say anything.

I didn’t either.

I kept my eyes on the menu, even though I wasn’t reading it anymore. My stomach twisted. Not jealousy—something else. Something like… pressure. Like hearing about Aubrey out loud solidified her. Made her more real than she’d been in my head. A person, not just a name. Not just a ghost in the rec room.

“She coming for the wedding?” Mr. Fisher asked.

Conrad hesitated, just for a second. “Yeah. A few days before.”

I nodded slowly, like it wasn’t new information. Like I hadn’t just learned that from a speakerphone call in the kitchen.

The waitress came by then and took our orders. I asked for a salad I wouldn’t finish. Conrad ordered the salmon. Mr. Fisher, steak.

When she left, Mr. Fisher turned his attention to me, his tone bright and easy.

“What about you, Belly? Got a boyfriend back in Paris?”

My hand tightened slightly on my water glass.

I forced a smile, light and practiced. “Not anymore.”

He raised his brows, amused. “That’s a shame. Some French boy let you get away?”

I didn’t answer that. Not really.

Benito hadn’t “let” me do anything. I’d left when I knew the shape of what I had with him would never come close to what I’d already lost. He was kind. Funny. A good cook. He made me laugh. He didn’t make me feel like I was about to unravel every time he looked at me. He didn't give me fireworks. 

It wasn’t his fault he wasn’t Conrad Beck Fisher.

“Well,” Mr. Fisher said, raising his water in a small toast. “To growing up. And doing our best.”

We clinked glasses. I drank slowly. Conrad’s fingers tapped once against the stem of his.

The silence after that was thick but carefully measured. Tightly controlled.

Like all three of us knew the real conversation was something we’d never actually have.

The ride back to the house was quiet.

Not silent, exactly. The kind of quiet that filled in all the places words could’ve gone but didn’t. A hum from the tires on the road. The occasional tick of the blinker. The rhythmic flick of Conrad’s fingers against the steering wheel.

I watched the shoreline blur past my window. The dunes. The crooked fences. The sky beginning to streak with late afternoon gold.

“Thanks for coming,” Conrad said eventually. His voice was low, almost like he wasn’t sure if he meant to say it out loud.

I glanced at him. “You looked like you needed backup.”

He gave a faint laugh, barely there. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

The car filled with quiet again.

I focused on the way the sunlight hit the curve of his jaw. The slope of his neck. The way his hand gripped the steering wheel at ten and two like we were still in high school and his mom was in the passenger seat telling him how to drive.

I rolled down the window a few inches. The breeze hit my face and I welcomed it, sharp and clean. I needed the air. Needed something that didn’t feel so… heavy.

“I didn’t know your dad didn’t know,” I said softly.

He glanced over, brow furrowed.

“About us,” I added. “That we were together.”

Conrad’s fingers tightened slightly on the wheel. “I never told him.”

I waited. But that was all he gave me.

“No reason to,” he said after a beat, more to himself than to me.

The words stung more than I wanted them to. I looked out the window again.

“You were never just a reason,” I said quietly.

Conrad didn’t say anything. The car kept moving.

For a second, I thought maybe I shouldn’t have said it. That maybe the past was better left in the rearview mirror where it belonged. But then—

“I didn’t tell him,” Conrad said finally, “because I didn’t want him to ruin it.”

I turned my head.

He was still staring straight ahead. Jaw tight. Shoulders tense.

“He ruins everything,” Conrad muttered.

I didn’t ask who “everything” included.

Instead, I looked at him like I was seeing him again for the first time. A little older. A little sadder. The lines around his mouth deeper than I remembered. Like something inside him had calcified.

Conrad pulled the car into the driveway, the crunch of tires on gravel louder than it needed to be.

The silence had stretched between us the whole ride back. I’d stopped trying to fill it somewhere around the second stop sign. The air in the car had turned thick, too full of all the things we hadn’t said and probably never would.

He shut off the engine but didn’t move. Just sat there, fingers resting on the steering wheel like he was still holding on to something.

Then, so quietly I almost missed it, he said, “I guess I didn’t need his help ruining us.”

I turned, heart tightening, not sure I’d heard him right.

Conrad didn’t look at me. His voice stayed even. “I did that all on my own.”

I stared at him. At this boy—no, this man—who’d once made me feel like I was the only girl in the world. Who then made me feel like I didn’t matter at all.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice sharp and sure. “You did.”

Before he could say anything else, I opened the door and climbed out.

The sun hit me hard, warm against the skin of my bare arms, but it didn’t shake the chill I felt inside.

I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to.

He already knew.

I didn’t slam the door behind me, but I wanted to.

Instead, I let it click shut gently, like maybe if I was quiet enough, the ache inside me would go unnoticed.

I climbed the stairs slowly, aware of how fast my heart still beat, how warm my cheeks were, how much I hated that I’d let him get to me—again.

That’s what he did. That’s what he always did. He let just enough truth slip through to make me question everything, and then pulled back before it meant anything. Before it had to mean anything.

Back in my room, I tossed my sandals into the closet corner, ripped the clip from my hair, and threw myself face-down into the pillows like I was sixteen again. I didn’t cry, but I came close.

It was easier when I didn’t know what he was thinking. Easier when it was silence. Distance. Cold avoidance. I could be angry then. Righteous, even.

But the moment he gave me regret—just a sliver of it—everything cracked open.

And I hated him for that.

I hated myself more.

The thing about memories is—they don’t ask permission. They creep in, slow and unrelenting, like candlelight at dusk. One minute the room is dim, and the next it’s glowing with everything you swore you left behind. Until you can’t tell what’s now and what’s already over.

And maybe that’s why I can still feel it so clearly.

That night.

The firelight. The hush of the house. The way his hands trembled the first time they touched my skin.

Chapter Text

Conrad

The coffee machine was louder than I remembered. Each sputter, every hiss of steam—it all felt sharp against the quiet.

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the pot fill. The kitchen window was open a crack, just enough to let the salt air in. It was barely past seven, but the sky was already that washed-out blue that meant it would be hot by noon. June heat in Cousins was different. It clung. It waited.

I hadn’t heard her come downstairs yet.

Not since yesterday.

Not since the lunch with my dad.

She was avoiding me again. I knew the signs. The too-long silences. The way she’d sit in the farthest seat from me, like I was contagious. Or worse—like she might catch something old if she got too close. A version of herself she thought she’d outgrown.

Five years is a long time.

And somehow not long at all.

She was different now. Sharper around the edges. But some things hadn’t changed. The way she stirred her tea counterclockwise. The way her fingers curled when she read, like she was holding on to every word. I noticed that yesterday, at the restaurant. I shouldn’t have been looking, but I did.

The machine clicked off. I poured a mug, no cream, no sugar, and took a slow sip. Burnt the roof of my mouth. Maybe I deserved that.

I could hear the creak of the boards upstairs. Probably her moving around, pretending she didn’t know I was down here. We’d barely spoken since the drive back. Since she asked why I never told my dad. Since I didn’t have a good enough answer.

Jere and Kate were driving up this morning. Steven and Taylor too. They were all supposed to surprise Belly—today is her 21st birthday. I figured having more people around might help. Buffer the awkwardness. Distract us both from whatever this was. Whatever we were trying not to name.

I pulled out my phone, checked the time. Aubrey’s name popped up just as I reached for the cabinet. I stared at it for a second. Then I answered.

“Hey,” I said, lowering my voice even though there was no one here to overhear.

“Hi,” she said. Her voice was bright, as always. Cheerful in that easy, effortless way. “Did I wake you?”

“No. I’m up. Just making coffee.”

“You sound tired.”

I didn’t know how to answer that, so I took another sip. “Didn’t sleep great.”

She hummed like she was thinking of something comforting to say. “Well, I just got out of the planning meeting. We’re working on the summer fundraising campaign—it’s a mentorship program for displaced teens. I’m really excited about it. We’re thinking of doing a benefit concert. Something small but stylish.”

“That’s cool,” I said, running my hand through my hair. “You’ll crush it.”

She kept talking, something about logistics and sponsors, but my attention slipped. I looked out the window instead. The yard hadn’t changed. Same patch of grass we used to lay on when the sand was too much. Same view of the water if you squinted past the shrubs.

“I’m rambling,” Aubrey said suddenly, laughing at herself. “Sorry. I know you have a lot going on. You still sound… distracted.”

I hesitated. “Yeah. Just… still getting the house ready. Jere and Steven are coming today.”

“To help?”

“Sort of. They’re surprising Belly for her birthday.”

A pause. Then a short, quiet, “Oh.”

I didn’t say anything else. The silence stretched thin.

“Well,” Aubrey said, recovering quickly, “I should let you get back to it then. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

I swallowed. “Thanks for calling.”

“I miss you,” she said, soft.

“Yeah,” I said. “Miss you too.”

She hung up first.

I set my phone down and leaned forward on the counter, pressing the heels of my hands against the cool granite. The coffee was already going cold.

I wasn’t sure what I was doing anymore.

Not with Aubrey. Not with Belly. Not with this house that still felt more like a museum than a home.

I just knew today was going to be a long one.

The front door flew open without even a knock.

“Guess who made it, baby!” Jeremiah’s voice filled the whole house before his body even crossed the threshold.

Kate was right behind him, rolling her eyes but grinning as she dragged in a tote bag nearly the size of her torso. “Jeremiah,” she said, exasperated. “Could you be any louder?”

She looked over and spotted me standing just past the kitchen island, coffee still warm in my hands.

“Conrad!” she said brightly, walking over to wrap me in a hug that smelled like citrus shampoo and the open road. “You look… like you’ve been renovating. And not sleeping. But it’s good to see you.”

“You too,” I said, giving a small, tired smile.

Jeremiah didn’t wait for pleasantries. “BELLY!” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth like a human megaphone. “You home?!”

Thundering footsteps on the stairs, and then she appeared.

Barefoot, in shorts and a faded hoodie, hair slightly mussed—like she'd just rolled out of bed, which she probably had. Her eyes widened as she saw him.

“JERE!”

She didn’t hesitate—just ran straight into his arms, full-speed, like muscle memory. He caught her easily, his arms looping around her waist as he lifted her off the ground and spun her in a full circle.

She laughed. Loud. Unfiltered. Happy.

I looked away.

They’d always had that kind of bond—easy, unbreakable, magnetic. A wavelength I’d never quite managed to be on. Not like that.

Kate joined in, wrapping Belly in a hug once Jeremiah put her down. “You look so good,” she said, stepping back to hold her at arm’s length. “Like, Paris fashion student good. It's so good to see you.”

Belly beamed. “I can’t believe you guys are here.”

But before she could say more, the door opened again.

“Okay, where’s the party at?” Steven strolled in with Taylor close behind, both already grinning.

“NO WAY,” Belly said, throwing her arms around them both in quick succession. “You too?!”

Taylor squealed. “Happy birthday, Cinderbelly!”

Steven dropped a canvas tote to the floor. “You really thought we were gonna let you turn twenty-one without a full Cousins reunion?”

They all chimed in then, not exactly in unison, but close enough to count.

“Surprise!”

And Belly?

She absolutely lit up.

She glowed like the sun had just remembered to shine through her.

I forgot how much I loved that smile. How it cracked open a room and made it feel like summer—even in the middle of June gloom. How it used to be mine, once.

Jeremiah slung an arm around her shoulder. “Now that we’re all finally together again…”

He said it lightly, like a joke, but I didn’t miss the way Taylor shot me a quick side glance when he did. Like she wanted to make sure I heard it.

I had.

I didn’t need the reminder. I already knew why Belly had stayed away. Why the house had felt too big without her in it.

Me.

It was always because of me.

Jeremiah clapped his hands together. “Okay, gang. You know what time it is.”

Steven grinned. “Aw hell, not this again.”

“Yes this again,” Jeremiah said, eyes locked on Belly. “The Annual Belly Flop. It’s tradition.”

“Nooo,” Belly groaned, backing up instinctively. “We are not still doing that. I’m twenty-one now, I’m too old to be thrown into pools!”

But she was already laughing. Already running.

I didn’t even think. I just moved.

Caught her around the waist, right before she reached the sliding door to the back deck.

“Gotcha.”

Her laughter hitched—surprised, maybe, or just breathless.

I felt it, even now—her body twisting in my arms, trying to get free, but not really.

Jeremiah came in from one side, Steven from the other.

“Lift!” someone shouted.

And before Belly could yell anything else, we had her—me with one arm looped around her middle, Jeremiah and Steven grabbing her legs.

“Don’t you dare,” she squealed, but she was laughing too hard to sound convincing.

“One—”

“Two—”

“Wait, wait, wait!”

“THREE!”

We flung her straight into the deep end.

The splash was so big it sprayed all the way onto the deck.

She surfaced with a shriek, wiping water from her eyes, and flung a handful of pool water at us. “You guys suck!”

Taylor howled with laughter from her spot by the railing. “She’s back, baby!”

Jeremiah held up his hand for a high five. “Annual Belly Flop, restored.”

Steven offered her a mock salute. “You’re welcome.”

And I?

I just stood there, trying not to drown in the sound of her laugh.

For one second, it really was like we were kids again.

Before Paris. Before funerals. Before I ever had the power to hurt her.

And if I closed my eyes, I could almost forget what it felt like to lose her.

Chapter Text

Taylor was flat-ironing my hair in the upstairs bathroom, humming along to some upbeat pop song she had queued up on her phone. She always came prepared for a party—even when the party was still hours away.

I was perched on the closed toilet lid, legs crossed, wearing a tank top and shorts. Freshly showered, skin still warm, hair damp. The window was cracked just enough to let in the smell of salt and sunscreen and the distant sound of the boys yelling over cornhole down by the dock.

Taylor paused to section another layer of my hair. “So… what’s it really like? Being here. With him.”

I didn’t have to ask who she meant.

I stared down at my knees. “It’s fine.”

“Belly.”

“Taylor.”

She sighed and clicked the iron shut. “Look, I get why you didn’t tell me. Why you didn’t want to make a thing out of it. But you’ve been here for four days and you haven’t said anything about him. Not even a single Conrad-is-the-worst text. That’s weird.”

I shrugged. “There’s nothing to say. We barely talk.”

“Because you’re avoiding him.”

“Because he’s not exactly going out of his way either.”

Taylor was quiet for a second. Then she said, “Good.”

That surprised me enough to meet her eyes in the mirror.

“I mean it,” she said, combing through a section of my hair with her fingers. “I know what being around him does to you. And I know how hard you worked to be okay again. You’re happy now. Focused. You don’t need… that messing with your head.”

I tried to keep my voice even. “I’m not letting it mess with my head.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow, not buying it. “He has a girlfriend.”

“I know.”

“And he’s not exactly fighting to prove anything. Just standing there, being moody and unreadable and, like… Conrad.”

I looked down again.

“I’m not trying to be mean,” Taylor added, a little softer now. “But I was there, Belly. I saw what it did to you. When it all fell apart.”

“I told him I hated him,” I said quietly. “And he let me walk away.”

“Yeah. And then you left the country to stop thinking about him.”

I let out a breathy laugh, but it didn’t feel funny. “You’re making it sound really dramatic. I wanted Paris.”

“It was dramatic. And painful. And awful. And I don’t want you slipping back into that without realizing it.”

She finished the last section and turned off the iron. Then crouched down so we were eye level.

“Tonight’s your 21st. Be happy. Be hot. Be a little reckless if you want—but don’t confuse old feelings with something real, okay? Not unless he shows you he deserves a second chance.”

I nodded slowly.

She gave my hand a quick squeeze and reached into her bag for lip gloss. “Besides, you look amazing right now. Like, ‘oh, you regret losing me? Too bad, I’m thriving’ amazing.”

I smiled faintly as she slicked a shimmery pink across my lips.

Then I looked up at myself in the mirror. Hair straightened and falling just right, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. I didn’t look like the girl who was still unsure.

But part of me still kind of felt like her.

The bar was already packed by the time we walked in, music pulsing from the speakers and lights flashing like tiny bursts of neon fireflies. Someone had put Belly’s Birthday Bash on the chalkboard outside, and Taylor had squealed so loud we almost didn’t make it in the door.

I stuck close to her and Kate as we pushed through the crowd, already feeling the heat rising up my neck. I wasn’t used to this kind of attention, this much energy in one place. But tonight—tonight was different. I was twenty-one. I looked good. And I was determined not to let a certain someone ruin it.

We claimed a corner of the bar near the back, where the music wasn’t as deafening and the bartender actually looked in our direction. Conrad was at the edge of the group, just close enough to be part of it, just far enough that I could pretend I didn’t notice.

Except I did.

Of course I did.

The first shot was for tradition—Steven, Taylor, and me. I held the little glass between my fingers and raised it high.

“To getting older, wiser, and hotter!” Taylor declared.

We downed them, and I winced as the tequila burned its way down my throat.

Then came the second round with Jeremiah and Kate—lemon drops this time, sweeter and easier. Jeremiah kissed my cheek and shouted, “Happy Birthday, Bells!” before tipping his glass back. Kate gave me a tight squeeze and handed me a lime wedge. “Pace yourself,” she said, but her eyes were dancing.

I was halfway into my next sip when I felt someone watching me.

I didn’t need to look to know who it was.

But I did anyway.

Conrad was standing across the bar, one hand on a high-top table, a water bottle in the other. He wasn’t talking to anyone. Just… looking. That unreadable expression on his face. That soft, furrowed brow like he couldn’t decide if he was angry or confused.

I looked away fast.

And right into the chest of someone new.

“Hey,” the guy said, flashing a crooked smile. Blonde, blue-eyed, definitely over six feet. “Is it your birthday?”

I blinked. “Uh, yeah.”

He nodded toward the sash Taylor had made me wear. It read Birthday Girl in sparkly gold lettering, and I’d meant to take it off as soon as we got there—but now I was kind of glad I hadn’t.

“Well then,” he said, “happy birthday. Can I buy you a drink?”

I hesitated, just for a second.

And then I smiled. “Sure.”

His name was Nate. He was from Philly. Worked in marketing. Had that kind of easy charm that made you feel like you’d met before, maybe in a past life or at someone’s backyard barbecue. He ordered two tequila shots—his idea—and we clinked glasses, his thumb brushing mine.

“So,” he said after we swallowed, “what’s a birthday girl like you doing looking so serious in the middle of all this?”

I laughed. “I’m not serious.”

“Okay,” he said, grinning. “Then dance with me.”

Before I could answer, Kate came up behind me and grabbed my arm. “Beat you to it,” she told him, dragging me toward the dance floor. I glanced over my shoulder at Nate—he winked—and then let Kate pull me through the crowd.

The music thumped around us, familiar and loud, the kind of beat that made it easy to forget yourself. We danced, spinning and swaying and laughing when Steven tried to cut in and failed miserably.

I was breathless by the time I stumbled back to the bar, cheeks flushed and hair sticking to my neck. Nate was waiting with another drink. “Water this time,” he said, handing it to me. “Didn’t want to be the guy who got the birthday girl too drunk.”

I smiled again. “Appreciated.”

He leaned a little closer. “You’ve got a great laugh, you know.”

I blushed—actually blushed.

And then I felt it again.

That look.

That weight.

I didn’t have to turn to know it was Conrad.

Watching me. Judging me. Like he had some right.

He didn’t.

Not after everything he said. Not after letting me walk away and never coming after me. Not when he had a whole girlfriend and I was finally starting to feel like myself again.

So I laughed louder. Leaned into Nate’s space. Let him brush my hair back from my shoulder like it was nothing.

Because this was my night.

And Conrad Fisher wasn’t going to ruin it.

I had just taken another sip of water when Taylor clapped her hands and shouted, “Okay, everybody! Birthday toast time!”

She pulled me toward the center of the group, and suddenly they were all there—Steven and Jeremiah, Kate and Taylor, even Conrad drifting in from the edge like he didn’t mean to be included but somehow always was.

Taylor passed out shot glasses—bright pink ones she’d smuggled in her purse. I had no idea what was in them. I didn’t care. The moment felt warm and golden, wrapped in the kind of happiness you only get from people who’ve known you since you were small.

Steven raised his glass first. “To my baby sister—who’s officially legal and still somehow the most annoying person I know. I guess I love you or whatever.”

Everyone laughed, and I elbowed him in the ribs before taking the shot.

Jeremiah was next. “To Bells,” he said, beaming. “My first real best friend. May your twenties be way better than your teens, and may every drink be free tonight.”

Cheers echoed, and I felt myself smiling so hard it hurt.

Kate lifted her glass. “To the kindest, funniest, fiercest girl I’ve ever met. I’m so glad I get to be here tonight with you.”

Another chorus of cheers, another shot.

Taylor flipped her hair and said, “To my ride or die, my soulmate, my human diary, and the only girl who can wear white jeans and not spill salsa on them. You’re everything.”

I was still laughing when I realized there was one person left.

Conrad.

He didn’t have a glass. Just held his water bottle in one hand, eyes steady on mine.

“To Belly,” he said, voice soft but clear. “Who somehow makes every place feel like summer—even in December.”

The group let out a collective “aww,” but all I heard was the echo of his voice—that voice—and one word that knocked the air right out of me.

It hit me like cold water.

December.

It wasn’t just a throwaway month. Not for us.

It was the living room floor and the firelight flickering across his skin. It was snow melting off our boots by the door. The soft cotton of his sweatshirt when he pulled me into it. The scratchy wool blanket. The way his hands trembled. The way I whispered, There’s only you.

And the way he didn’t hear me.

Even now—years later, continents later—my body remembered it before my brain caught up. That night. That feeling. That hope.

I gripped the stem of my shot glass a little tighter. Just to ground myself. Just to stop the shaking.

Because December wasn’t just a month. And he knows that.

And he said it like none of that was gone. Like we hadn’t buried it with everything else we lost.

Like he still meant it.

I looked away fast, took the shot without a word, hoping no one noticed the way my hand trembled or how the room suddenly felt too warm.

Because in just nine words, he cracked something open.

And I hated that he still could.

By the time the clock ticked past midnight, the world had gone blurry around the edges. Not a bad blur. A warm one. Fuzzy. My cheeks hurt from laughing and my feet were sore from dancing, and even though I hadn’t seen Conrad in the last twenty minutes, I could still feel the weight of his toast sitting heavy in my chest. Like a song I couldn't stop humming. Like something I hadn’t meant to keep.

Nate and I were at the bar. Again.

I had no idea what round of drinks we were on. Five? Six? Seven? Taylor had switched to water a while ago, but Nate kept ordering shots, and I—in all my 21-year-old wisdom—kept saying yes. It was my birthday, after all. My real birthday. Not the half-celebrated one in Paris with Jeremiah, Kate and a plastic tiara. This one was loud and messy and mine.

"So," Nate said, leaning a little too close, his elbow bumping mine as he passed me another shot I definitely didn’t need, "I think I need your number before your friends come steal you away again."

I blinked at him. His face swam a little. Not in a gross way, just…like he wasn’t quite still. The music pulsed through the soles of my feet, up my spine, into my brain. Everything was warm.

"My number?" I repeated.

"Yeah," he laughed. "Unless you plan on disappearing forever."

I tried to remember it. I really did.

But the numbers scrambled in my head like puzzle pieces that didn’t fit.

"Wait, hold on," I said, squinting and reaching into my purse. "I think it’s—"

And then Conrad was there.

Just like that.

Like he’d been watching the whole time. Like he knew.

He wasn’t smiling. "Time to go," he said, voice low.

I blinked again, trying to focus. "What? No, hang on…I was gonna—Nick, I mean Nate wanted my number."

Conrad didn’t look at Nate. "You’re drunk."

"No, I’m fine," I said. But even my words sounded like cotton. "Con, wait…what’s my number again? Tell Nick. I can’t remember."

He stared at me. Jaw tight. That muscle in his cheek twitching.

"Let’s go," he said again, and this time he stepped forward.

I pulled back, swaying. "You're no help," I muttered. "Just go away."

Nate raised a brow. "She obviously doesn't need you hovering."

Conrad's eyes snapped to him. “She’s not thinking clearly right now.”

"Yeah, and I'm right here," I said, throwing my arms out. "Stop talking like I'm not."

And then Conrad moved.

Before I could even finish my sentence, he wrapped an arm around my waist, ducked slightly, and lifted me up over his shoulder like I weighed nothing.

"HEY!" I shouted, kicking my feet, but even that felt like slow motion. "Put me down!"

"We’re leaving," he said, voice sharp.

He carried me through the crowd like a soldier on a mission. I saw flashes of color—the neon lights, Taylor's shocked face, Kate's confused one. Somewhere in the distance, I heard someone laugh.

By the time we reached the car, I was wriggling in his arms, but he didn’t put me down until we hit the sidewalk.

He set me down carefully. Like I was glass.

My knees buckled the second my heels hit the pavement, and he caught me again—hands firm around my elbows.

And just like that, I was somewhere else.

Another day. Another pair of heels. Another version of me trying to be strong.

The funeral.

I’d tripped walking away from him, mascara still wet on my cheeks, my dress too tight. He had caught me then, too.

Even after everything he’d said.

Even after calling our relationship a mistake.

I shoved him back now, hard.

"Now you care?" My voice cracked, but I didn’t care.

His eyes were unreadable. His mouth opened like he might say something dismissive.

But then, quietly—like the words had been sitting in his chest all night—

“I never stopped.”

My stomach flipped. My heart went with it.

I stared at him, heat rushing to my cheeks. “Then why did you have to say it like that?”

He blinked. “Say what?”

“‘Even in December,’” I said, the words scraping out of me. “You knew what that night meant to me. You knew. And you said it like it was some inside joke.”

Conrad’s jaw tensed. “It meant something to me too, Belly.”

“No, it didn’t,” I shot back, my voice rising. “You told me it didn’t!”

His mouth opened again, like he was going to argue—but before he could, the car door creaked open behind us.

Steven leaned out, squinting in the streetlights. “What’s going on?”

We both froze. I had completely forgotten he was asleep in the car.

“Nothing,” I said too fast, ducking past Conrad and climbing into the back seat. “We’re leaving.”

I folded into the far corner, arms wrapped tight around my middle. The air in the car was stale and warm, like sleep and spilled beer. One by one, the others poured out of the bar. Taylor and Kate, still laughing, holding hands. Jeremiah stumbled behind them, grinning, full of something that none of us felt anymore.

Steven slumped back into the front seat, rubbing his eyes. “Did we get food or—did I dream that?”

Nobody answered.

I glanced at the side mirror.

Conrad was still outside, head bowed, like he was waiting for the street to swallow him whole.

Then, finally, he opened the door and climbed in. Silent.

The engine started. The music came back on.

And the night kept going, like none of it had happened.

But it had.

And I didn’t know what to do with that.

Chapter Text

Conrad

The house had quieted down by the time I finally let myself breathe. Steven and Taylor had already disappeared upstairs—Steven’s room, most likely. Jere and Kate were still out back near the pool, kicking off their shoes, laughing like the night hadn’t just cracked open at the seams.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge—my first of the night—and twisted the cap off without thinking.

The screen door creaked as I stepped onto the porch.

Jere looked up. “Look who finally decided to join us.”

Kate smiled, eyes glassy from whatever cocktail she’d been nursing for the last hour. “We were starting to think you’d gone to bed.”

“Just needed a minute,” I said, settling into the chair beside them.

I took a sip and stared out over the pool, the water glowing faintly from the submerged lights. A memory stirred—one of us, all of us, night swimming under that same low moon, too young to know what we’d lose. Belly had laughed so hard that night she’d gotten the hiccups.

I used to love that sound.

And tonight—God. Watching her with that guy. Nate. Too charming, too eager. His hand brushing her arm like it belonged there. Her smiling like it didn’t matter.

Like I didn’t matter.

It made me sick. Not out of jealousy, not just that. It was something deeper. Gutted. Like watching someone walk barefoot across shattered glass and knowing you were the one who dropped it in the first place.

I had no right to feel any of it. Not jealousy. Not regret. Not the way my chest burned when she looked up at me like I was the villain in her story—and maybe I was. Maybe I still am.

But it was that look she gave me after the toast. After the words slipped out.

You make every place feel like summer.

I meant it. God, I meant it.

And I watched it break her.

That look on her face—like she couldn’t breathe, like the ground shifted under her feet and she didn’t know where to land. Like December had come back and brought everything with it. The snow, the silence, the ache of it all.

Because December was ours.

And we ruined it.

I drank the rest of the beer in one long pull and set the bottle on the deck rail. The glass clinked softly against the wood. For a second, I just stood there, letting the night air cool the heat still pulsing behind my ribs.

“I’m gonna head up,” I said, turning back toward the house.

“Night,” Kate called after me, her voice soft, settled.

“Sleep good, man,” Jere added, nodding at me over his drink.

The screen door creaked again as I stepped inside, the kitchen now dim except for the soft glow over the stove. I opened the cabinet, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water from the tap. Then I dug through the drawer by the sink until I found the little bottle of aspirin. I shook two into my palm.

I didn’t have to think about it. I’d been counting her drinks all night—even when I didn’t want to. Shot after shot, her laugh getting looser, her smile getting sadder. I knew she was chasing something.

And I knew she’d wake up hurting.

I padded upstairs, careful on the old steps.

The hallway was dark, quiet.

I stopped outside her room. The door was cracked, barely.

I knocked once. Lightly.

No answer.

I pushed it open slowly.

She was asleep—completely out. Curled on her side, hair spilling across the pillow in waves, one arm tucked under her cheek. Her eyeliner was smudged, cheeks flushed. The party dress she'd worn was wrinkled, the blanket only half covering her.

I crossed the room on silent feet and set the glass of water and pills on her nightstand.

Just as I turned to go, I hesitated.

Even asleep, she still looked like the girl I used to know. Still looked like the girl I—

I closed the door quietly behind me.

In my room, I sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at my phone.

Aubrey’s name sat at the top of my messages.

It wasn’t late in California. She’d probably still be up—probably working on that nonprofit proposal she mentioned earlier.

My thumb hovered over her contact.

But I didn’t call.

I couldn’t.

Not with everything in my head. Not with the way tonight felt. Not after the way she looked at me when I said that line—like I’d dragged December back into the room just to watch her bleed.

My mind wasn’t clear.

Hadn’t been all week.

Not since she walked back into my life after five years and wrecked me all over again.

The sun was already bleeding through the slats of my blinds when I cracked an eye open. My head ached faintly from the beer, but it wasn’t anything compared to what I guessed she was feeling.

I sat up slowly, ran a hand through my hair, and blinked against the light. The house was quiet again. No voices downstairs. No creaking floorboards. Just the sound of the waves crashing faintly against the shore outside, steady as breath.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand.

No texts.

No missed calls.

Not even from Aubrey.

I dropped it back facedown.

Dragging myself out of bed, I padded toward the hallway bathroom, rubbing at the knot in the back of my neck. The moment I reached for the door, I heard it—Belly, gagging.

And then the sound of her retching.

I froze, hand still hovering over the doorknob.

Another gag. Then a long, shaky breath.

I knocked, gentle. “Belly?”

No response.

I pressed my palm to the door, not opening it, not daring to.

“Do you…do you need anything?” I asked, voice low, careful.

There was a beat of silence. Just the sound of the faucet running and the rustle of her moving around.

Then: “Go away.”

Not weak. Not small.

Flat.

Tired.

Final.

I stood there for a second longer, forehead leaning lightly against the doorframe, stupidly hoping she’d take it back. Say something else. Anything.

But she didn’t.

So I did what she asked.

I backed away slowly, letting my feet carry me back down the hall. Not toward my room—toward the stairs, the kitchen, anywhere that wasn’t outside her door.

Because what the hell else was I supposed to do?

She didn’t want me there.

And maybe she was right not to.

I made it down the stairs without running into anyone. The kitchen was still and quiet, early light slanting through the windows, catching on the edges of the counter in soft, sleepy gold. I moved on autopilot—cabinet, mug, the last of the coffee from a lukewarm pot that had probably been made by Steven hours ago.

It was bitter. Burned. I drank it anyway.

I leaned against the counter, both hands wrapped around the mug, eyes on the backyard. The pool glinted like it had nothing to answer for. Like last night hadn’t happened. Like I hadn’t said the one thing that would gut her and expected it to land like a compliment.

I heard the creak of the stairs before I heard her voice.

“You’re up early for someone who spent all night sulking.”

I turned. Taylor stood in the doorway, arms crossed over a rumpled sweatshirt, hair pulled up into a high, sleep-mussed ponytail. She didn’t wait for an invitation—just walked over and poured herself half an inch of coffee, then leaned on the opposite side of the counter, facing me.

She took one sip, made a face, and set it down. “Tastes like shit.”

I didn’t respond.

She didn’t seem to care. “When I first got here and saw the way you were looking at Belly, I’ll admit—I thought maybe there was something left. That maybe you two could… I don’t know. Work through it. But last night?” She shook her head. “You need to leave her alone.”

I blinked. “I was trying to help.”

“She was drunk,” Taylor said flatly. “You were making a scene.”

“She couldn’t even stand on her own.”

“Right. And I was with her the whole night, Conrad. I had her. I wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.”

My grip tightened around the mug. “That guy was—”

“Talking to her,” Taylor snapped. “That’s it. He wasn’t touching her. He wasn’t being inappropriate. You saw someone else paying attention to her, and you didn’t like it.”

“That’s not—” I started, but she cut me off with a look. That signature Taylor glare that said don’t you dare lie to me.

“Don’t pretend it was about her safety,” she said. “It was about you reminding her that you still exist. That you still get a say in who she talks to. Newsflash? You don’t.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t make it worse.

Taylor pushed her mug aside. “Belly is not your responsibility anymore. You don’t get to act like she is just because you suddenly feel something again.”

“I didn’t—” I tried, but even to me, the words felt hollow. “I wasn’t trying to confuse her. I just… wanted to help. That’s it.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

I looked down.

“I have a girlfriend,” I muttered.

“Yeah,” Taylor said coolly. “Maybe you should remember that.”

That hit harder than I wanted it to.

Because she was right. Because I hadn’t been thinking about Aubrey. Not once during the whole night. Not when I lifted Belly out of that booth. Not when she yelled at me outside the bar. Not even when I heard her throwing up behind a locked bathroom door this morning and still asked if she needed anything.

Taylor didn’t give me time to respond.

She turned to leave, pausing just long enough at the doorway to add, “You don’t get to break her again just because you’re lonely.”

Then she was gone.

And I was left standing in the kitchen, watching the steam rise off a mug of coffee I didn’t even want.

The kitchen was quiet again after Taylor left, but not in a peaceful way.

More like the kind of quiet you get after something cracks. After someone says the thing out loud that you were trying really hard not to name.

I stayed where I was, both hands around the mug, eyes on the pool. The surface was still. Calm. You’d never know it had seen the worst of us last night. Or maybe it didn’t care.

I wasn’t sure which was worse.

I thought about going back upstairs. Grabbing my keys. Just leaving. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But I didn’t move.

Not even when I heard the floorboards creak.

Not even when I knew it was her.

I didn’t look up.

Couldn’t.

If I saw her face—still pale from the hangover, hair damp from the shower, eyes bloodshot and tired—I knew I’d say something. Something soft. Familiar. Stupid.

And I didn’t deserve to.

She moved around the kitchen like a ghost. Quiet. Careful. No slamming cabinet doors, no pointed remarks. Just a glass, the sink, the sharp sound of water. I tried to scroll like I was actually reading the same article I’d opened fifteen minutes ago, but I wasn’t absorbing a single word.

“Is there any Tylenol?” she asked, voice low, gravelly.

I pointed to the middle drawer. “Behind the batteries.”

I still didn’t look up.

Not when she opened it. Not when she sat across from me. Not even when she said, “Thanks.”

Because I didn’t trust myself not to look at her the way I used to.

And if she saw that—if she recognized it—she might do one of two things.

She might tell me to stop.

Or worse, she might not.

And I couldn’t handle either.

I watched her from the corner of my eye instead. The way her hands curled around the water glass. The way she avoided looking at me too.

That made it worse, somehow.

Because Belly always looked.

Even when she was mad at me, even when we fought—she still looked at me like she was waiting for something. A reason. An answer. An apology.

But today?

She didn’t want anything from me.

That was new.

And it hurt more than I was ready for.

Steven’s voice broke the silence like a slap, loud and unbothered.

“Morning, degenerates.”

I almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, I kept my eyes on my phone, because if I looked up, he’d see it too. That something was off. That the air between us wasn’t awkward—it was radioactive.

He and Belly did their usual sibling thing. Loud. Teasing. Easy in the way I hadn’t been with anyone in years. The kind of ease that used to be mine too.

I didn’t say a word.

Even when Steven turned to me.

“You good, man?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

It was a lie. But an easy one.

He didn’t notice. Just kept talking about next weekend and the Fourth and rematches. I gave another automatic nod. Said sure. Made it sound normal.

And all the while, I could feel her there.

Not speaking. Not looking. Not asking.

When Steven left, the quiet returned—but now it was thinner, less suffocating.

Still sharp.

Still full of the thing we weren’t saying.

I could’ve said something then. I could’ve cleared my throat, asked if she remembered that night on the beach—how we’d chased each other down the shoreline while the snow came down in soft, uneven flurries. How she tackled me into the sand, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe, her cheeks red from the cold and from kissing me. How we stayed out there until our fingers went numb, just holding on to each other like we had all the time in the world.

But I didn’t.

Because I remembered the way she looked at me outside the bar last night. The hurt in her voice when she said I’d ruined December. The way she flinched when I said it mattered to me too.

She didn’t believe me.

I knew that the second I said it.

Because I was the one who made her doubt it in the first place.

I told her it hadn’t meant anything. That what we had wasn’t real.

I didn’t even remember why anymore. Only that I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. That letting her go was supposed to be a mercy.

And now?

Now, I couldn’t even look her in the eye.

I stared down at my phone, pretending to scroll, while the only thing I actually saw was the memory of her outside the bar, arms crossed over her chest, mascara smudged just slightly under her eyes, calling me out for the thing we both knew but never said out loud.

That December was never just a month.

Not to either of us.

Not back then.

And definitely not now.

But it didn’t matter if I remembered.

Not if she didn’t believe me.

Not if I’d taught her not to.

So I sat there, silent.

And let her forget me.

Because I’d already given her every reason to.

Chapter Text

I’d spent the whole day pretending not to look at him.

Which was laughable, really, because I felt him in every room. Like gravity. Like static. Like the dull buzz under my skin that hadn’t faded since last night.

We’d been orbiting each other since morning. Near, but not close. And not once—not once—had he looked at me the way he used to. Not when I passed him in the hallway. Not when I brushed past him in the kitchen and said excuse me in that voice I only ever used when I didn’t mean it. Not even when I accidentally dropped the box of cereal and it exploded across the floor and I made a show of not needing help.

Just quiet. Polite. Nothing.

Now it was dinner, and we were all squished around the kitchen table, knees bumping and forks clinking. Jeremiah was passing out bowls of pasta he made from a TikTok recipe that used an ungodly amount of butter. Taylor was on her second glass of wine. I was on my third attempt at pretending my appetite hadn’t disappeared completely.

Conrad sat directly across from me.

Not looking at me.

Not speaking.

He was pushing penne around his plate like it had personally wronged him.

“So,” Taylor said, spinning her fork in her bowl like it was an afterthought, her eyes flicking over to me, “I got Nate’s number for you.”

Jeremiah let out a low whistle. Kate laughed. Someone said “ooooh.” It might’ve been Steven.

I blinked.

“What?” I said, even though I’d heard her perfectly.

Taylor just shrugged, all breezy confidence and calculated mischief. “He was cute. You said so. And he clearly liked you. I figured, why not?”

My stomach twisted—not because of Nate, but because I knew that tone. I knew it the way I knew every version of her. The way she flipped her hair after delivering a verbal grenade. The way she sipped her wine after dropping a bomb. And I especially knew the look she gave next.

It wasn’t for me.

It was for him.

A flash. Just a glance. But enough.

Across the table, Conrad’s fork froze mid-push. His jaw flexed. Barely. But I saw it.

“I don’t think I’ll call him,” I said, keeping my voice even as I picked up my water glass. “I can barely even remember him, to be honest.”

The silence was immediate.

The kind that didn’t feel awkward—just dense.

Thick enough to press against my ribs.

That’s when it happened.

He looked up.

And this time, for the first time all day—maybe the first time since the bar—he really looked at me.

His eyes locked on mine like they were anchoring there. Steady. Focused. Unreadable.

And I didn’t look away.

I didn’t blink.

The noise of the kitchen faded—the scrape of a chair, the shuffle of feet, the start of someone’s joke. All of it blurred into nothing.

Just me and him, across the table.

Just a look that said everything and nothing all at once.

The house had gone still again.

Dinner was over, the table cleared, and everyone had drifted off—upstairs to pack or downstairs to sneak in one last movie before morning goodbyes. Outside, the sky was soft and dark, the kind of coastal black that felt thicker than it looked.

I stood at the sink, sleeves pushed up, hot water running over my hands as I scrubbed the last of the dinner plates. The window above the sink was cracked open just enough to let in the night air and the sound of distant waves.

Footsteps behind me made me tense, just for a second.

Then Conrad was beside me.

He didn’t say anything. Just reached for a dish towel and grabbed a plate from the drying rack.

We moved in quiet tandem—me washing, him drying.

I could feel the words sitting just behind my teeth, pressing against the backs of my lips. Things I wanted to ask. Things I didn’t know how to say.

And then it happened.

Our hands brushed.

His fingers grazed mine—barely there, just the edge of a knuckle—but it was enough. Enough to make me pull back too fast, like the heat of his skin had burned me.

Conrad jerked back at the same time, and the glass slipped from his hands.

It hit the tile with a sharp crack, splintering between our feet.

We both froze.

“I’ll get the broom,” he said quickly, already moving for the closet.

I stood there for a second, heart hammering in my chest, staring at the broken glass like it had split something else too.

When he returned, he crouched to sweep up the mess, careful and quiet.

I turned the faucet off.

The silence felt louder than it should’ve.

“I—” I started, my voice barely above a whisper. “About last night…”

His head lifted.

But before I could finish the sentence, his phone buzzed on the counter.

And lit up.

Aubrey's face glowed on the screen, smiling with the sun behind her.

The girl he could answer so easily. The one who didn’t have to wonder if December meant anything at all.

Conrad’s eyes flicked to the phone.

Then to me.

“I have to get this,” he said.

I nodded. “Of course.”

He picked up the phone and stepped out onto the back porch, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stayed where I was, staring at the sink, water still dripping from the faucet.

And I didn’t know how I was supposed to sleep in this house, pass him in hallways, watch him make coffee in the mornings like it didn’t still wreck me just to hear my name in his voice. Like he didn’t carry December in his pocket and pretend it never happened.

In this house.

Alone.

With him.

Like nothing had ever happened.

Like everything still could.

The water had stopped, but my hands were still wet.

I dried them slowly, barely seeing the towel in front of me, listening instead—to the low murmur of his voice on the porch, the way it dipped and softened when he talked to her. Aubrey. I couldn’t make out the words, just the rhythm of him. It still made something in me ache.

I turned to walk out of the kitchen.

And that’s when I felt it.

The sting came fast—hot, bright. I sucked in a breath, stumbling back, one hand catching the edge of the counter before I could fall.

“Shit,” I hissed.

I looked down—blood already blooming against the hardwood, bright and messy. A shard of glass, small but mean, embedded in the ball of my foot.

“Taylor?” I called out. My voice was shaky. “Tay—can you come down?”

But before I could say anything else, the porch door swung open.

Conrad.

His phone still in hand. His expression changed the second he saw me.

“What are you doing?” he asked, crossing the room fast.

“I stepped on the glass. I didn’t see it,” I said, trying to put pressure on my heel, but it only made it worse. “I called for Taylor.”

Conrad’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Shit. That’s my fault. I must’ve missed a piece.”

He lifted the phone to his ear again, voice low. “I’ll call you back.”

I didn’t hear Aubrey’s reply. Just the sound of him hanging up.

“I’m fine,” I muttered. “Taylor’s coming.”

“Did you forget I’m a med student?” he said, already crouching in front of me.

“I didn’t forget,” I said. “I just didn’t think—”

“Sit,” he said gently, patting the counter. “C’mon.”

I hesitated, but my foot throbbed again and made the decision for me. I hoisted myself up, careful not to press down on the injury.

“Put your feet in the sink.”

“Seriously?”

“I need to rinse the blood,” he said, already turning the faucet on. “And see if anything’s still in there.”

The water ran cold at first, then warmed beneath the swirl of his fingers. I eased my foot under the stream, wincing when it hit the cut. Conrad steadied me with one hand around my ankle, the other brushing beneath my arch.

And the moment he touched me, my whole body lit up like a live wire.

I wasn’t prepared for it. Not for the way heat flushed through me so fast it left my skin prickling. Not for how close he was, bent between my knees like this was something we did all the time. Like nothing had changed.

“Hold still,” he said.

This wasn’t the first time he’d taken care of me. There was that summer I scraped my knee diving into the pool. The night I got stung by a jellyfish and wouldn’t let anyone near me but him. But this—this was different.

This felt like a memory being made in real time—one I wasn’t sure I was allowed to keep.

“I am still,” I breathed.

He glanced up. Our eyes locked.

And suddenly the kitchen felt too small. Too warm. The window still open, the ocean still whispering out there in the dark—but none of it registered.

It was just him.

Conrad Fisher, mouth set in quiet focus, eyes the color of summer storms, fingers now sliding gently over my skin.

He found the piece of glass and pulled it free.

I flinched, hissed. My hand shot out without thinking—landing on his shoulder, fingers curling there like muscle memory.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

His head lifted again, and we were right there—inches apart, breath and blood and history thick between us.

I didn’t mean to lean in.

But my body remembered something my heart was trying to forget.

Just enough to notice how his lips parted. How his chest rose.

Just enough to forget she existed at all.

“Belly,” he said softly.

“Yeah?” I whispered.

He held my gaze for one more second—then pulled back, slow and steady, like the tide.

“I think you’ll live.”

I blinked, disoriented.

“Oh. Right.”

He rinsed his hands, grabbed a towel, and offered it to me without meeting my eyes.

I took it with both hands, fingers trembling just slightly.

And then he walked out of the kitchen.

Like nothing had happened.

Like I hadn’t just tried to kiss him.

He didn’t look back.

And I didn’t call after him. I just sat there, bleeding and breathless, wondering if he even knew what he’d left behind.

All I could think was:

He has a girlfriend.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I buried my face in my hands.

I’m not going to survive this summer.

Chapter Text

I don’t know what pulled me out of bed that night. Just that something did. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was knowing he was down the hall, in the guest room. Maybe it was how I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me at dinner. Like I was already slipping away and he didn’t know how to hold me tighter.

The house was dark. The kind of quiet that made every breath feel loud. My mom had gone to sleep hours ago, the door to her room shut tight.

I didn’t knock.

I opened the door just wide enough to slip in, my toes cold against the hardwood. The air smelled like detergent and whatever cologne he wore just for me, the one I once buried my face into the collar of his sweatshirt to inhale.

“Belly?”

His voice was a hush, already sleepy. He was propped up on one elbow, bare chest rising and falling slowly in the moonlight, sheets slung low on his hips. His hair was tousled, lips parted. He looked like a painting.

“What are you doing here? You can’t be in here. Your mom will freak out.”

I closed the door behind me and turned the lock.

“Okay,” I whispered, crossing the room. “Then just be quiet so she doesn’t hear.”

He exhaled something like a laugh, eyes dragging over me. I was wearing an old t-shirt, worn soft and barely brushing the tops of my thighs.

“That was quiet?”

“What are you doing?”

“Shhh,” I said, grinning as I climbed onto the bed.

“It’s cold.”

He lifted the blanket with a resigned sigh.

“Get in.”

The sheets were warm from his body. I slid in beside him, careful not to touch at first—but I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. His hand came to rest on my hip beneath the blanket, and I let my head fall onto his chest, my fingers splaying across the curve of his ribcage.

“You good?” he asked, his voice low, almost too careful.

“Yeah.”

He shifted beneath me, just a little, brushing hair away from my face like it was second nature. Like I’d always belong here. “Don’t worry about prom. I’m gonna take care of everything,” he said quietly. “I’m excited.”

I tilted my head up, my cheek pressed to the warm, steady rise of his chest.

“I know,” I whispered. Then, after a breath, “Hey… Susannah’s gonna be fine. I know it.”

That was a lie.

Not because I wanted it to be. But because saying it out loud was the only way to keep the fear from spilling over. If I said it enough—She’s going to be fine, she’s going to be fine, she’s going to be fine—maybe the universe would finally believe me.

But he didn’t.

He looked at me, and there was something behind his eyes that made my stomach twist. Not doubt exactly—more like resignation. Like part of him had already accepted something the rest of us weren’t ready to face.

And still, I said nothing else. Because if I did, I’d cry. And if I cried, we’d have to talk about what we were really scared of. What we were trying not to name.

I could feel it. That fragile space between us, trembling under the weight of everything unsaid.

So I kissed him.

Not because it was the right thing to do. Not because I was trying to seduce him.

But because I needed to feel something real. I needed to remind myself we were still here. Still breathing. Still us. Before the grief came. Before it swallowed us whole.

His lips were warm and a little chapped. I kissed him softly at first, like I was testing the ground beneath me—wondering if it would hold. But then he kissed me back. And the second he did, I didn’t care about anything else. Not the closed door. Not the sleeping house. Not the ticking clock in the hallway.

Just him.

Just this.

I didn’t even realize I was climbing on top of him until his hands caught my waist. Like instinct. Like he’d been waiting for me to move.

And maybe he had.

His hands found my hips, steadying me like he always did—like I was something fragile and precious all at once. I settled over him, legs on either side of his waist, the hem of my oversized t-shirt brushing against his bare stomach.

He looked up at me with this expression that made my whole chest ache. Not just desire—something softer. Something that broke me a little.

His fingers brushed my hair behind my ears, tender, slow, and the pads of them lingered at my jaw like he didn’t want to stop touching me. And in that moment, the way he looked at me—eyes full of heat and wonder and something that felt dangerously close to devotion—I really thought he loved me.

He hadn’t said it. Not with words. But I could feel it in the way he held me like I was breakable, like I mattered. The way his breath caught when our eyes locked. The way he always, always made space for me—his bed, his body, his heart.

He pulled me down into a kiss and it was slow at first, dreamy. The kind that starts as a sigh and melts into something deeper. His mouth moved over mine with that familiar hunger, like he already knew every part of me and still couldn’t get enough.

I moaned softly into his mouth when I felt his fingers slip beneath the hem of my shirt, sliding over my bare skin, and lower—beneath the waistband of my underwear. His touch was warm and sure, and when he found that sensitive place, I gasped, my whole body tensing over him.

“Conrad,” I whispered, breathless.

His name slipped out of me like it belonged there.

He groaned softly and kissed me again, deeper, his hand still working slow, deliberate circles. It felt like everything inside me had been holding its breath, and now it was finally exhaling.

I couldn’t take it anymore—I needed less between us. I pulled back just enough to grab the hem of my shirt and tug it up over my head, tossing it somewhere behind me.

My white daisy-print bra was all I had on now.

His eyes moved over me like he was memorizing every inch. And then I kissed him hard, with everything I had—my hands bracing on either side of his face, my hips rolling down against his.

He let out a soft curse against my lips and sat up just enough to press his mouth to the hollow of my throat, then down the slope of my collarbone. His hands slipped up my back, fingers brushing the clasp of my bra—but not undoing it yet. Like he was giving me a choice. Like he would wait if I needed him to.

I didn’t.

I just needed him.

We kissed like the world was ending. Like this was the last time. Maybe part of me already knew it was.

And then he flipped us—one swift, practiced movement, like his body just knew how to move with mine. I landed on my back with a soft thud, the mattress shifting beneath us, and he hovered above me, bracing his forearms on either side of my head.

I stared up at him, blinking through the dim light.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, quiet. Like he didn’t even mean to say it out loud. Like it was a thought he couldn’t help but let slip.

I didn’t say anything. Just wrapped my arms around his shoulders and pulled him down to kiss me again.

His body pressed fully into mine, slow and aching, and I arched into it like I was made for this moment. Like I had always been meant to feel him this close, this deep.

We didn’t talk after that.

We didn’t need to.

Afterward, I stayed wrapped around him like I was afraid he’d vanish if I let go.

His skin was warm against mine, his breath still unsteady as it ghosted across my shoulder. I pressed my cheek to his chest, right where his heart beat slow and steady beneath the surface, and I closed my eyes.

The room smelled like us. Like sweat and skin and something sweeter underneath. The sheets tangled around our legs, the air thick with the heat we’d made. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. If I did, it might all break apart.

He ran his fingers up and down my spine, slow, like he was tracing something there. Something only he could see. Every so often, he’d shift just enough to kiss the top of my head, or my shoulder, or the place where my neck met my collarbone. It was quiet, but not empty. It felt full, like the room couldn’t hold anything more.

Like the silence had weight.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that, but I remember every second. The way his fingers threaded with mine. The way I hooked my ankle around his calf. The way his other hand splayed across my lower back, holding me to him like maybe he was scared too.

Like maybe he already knew, even if I didn’t, that this was the last time.

And I—I just kept thinking: If he never says it out loud, it’s okay.

Because I knew. I knew in the way he looked at me when I pulled my shirt off. The way he kissed me like it hurt not to. The way he whispered my name like it meant something more now. The way his hands shook, just slightly, when he touched my face after.

He didn’t say “I love you.”

But I felt it anyway.

And even now, all this time later, I still remember the exact way his chest rose and fell beneath me, the sound of his heartbeat in my ear. I still remember the feeling of his lips in my hair, and the shape of his body molded to mine, and the way I whispered don’t fall asleep yet just to hear his voice again.

I held on to him that night like I was trying to memorize it.

Because somewhere deep down, I think I already knew.

That it was the last time we’d ever be like that.

That some part of us would never get to come back.

I woke with a jolt.

My heart was racing, breath shallow, the memory still clinging to my skin like heat after a storm.

The weight of him. His voice in my ear. The way I’d held on like it meant something. Like I meant something.

It was all still there.

And then the sharp, humiliating snap back to now. Last night. The kitchen. The sting of glass and the even sharper sting of reality.

I sat up too fast, wincing as my foot throbbed beneath me. The bandage I’d wrapped around it had loosened in the night. I peeled it off slowly, stared at the red bloom spreading on the gauze, and swallowed hard.

I couldn't do this.

Not again.

Not alone with him in this house.

I swung my legs off the bed and winced again as I stood. The hardwood was cool against my bare feet. My shirt hung off one shoulder—one of Steven's old college tees I’d stolen during spring break one year—but I felt exposed anyway. Too bare. Too raw.

I needed to get out of here.

Before I forgot again that he had a girlfriend. Before I let myself believe that hand on my ankle, that look, meant anything at all.

I grabbed my phone and padded toward the bathroom I shared with the boys. The hallway was quiet, the morning light just beginning to stretch across the floors.

Maybe I could text Jeremiah before they left. Ask if I could come back with them to Boston. Crash on their couch. Hell, I’d sleep on the floor if I had to.

Anything but here.

I turned the corner—and nearly slammed into his brother.

Conrad stood in the bathroom doorway, steam curling out behind him like a scene from some dream I shouldn’t be having. A towel slung low around his waist, water dripping from his hair, his skin flushed from the heat of the shower.

He froze. So did I.

“Oh,” I breathed.

He blinked at me, then glanced down, like suddenly realizing the towel was the only thing between us and absolutely no boundaries.

“Sorry,” he said, voice still rough with sleep. “Didn’t think anyone was up yet.”

My mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Just air. And panic.

And the memory of my hands on his skin, years ago, in a different version of the world.

He tilted his head slightly. “You okay?”

I nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just—needed the bathroom.”

He squinted. “How’s the foot?”

I looked down, as if I’d forgotten it was injured at all. “Fine,” I lied. “It’s fine.”

He gave me a look. The kind that said he didn’t buy it, but he wasn’t going to push.

Then he stepped aside.

I shuffled past him, limp obvious now, and slipped inside before he could say anything else. My fingers wrapped around the door handle and I shut it softly, not slamming but final. I leaned back against it, exhaling like I’d been holding my breath for a month.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Yeah.

There was no way I could stay here. Not another day. Not when every time I saw him, my body betrayed me. Not when my heart still thought it was sixteen and his belonged to me.

I pushed off the door, hands shaking slightly as I turned toward the sink.

I’d text Jere the second I got out of here.

Pack my stuff. Make some excuse.

Anything to get out before I did something even dumber.

Like kiss him.

Or worse—

Believe, even for a second, that he’d want me to.

Because I’d seen it in his eyes last night, hadn’t I?

That flicker of something. That almost.

But almost didn’t mean anything.

And I wasn’t going to survive another summer full of almosts.

Not when I already knew how it ended.

Jeremiah and Kate were already out the door by the time I made it down the stairs.

Well—hobbled was more accurate.

My suitcase thunked behind me with each step, the wheels catching awkwardly on the rug at the landing. I shifted my weight to my good foot, wincing as I reached the bottom. The bandage I’d wrapped around my arch last night was holding, but every step still felt like a quiet complaint I couldn’t ignore.

“Wait—wait up,” I called, a little breathless.

Kate turned from where she was loading the last bag into the back of Jeremiah’s Jeep. “You sure you don’t want help?”

“I’ve got it,” I lied, gripping the handle tighter.

Conrad and Jeremiah were talking on the porch—some inside joke still hanging between them, something light. Easy. The kind of laughter that made it look like the last few days hadn’t happened at all.

Then Conrad saw me.

The shift in him was instant. A quiet tightening of his shoulders. The soft furrow of his brow. The kind of change that didn’t look like much but felt like everything.

He didn’t say anything. Just moved—down the steps, across the driveway, straight to me. Like something had pulled him there.

I adjusted the strap of my duffel, trying to wave him off. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”

But he didn’t stop.

When our fingers brushed on the handle, I flinched before I could stop myself. Just a spark, a contact, but it was enough.

He paused too.

For a second—just one—his hand stayed over mine.

Then he took the bag and turned away, like it hadn’t happened.

I swallowed.

He loaded the suitcase gently into the back of the Jeep, like it was something fragile. Like I was.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, voice low, barely carrying over the crunch of gravel beneath our feet.

I nodded, eyes fixed somewhere past his shoulder. “Yeah. Gonna stay in Boston with Jere and Kate for a bit. Until my parents get back.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“That’s… weeks from now,” he finally said.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

Like he hadn’t thought I’d actually go.

Like he’d thought—what? That I’d stay? That we could go back to how it was before?

“Thanks for letting me stay here,” I said, too fast. Too rehearsed. “It meant a lot.”

He looked at me, really looked at me, like he was trying to read the parts I wasn’t saying. Like he was afraid to say too much himself.

“Belly…” His voice caught slightly. “You know this is your home too, right?”

I couldn’t answer.

Because maybe it had been once. But I didn’t know what it was anymore.

So I just nodded. A lie, or maybe a promise. I wasn’t sure which.

Kate was already in the passenger seat. Jeremiah stood by the driver’s side, giving us space but not looking away.

I turned toward the car.

Conrad stepped back, but his eyes stayed on me. I felt them. Felt him.

As I opened the back door, I heard him exhale—quiet, like he was letting go of something.

I didn’t look at him again.

Didn’t have to.

Because even as the door shut behind me and the Jeep pulled away, I could still feel it.

That weight. That silence.

Like he was still standing there.

And somehow, that was worse.

Chapter Text

It had been exactly two weeks since I left the summer house.

Fourteen days of sleeping on an air mattress that lost its will to live halfway through the night. Of waking up with a crick in my neck and Milo—Kate’s spawn of Satan in cat form—perched on my chest like he was plotting my death. He didn’t let me sit on the couch, or the armchair, or really anywhere except the floor by the window where the Wi-Fi barely reached. I was fairly certain he hated me. I wasn’t sure I blamed him.

Jeremiah and Kate’s apartment was small and perpetually messy—lived-in in the kind of way that said we’re in love and too busy for chores. There were dishes in the sink, clothes in the hallway, and one morning I actually tripped over a sports bra and landed face-first into a potted plant.

I left Cousins to get away from Conrad.

But if he didn’t show up today for the suit fitting, I might scream. 

Not because I wanted to see him. Obviously not. I was just...done. Done with being a third wheel. Done with being a human scratching post for a territorial orange tabby. Done with pretending I was fine when all I really wanted was to go home.

Steven was coming in on the train from New York for the fitting too. I’d asked him—very nicely—if I could come back with him afterward. His exact words were: “Belly, unless you want to sleep in our bathtub, no.”

So that was a no.

Apparently, he and Taylor had no space, even though I distinctly remembered them hosting four friends from LA during spring break and a Bernedoodle.

Which meant there was only one option left.

If Conrad showed up today, I’d ask him.

I wouldn’t grovel or cry or say please take me back with puppy dog eyes.

I’d just... casually mention that I had all my stuff in Jere’s Jeep. Just in case.

Just in case he was going back to Cousins. Just in case he wanted company. Just in case he looked at me like maybe he missed me too.

They were all supposed to go to lunch after the suit fitting anyway. Mr. Fisher was back from London—finally—which was why the whole thing had been postponed in the first place. The plan was to meet at some restaurant that Jeremiah picked, which meant overpriced sliders and bad parking.

It would be me, Kate, Jeremiah, Steven, Conrad (hopefully), and Laurie—Kate’s older brother who I’d officially met two weeks ago and who had barely looked at me since. Not in the I’m shy but secretly into you way. In the I’d rather die than make small talk way.

Kate, naturally, had decided this made him perfect boyfriend material and had been not-so-subtly pushing us together ever since.

I liked Laurie. He was quiet and polite and looked like someone who read The Economist for fun. But I wasn’t interested. And he clearly wasn’t either.

Which left me exactly where I didn’t want to be: still stuck.

I stood in front of the mirror in the tiny bathroom, smoothing my hands over the red summer dress I’d pulled from the bottom of my suitcase. It wasn’t particularly fancy—thin straps, soft cotton, the skirt flaring just a little when I moved—but it made me feel like I’d put in effort. Like I was choosing to look like I wasn’t falling apart.

I hadn’t worn it in over a year.

Not for him, I reminded myself.

I brushed out my hair, twisted it half-up with a clip, and added a little mascara. Swiped on lip balm. Hesitated.

Then put on the tinted one instead.

I checked the time. Then checked it again. Everyone was supposed to meet in thirty minutes. Jeremiah was back from the fitting. Him and Kate were still arguing over what shoes he should wear—he was convinced his sneakers were “formal enough” for a lunch with his dad—and Milo was howling like he hadn’t been fed in a decade.

I ignored him, opened the door, and dragged my suitcase down the hall. The duffel bag was already packed. I tossed it in the trunk of the Jeep when no one was looking.

Just in case.

When I slid into the backseat, the leather was hot from the sun. I shifted awkwardly, the hem of my dress sliding higher on my thigh than I meant for it to. I tugged it down, stared out the window, and tried not to let my heart speed up.

Tried not to imagine what it would feel like if he showed up and didn’t look at me at all.

Tried not to hope.

The restaurant was all glass and light and echoing laughter from inside. Someone had picked a place with rooftop seating and minimal shade—because nothing said bridal party lunch like sweating through your sundress while trying not to choke on overpriced arugula.

I followed Jeremiah and Kate through the host stand, my sandals sticking slightly to the tile, the heat pressing against the back of my neck. My stomach twisted with nerves, but not because of the food. Not because of Laurie. Not even because I could already hear Mr. Fisher’s booming voice from the rooftop above us.

It was him.

I knew it before I saw him.

Like some part of me shifted when he was near. Like the air just...rearranged.

And then there he was.

Conrad.

Standing near the edge of the patio in a short-sleeved button-up the color of sky right before a storm. His hair was a little longer than before, falling into his eyes, and he pushed it back absently as he laughed at something Steven said.

He looked up.

Saw me.

And for a second—just one second—everything else fell away.

The clink of forks, the blur of voices, the way Kate was trying to subtly guide me toward the table like I didn’t know where I was going.

He gave me a small smile.

And then—God help me—a wave. Just a little one.

Like we were still friends.

Like it hadn’t hurt every day since I left.

I walked straight toward him, ignoring the way my pulse pounded in my throat. My voice caught somewhere behind my ribs, but I pushed the words out anyway.

“Take me back,” I said, breathless.

His smile faltered. His head tilted just slightly, confusion flickering across his face.

I blinked. “I mean—to Cousins.”

His brows lifted, but the edges of his mouth tugged upward again, just slightly.

“I can’t take another minute with Jere and Kate,” I added, trying to sound light, like I hadn’t just walked up to him like a lunatic and begged for something I wasn’t allowed to ask for.

Conrad let out a short, awkward laugh. “Yeah, I mean, yeah. Of course. But you should know—”

He didn’t finish.

Because then she was there.

Aubrey.

Appearing like she’d been waiting for the perfect moment.

Her hand slipped through the crook of his arm like it belonged there. Like she belonged there. Her fingers curled around the fabric of his sleeve, manicured and pink, and she leaned into him slightly as she smiled at me.

“What’d I miss?” she asked.

Casual. Breezy. Just a girl rejoining her boyfriend in the middle of a conversation.

My smile faltered.

Just slightly.

But enough.

I stepped back, heart slipping a little in my chest. “Nothing,” I said. “You didn’t miss anything.”

Conrad shifted beside her, the awkwardness settling in as quickly as the silence.

“Oh—uh,” he said, clearing his throat. “Aubrey, this is Belly.” 

Aubrey turned to me with a practiced smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes but was perfectly polite. “Hi. It’s nice to see you again.”

Again.

Neither of us said what we were both thinking.

The last time the three of us were in the same place, I’d been crying, mascara streaking down my face while Conrad stood frozen in the middle of the chaos. While Aubrey sat on the arm of the couch like she hadn’t just been part of the worst moment of my life.

Now, here she was.

Smiling. Pretty. Comfortable enough to wrap herself around him like this was normal. Like there wasn’t still ash in the air from the fire she’d walked through untouched.

“You too,” I managed, voice barely above a whisper.

Conrad looked between us, clearly bracing for impact. But no one said anything else.

Aubrey's attention had already shifted to Jeremiah, calling out a hello, asking to be introduced to his fiancé. I stood there for a second longer, then stepped back and muttered something about finding a seat before I accidentally burst into flames.

I chose the furthest empty chair from the two of them and sat down hard, my dress sticking to the back of my thighs. My water glass was already sweating in the heat, beads of condensation sliding down my fingers as I reached for it.

Jeremiah appeared beside me a second later and leaned down. “You okay?”

I nodded quickly. “Fine.”

He studied me for a beat too long. Then, mercifully, turned away.

Across the table, Conrad was talking to Mr. Fisher, his expression tight but animated—clearly overcompensating. Aubrey stayed tucked close to his side, laughing at all the right moments.

I kept my eyes on my glass.

Because I couldn’t look at them.

Because if I looked too long, I might start to wonder if the things he didn’t say today meant more than the things he had.

By the time the waitress came around for drink orders, I had already decided that wine was my only option.

“Rosé,” I said quickly, before she even finished her sentence. “Cold.”

Jere gave me a subtle look from across the table, the kind that said pull it together without actually saying it. I ignored him.

Conrad and Aubrey were across from me, sitting close—not too close, but enough that I noticed every time her hand brushed his thigh under the table. Enough that every time he leaned forward to say something to Mr. Fisher, she followed, like they were tethered. Like she was his.

I looked down at the silverware and focused on placing the napkin in my lap, smoothing it out over and over like it might keep me grounded.

“So,” Laurie said from beside me, cutting a piece of bread. “Are you originally from Boston too?”

I blinked. “No—um. From Philly.”

He nodded, polite. “Ah.”

Another sip of wine.

Kate jumped in, too bright. “Did you know Laurie just finished his MBA at BU? He’s looking at consulting jobs in D.C. and New York.”

I made a noise that could’ve passed for interest and turned to Laurie with a smile I didn’t quite feel. “That’s great.”

Laurie smiled back, but it was vague. Kind. Distant. The same smile you’d give someone in a waiting room.

I could feel the back of my neck prickling. I didn’t even have to look to know that Conrad had probably seen it—that he knew I was trying too hard to look completely fine.

Because I wasn’t fine.

I was in a red dress I suddenly regretted wearing, sitting across from the boy I begged for something I wasn’t sure he even wanted to give. Sitting next to someone who had about as much romantic interest in me as Milo, Kate’s emotionally unstable cat.

And I didn’t even have a return plan.

God. How was I going to get out of Cousins now?

I had practically pleaded with Conrad—take me back. Like a bad movie scene. And then she showed up. With her hand on his arm. Like some perfectly timed punishment.

Conrad hadn’t even had the chance to finish what he was going to say. And now I’d never know if it was a yes or a no.

“Belly?” Kate said.

I looked up, startled.

“Huh?”

She smiled. “Mr. Fisher asked if we picked your bridesmaid dress yet.”

“Oh—yeah,” I said quickly. “Last week. Kate went with a rose-colored one.”

Mr. Fisher gave me a big approving nod, like I’d solved a riddle. “That’s a good color on you.”

Conrad didn’t say anything.

But I could feel his eyes on me.

I didn’t look.

Instead, I turned back to Laurie and asked, “So, do you like consulting?”

He launched into an explanation about business school and strategy models and something-something leadership.

I nodded along, trying to focus.

Because anything—anything—was better than glancing up and seeing Aubrey lean in to whisper something in Conrad’s ear.

The bathroom was too bright. The kind of sterile, artificial lighting that made everything look a little worse than it felt. I leaned over the sink, fingers gripping the porcelain edge, and stared at myself in the mirror.

"You got this," I whispered. But my voice didn’t sound like mine.

Not when my heart was still racing. Not when Aubrey's laugh was still echoing in my ears. Not when I could still feel Conrad's eyes on me, even though I hadn't dared to meet them since I sat down.

I took a deep breath. Then another.

Remember, I told myself.

Remember that you hated him. That he dumped you at prom—no, that you dumped him, but he didn’t make it hard.

Remember the funeral. The reception after. The way his voice went cold when he said you were a mistake.

God, that one still burned.

I shouldn't care this much. I didn't care. Not really.

I fixed my hair, wiped a smudge of mascara from under my eye, and turned to leave.

And, of course, that’s when I ran straight into him.

Conrad.

The hallway was narrow, dimmer than the rest of the restaurant. His shoulder brushed mine, and he took a quick step back, hands up.

"Sorry," he said.

I forced a smile. "It’s fine."

He didn’t move. "Laurie seems cool."

I blinked. "Yeah. He really is."

It came out smooth. Too smooth. A lie wrapped in a bow. Because Laurie was fine, but he wasn't Conrad, and that was the problem.

Conrad nodded. His hands slid into his pockets. "Aubrey surprised me. Flew in early last week."

I looked away.

"She’s been staying at the summer house," he continued. "I was gonna tell you that earlier."

I shrugged. "Okay."

Just one word. Enough to tell him I didn’t need his explanation. Even if some part of me did.

He studied me. I could feel it.

"I actually changed my mind," I said suddenly. "I think I'll stay in Boston until my parents get back."

That made him flinch. Not visibly. But I felt the shift.

"Don’t," he said.

My eyes snapped to his. "What?"

His jaw clenched. "Don’t do this."

I stepped back. "Do what, exactly?"

"Make this awkward. Between us. I—" He sighed, frustrated. "I want us to be friends again."

I laughed. It sounded more like a scoff. "Friends. Right. Because that always worked out so well for us."

"I mean it, Belly. I don’t want this tension anymore. You glaring at me across the table. Avoiding me. Pretending you’re into Kate's brother just to—I don’t know, what? Prove something?"

I crossed my arms. "Wow. Your ego really knows no bounds."

"It’s not ego. It’s me knowing you."

"You don’t know me anymore," I snapped. "You lost that right."

The air between us crackled, sharp and electric.

"Fine," I said, voice low. "I’ll go back to Cousins."

He blinked.

I stepped closer, my voice dropping.

"I don’t care that your girlfriend is staying at the summer house. We weren’t ever anything real anyway."

His face changed. Something behind his eyes shuttered.

I didn’t wait for him to respond.

I turned and walked away, heels clicking against the tile, heart pounding like I’d just sprinted out of a dream.

Because if I didn’t leave right then, I might've said something worse.

Something honest.

Chapter Text

Conrad

The sun was brutal overhead, one of those city heat waves that made the sidewalk feel like it might melt under your feet. Belly was already at Jeremiah’s Jeep by the time I made it to the curb, yanking open the trunk with more force than she probably meant to. Her bags were wedged in tight—too tight for how small she looked standing there.

She grunted as she tugged one of the suitcases free, the weight of it pulling her sideways.

“I got it,” she said the second I reached her.

“Yeah, no you don’t.” I ignored her and grabbed the handle from her hand, lifting it out like it weighed nothing. She rolled her eyes but didn’t fight me on the second one.

Aubrey watched us from a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable.

Jere and Kate walked over then, Kate already pulling Belly into a tight hug, chattering about some bridal shower thing she wanted to plan. Belly nodded along, but her eyes flicked toward me every so often. Like she was making sure I hadn’t left without her.

Then Jere stepped forward. He didn’t say much—just opened his arms and waited. Belly leaned in and hugged him like she always had, no awkwardness. No distance.

“I’ll be down this weekend,” he said.

They pulled apart, and for a second, they just looked at each other. One of those glances where neither of them spoke, but you could feel the full conversation anyway.

I shut the trunk and turned toward the Range Rover.

Belly climbed into the backseat without another word. I could feel her watching me from the rearview mirror, but I didn’t look back.

Aubrey slid into the passenger seat. “Ready?”

No. Not at all.

But I nodded anyway and got behind the wheel.

The car hummed to life. I pulled away from the curb, merging into the steady stream of traffic, and tried not to think about how it felt to have her back in the car.

Or how far away she suddenly felt—even now.

The city gave way to trees and highway signs, buildings dissolving into long stretches of green and the blur of distant water.

The car was quiet—too quiet.

Belly hadn’t said a word since we pulled out of the parking garage. I could feel her behind me, not through the mirror—because I wasn’t looking—but in the way the air felt. Tense. Weighted. Like even the breeze coming through the open window had to tiptoe around her.

Aubrey reached over the center console and slid her fingers into mine.

I almost didn’t notice until I realized my hand had stopped gripping the wheel.

Her thumb rubbed slow circles on my knuckles, a gesture that used to settle me. Lately, though, it just made me feel like I was being held too tightly in the wrong place.

I didn’t pull away.

But I didn’t squeeze back either.

The silence stretched long between the three of us, broken only by the occasional buzz of Aubrey’s phone lighting up the cupholder and the hum of tires on asphalt.

I glanced in the mirror once, just once, and caught the edge of Belly’s reflection—her forehead against the glass, eyes on the passing trees. Her red dress stood out in the dull gray of the interior. Her hair was tied back, but loose strands danced along her cheek with the wind.

She looked like summer.

And for a second, I hated myself.

Because Aubrey was here. Right here. Holding my hand. She hadn’t done anything wrong.

Except show up.

Except stay.

Except keep me from saying what I should’ve said weeks ago.

Aubrey glanced over. “You okay?”

I nodded, eyes fixed on the road. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She leaned her head back, content with that. I wasn’t sure if Belly had heard.

Didn’t matter.

Everything felt off. Misaligned.

Aubrey’s hand in mine. Belly in the backseat. My head spinning in a car that was moving straight.

I tightened my grip on the wheel.

And drove.

About halfway to Cousins, I pulled off the highway and into a gas station.

“I just need a minute,” I said, already unbuckling before either of them could ask.

Aubrey stretched in her seat. “Want anything, Belly?”

“No, thank you,” Belly replied from the back, polite and clipped.

She didn’t look up.

I stepped out, shutting the door behind me a little too hard. The heat hit first—sticky and still, clinging to the back of my neck. I rubbed a hand over my face and walked toward the convenience store, Aubrey falling in beside me.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed low. I grabbed a Gatorade and headed for the candy aisle. Not because I wanted anything. I just needed to stop thinking.

“So,” Aubrey said casually, looking over a row of granola bars, “how long were you and Belly together?”

I didn’t answer at first.

“Sorry,” she added. “Just curious. You never really talked about it.”

“It was a long time ago,” I said, keeping my eyes on the shelf. “After you and I broke up. Summer after senior year.”

She nodded, like she remembered. “Right.”

“It wasn’t long. Like… six months, maybe.”

The words felt wrong in my mouth. Too small. Too easy.

But I said them anyway.

I turned to grab a bottle of water and—without really thinking—picked up a bag of Sour Patch Kids.

She used to eat them. Always biting the heads off first, like it was a ritual.

At the register, Aubrey watched me pay, quiet again.

Back in the car, Belly hadn’t moved. She looked half-asleep, forehead still against the window.

I slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Handed the candy back without looking.

She took it without a word.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Aubrey glance between us. Her smile was still there—but just barely.

The bag crinkled softly in Belly’s hands.

And the silence returned.

The road stretched in front of us, familiar turns and sun-washed trees that should’ve felt like home. But the car was too quiet. Belly hadn’t said a word since the gas station. I didn’t expect her to. She’d unzipped the candy bag but only touched one, letting the rest sit in her lap.

Aubrey shifted beside me, her voice cutting through the quiet like a pebble skipping over still water.

“So… when are you heading back to California?”

I kept my eyes on the road. “End of August.”

“That far out?”

“Yeah. Next semester starts after Labor Day.”

She nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I think I'll fly back right after the wedding. I told my boss I’d be back as soon as I could, the campaign stuff is picking up. They’re pushing a whole new housing initiative.”

Right. Her nonprofit in L.A. Something she actually cared about. Something real.

I adjusted my grip on the wheel. “That’s good.”

“Mmhmm.”

She turned her gaze to the side window, letting the silence roll in again. But I could feel Belly behind me. Every inhale. Every shift in her seat. The way she leaned against the door like it was the only thing holding her up.

This wasn’t right.

Not for Aubrey, who deserved someone fully in it.

Not for Belly, who couldn’t even look at me without swallowing back whatever it was she wanted to say.

And not for me.

Because no matter how many times I told myself I’d moved on—had to move on—I still looked for Belly first when I said something funny. Still reached for her favorite candy without thinking. Still memorized the way her hair was pulled back or the soft mark on her knee from that beach day years ago.

I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.

And I was starting to think I never really had been.

The sign for Cousins appeared in the distance.

I didn’t say anything.

Because I wasn’t sure what would come out if I did.

Chapter Text

The air smelled like salt and rosemary and something vaguely citrus, like someone had sprayed lemon cleaner earlier but only in one room. I dropped my duffel bag in the foyer and kicked off my sneakers by the door. My legs were sore, my head heavy. I should’ve said no when he offered to drive me back. I should’ve stayed in Jere’s shoebox apartment and let Milo the demon cat claim me as one of his own.

Instead, I was here.

Back in the house where everything fell apart.

“I’m gonna grill some chicken,” Conrad said from behind me, already tossing his keys into the bowl on the entry table. “If you’re hungry.”

I didn’t even turn around. “I think I’m gonna crash. I’m exhausted.”

He didn’t say anything else, just moved past me toward the kitchen. I caught a glimpse of Aubrey at the counter, already pulling spices from the cabinet like this was her house. Like she knew where everything was. Like she belonged.

I hated how much that bothered me.

The bedroom door closed behind me with a soft click. Same quilt. Same books stacked by the nightstand. Same floorboard that creaked when you stepped too close to the closet.

And yet everything felt different.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around like it might hit me differently this time. It didn’t. The ache in my chest had traveled with me from Boston.

How had I let myself get here? What was I even doing?

Because I wanted to prove something to Conrad? That I was fine? That I could be in the same house as him and Aubrey and not come undone?

Stupid.

I buried my face in my hands and let out a slow breath. This wasn’t just a mess. It was my mess. I’d walked right into it with my eyes open and my pride fully engaged.

Never again.

I swore to myself then and there: I was revoking Conrad Fisher from my heart once and for all.

He didn’t get to have this kind of power over me. Not anymore. Not after everything.

He wanted to be friends?

Fine.

I’d be his friend.

I’d smile and laugh and maybe even ask about his stupid med school classes. I’d nod when he talked about his life in California. I’d be so normal, so casual, he wouldn’t even remember we were ever anything more than just childhood memories and failed timing.

Because the real mistake wasn’t loving him. It was thinking he might love me back.

And I couldn’t afford to make that mistake again.

The house had gone still hours ago.

I couldn’t sleep.

Maybe it was the heat, or the way the ceiling fan ticked like it was counting down something I couldn’t name. Maybe it was the way this room—my room—suddenly felt like a guest space. Like I didn’t belong here anymore.

I tossed the blanket off and slipped out of bed, padding barefoot down the hallway. The hardwood was cool beneath my feet, and the moonlight coming in through the big bay window cast everything in soft silver. I figured I’d grab a glass of water. Maybe sit in the dark living room for a while and pretend this wasn’t weird. That I wasn’t weird for being here.

I had just reached for a glass when I heard footsteps behind me.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Aubrey asked.

I turned around. She was standing in the doorway, her hair in a loose bun, wearing one of Conrad’s old shirts—faded blue, cracked Cousin Beach logo across the chest. She looked comfortable. At ease. Like she fit here.

And again, I hated how much that got to me.

“Not really,” I said, keeping my voice even.

Aubrey moved past me and opened the fridge. “Same. Something about the quiet. It’s too… loud, you know?”

I didn’t answer.

She cracked open a bottle of sparkling water and leaned against the counter. “You’ve known him forever, haven’t you?”

I blinked. “Conrad?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling lightly. “You guys grew up coming here together, right? The stories he’s told—it’s like this house has chapters of you in every corner.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I took a sip of my water and stared at the sink.

“I think it’s nice,” she added. “The kind of history you all have. I never had that growing up. Just Boston and the occasional cabin rental—if my dad remembered to book one.”

I nodded. “This house has always felt… constant.”

Aubrey smiled. “It’s a good kind of constant.”

Something about the way she said it made me wonder if she was trying to reassure me. Or herself.

A silence stretched between us—not quite awkward, but full.

“I know it’s probably weird,” she said eventually, quieter now. “Me being here.”

I looked at her then. Really looked. At the ease in her voice. At the shirt that had once sat in my drawer. At the way she floated through this house like she belonged—like I didn’t.

“It’s fine,” I lied. “You’re his girlfriend.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. His girlfriend.”

I didn’t ask what that meant.

She finished her drink and dropped the bottle into the recycling bin like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“Well… night, Belly,” she said gently.

“Night.”

She disappeared down the hallway.

And I was alone again.

Only now, the quiet didn’t feel peaceful.

It felt like a door closing.

I could hear him before I saw him the next morning.

A low clink, the occasional buzz, a muttered curse word. The house smelled like coffee and toasted bagels, but also something faintly… burned?

I rubbed my eyes as I descended the stairs, one hand skimming the banister. The light pouring through the windows was golden and soft—classic Cousins morning. Too perfect for whatever chaos Conrad Fisher was clearly about to unleash.

When I stepped into the kitchen, I stopped short.

Conrad was barefoot, crouched on the counter like some kind of electrical goblin, screwdriver in hand, poking around inside the light fixture above the sink. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a fitted navy t-shirt, sleeves slightly pushed up, a thin layer of stubble along his jaw. He looked tired. And infuriatingly good.

“Do I even want to know what’s happening right now?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Morning,” he said, like it was any other day and not the beginning of a slow-motion disaster. “The light was flickering weird last night. I’m just tightening the wiring.”

“Shouldn’t you, I don’t know… call an electrician?”

“I saw a video on YouTube,” he said, as if that was a valid credential. “It looked easy.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh well, then. By all means, please continue to endanger your life.”

He grinned without turning. “Nice to see you haven’t lost your faith in me.”

“I had faith,” I said, stepping closer, “until I saw you standing on a cutting board to reach exposed wires.”

He glanced down. “It’s stable.”

“It’s bending.”

“It’s fine.”

A quiet voice drifted in from the living room. “You really should be more careful.”

I turned. Aubrey was curled up on the couch, a book open in her lap. She had on leggings and a green sweatshirt, sleeves pulled over her hands. Her hair was pulled back, loose and damp from a morning shower. She looked cozy. Settled. 

I didn’t answer. Just turned back to the chaos in front of me.

Conrad jiggled something and the light above him flickered, then sparked. He flinched. Hard.

“Shit!” he barked, nearly dropping the screwdriver. “Ow—dammit!”

I gasped, covering my mouth with both hands. “Are you okay?!”

He shook his hand out like he’d just touched a hot stove, wincing. “Just a little zap. No big deal.”

“No big deal?! You just electrocuted yourself!”

“I didn’t electrocute myself. I shocked myself.”

“Oh, excuse me. Should I go prep the defibrillator just in case?”

He laughed, the sound rolling low and easy through the kitchen. I couldn’t help it—I laughed too. Maybe it was the absurdity of it all, or just the sight of him wincing and still trying to play it cool. He looked like a drenched cat pretending it meant to fall in the bathtub.

“Shut up,” he muttered, but he was smiling.

“You shut up. You could’ve died.”

“I could’ve fixed it.”

I rolled my eyes and handed him a clean towel from the drawer. He took it, brushing our fingers slightly. Too brief to mean anything. Too much not to notice.

We were still laughing when the silence from the living room thickened.

Aubrey hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. Her eyes were still on us.

I tried not to look. Tried not to feel it. But the weight of her presence settled into the space between Conrad and me like humidity—heavy, invisible, impossible to ignore.

He hopped down from the counter and glanced in her direction. “I’m fine,” he called out, as if she’d said something. She hadn’t.

“Glad to hear it,” Aubrey replied after a beat. Her voice was light, but the edge of it was sharp enough to slice.

I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter. “You should really just call someone.”

Conrad ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “It’s not a big deal. Just a loose connection.”

“You sure it’s not your brain that’s loose?”

His laugh was softer this time. Familiar. “God, I missed your mouth.”

I froze.

He caught himself immediately. “I mean—your smart mouth. You know. The jokes. Sarcasm. Not…”

But it was already out there, humming between us louder than any faulty wiring.

“Right,” I said, forcing a smile. “My mouth. Got it.”

Behind us, a page finally turned. Not slowly. Not delicately.

I walked to the fridge and opened it, mostly just to have something to do. The cold air felt good against my flushed skin. I wasn’t sure what had just happened, or why my stomach felt like it was folding in on itself.

Conrad cleared his throat. “You want a bagel or something?”

“I’m good.”

He opened the drawer for a new screwdriver and muttered something about bad grounding.

“I’m gonna go for a swim,” I said quickly, already backing out of the kitchen.

He looked up. “You sure?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Knock yourself out. But like… don’t. Literally.”

That earned a tiny smile. “No promises.”

As I turned to head up the stairs, I caught Aubrey’s eyes again. She didn’t look away.

And for the first time, I wondered who she really thought was the intruder here.

Because if I was being honest—really honest—it didn’t feel like her anymore.

It felt like me.

Chapter Text

Conrad

I probably should’ve called an electrician.

It would’ve been the smart thing to do. Safe. Responsible. The kind of thing someone like me—future Dr. Fisher, Stanford-bound, med student with a heart rate monitor app and a color-coded calendar—was supposed to do. Call the right people. Let the professionals handle it. But something about the low buzz in the kitchen light felt… manageable.

Contained.

Like one small thing I could fix in a house full of things I couldn’t.

The faulty switch. The loose wiring. It gave me a task. Something tactile. Something that didn’t require navigating minefields like eye contact or old heartbreak. So I’d pulled out my phone, watched a video. Took a screenshot of a wiring diagram. Unscrewed the faceplate with my dad’s old screwdriver set—the same one he used to fix the garbage disposal when we were kids. I remembered thinking back then that he could fix anything.

I told myself I had it under control.

I didn’t.

There was a pop. A spark. A quick jolt that ran straight through my wrist and up my arm. Not enough to knock me off my feet, but enough to make me curse under my breath and stumble back. Now my hand still buzzed faintly, like it had fallen asleep and hadn’t quite woken up. My sweatshirt smelled faintly like burnt plastic and singed cotton. Not a good sign.

But it wasn’t the shock that had me shaken.

It was the way she laughed.

Belly had clapped a hand over her mouth at first, her eyes wide in surprise—but then she lost it. She laughed, real and unfiltered, from somewhere deep in her chest. The kind of laugh that made her whole face light up. Her shoulders shook, and for a second—just a second—it felt like nothing had changed.

Like we were kids again. Me pretending to know what I was doing, her calling me out with that smile.

And God, I missed that sound.

I missed her—that version of her. The one who teased me without caution. Who said my name like it was a secret she got to keep. Who knew me before everything got complicated. Before I pushed her away. Before we hurt each other in the kind of way that lingers.

That laugh carved something open in me I didn’t realize had healed over wrong.

She’d laughed. And for one split moment, I let myself think maybe—maybe—this whole friend thing could work. Maybe it wouldn’t kill me.

Then I said it.

That stupid comment. About her mouth.

I hadn’t meant anything by it. I was just trying to keep the energy up. Trying to match the way her eyes were still dancing. Pretend like it didn’t still affect me every time she smiled at someone else. I wanted to be funny. Normal. Like we were fine.

But I saw the way she froze.

The way her laugh vanished mid-breath, like I’d flicked a switch.

She said “Got it” and turned away, her voice clipped and unreadable. And just like that, the room turned colder. Like I’d reminded her exactly why we weren’t us anymore.

I felt like an idiot.

When she walked out of the room, it took the light with her. The buzz in the bulb still filled the air, but it was quieter now. Meaner. More hollow.

I didn’t realize how still the rest of the house had gotten until then.

Aubrey was still curled up on the couch with a book in her lap. She hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes, and I was starting to wonder if she even remembered what it was about. Probably didn’t matter. It wasn’t about the book.

She was watching us.

Had been since morning.

I kept my eyes on the counter and grabbed the dishrag, wiping my hands clean more out of habit than anything else. My palms were sweating. Or maybe they were still reacting to the shock. Hard to tell.

“You good?” I asked, not quite looking at her.

“I’m fine,” she said too quickly. Too evenly. But I knew that tone. Knew the tightness in it.

She wasn’t fine.

I set the screwdriver down slowly. Gently. Like being quiet might soften whatever tension had started to harden in the air.

The light above the sink buzzed again—taunting me. I flipped it off.

Neither of us said anything.

Eventually, I made my way over and sat on the edge of the couch, just barely brushing the armrest near her feet. I didn’t want to touch her, but I wanted to say something. Ease the weight pressing down on everything.

I glanced at the cover in her lap.

“What are you reading?”

She didn’t let go. Just held it tighter. “You wouldn’t like it.”

“Try me.”

She turned her head and looked at me then—really looked. Her eyes were clear, but distant, like she was studying me from somewhere else entirely.

“It’s just a romance,” she said. “You’re more of a medical journal guy now, remember?”

Right.

That’s who I was now.

The serious one. The practical one. The guy who tracked his cortisol levels and took vitamins and said no to sugar after dinner. The guy who didn’t cry anymore. Who didn’t make impulsive decisions. Who didn’t text his ex at 2 a.m. or let himself imagine what it would’ve been like if he’d just said the right thing that night.

But she was right. That wasn’t who I used to be. Not really.

And she knew it.

“Sorry about earlier,” I muttered after a beat. “That was dumb. The wiring, I mean.”

“And the joke?”

I hesitated. “Yeah. That too.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled her knees tighter to her chest and nodded.

“It’s fine,” she said, softer this time. “Just… be careful.”

That was all.

No lecture. No scene.

Just quiet. Like she was used to cleaning up my messes without saying so out loud.

I stood and rubbed the back of my neck. My muscles ached in a way they hadn’t in a while. Like I’d been holding myself too tightly all morning and only just realized it.

“I’m gonna go clean up the mess I made in the kitchen.”

She didn’t stop me. Just nodded again without meeting my eyes.

I walked down the hall and caught my reflection in the mirror on the way.

Same dark hair. Same tired jawline. Same version of myself that Aubrey said she trusted. The one my father still didn’t know how to talk to. The one Belly used to trace her fingers over when she thought I was asleep.

But I didn’t feel like that guy today.

I felt like a fault line—splitting open beneath the weight of everything I was pretending not to feel.

Because the truth was, it only took one laugh.

And I was already unraveling.

The kitchen still smelled faintly of burnt plastic.

I wiped down the counter, halfheartedly scrubbing at a dark streak that wasn’t coming out, and tossed the dish towel in the sink. My hand was finally starting to feel normal again—no more tingling, no more pins and needles—but the rest of me still felt off-balance. Like I’d misstepped somewhere and hadn’t quite recovered.

The floor creaked behind me.

I didn’t turn around right away. I knew it was her.

“Hey,” Belly said, her voice low but steady.

I glanced over my shoulder.

She was standing a few feet away, one hand braced on the doorway, her hair pulled up into one of those messy buns that always somehow looked better on her than anyone else. She had my car keys in hand—the extra set.

“I was gonna run to the store,” she said. “You mind if I take your car?”

I straightened, wiping my palms on my jeans even though they were already dry. “Yeah, of course. It’s in the driveway. Just, uh… the A/C’s been weird.”

She nodded. “I’ll survive.”

Our eyes met, and something passed between us—quiet and brittle. Not a smile. Not a thank you. Just… understanding, maybe. Or resignation. Like we were both trying our best to pretend this wasn’t hard.

She was out the front door before I could say anything else. 

A few seconds later, I could hear the ignition turned over.

The engine faded down the road.

And then I felt her.

Aubrey’s arms slipped around my waist as I stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing out a coffee mug I didn’t even remember using.

“I miss you,” she murmured against my shoulder.

I stiffened. Just for a second. Then I let out a breath and said, “I’m right here.”

She tilted her head, her lips brushing the corner of my jaw. “You’ve been somewhere else lately.”

I didn’t answer that.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

She kissed me—slow, deliberate, searching. I tried to meet her there. Tried to match the rhythm, the softness, the familiarity of it.

But it felt like I was underwater. Like I was watching myself from the outside.

And then—

A shift.

A breath.

The sound of the front door opening, a scuff of shoes against the floor.

I turned just as Belly stepped inside.

She froze.

We both did.

Her expression didn’t change. She didn’t flinch, didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, car keys in one hand, my wallet in the other.

“You left this in the car,” she said. Her voice was steady. Too steady.

She crossed the room, set the wallet down on the counter beside me.

“Sorry for interrupting.”

And then she was gone.

The door clicked shut behind her.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t call out.

Didn’t follow.

Even though every muscle in my body screamed to. Even though my feet were already twitching to move.

But I couldn’t.

Not with Aubrey standing behind me. Not with the taste of someone else still on my lips.

Not when I knew how it must’ve looked.

And worse—how it must’ve felt.

So I stayed rooted in place, staring at the closed door. Swallowing the instinct to chase after her.

Because if I did… I wouldn’t know how to explain why I hadn’t done it sooner.

Chapter Text

I didn’t slam the door.

It took everything in me not to. But I didn’t.

I just walked out, dropped his wallet on the counter like it weighed nothing, even though my whole chest felt like it was caving in, and left.

The sun was hot and blinding. The screen door gave a gentle thud behind me, too soft to match the noise in my head.

Conrad’s car was still warm when I climbed in, like he’d only just gotten out. Like the imprint of him was still there in the steering wheel and the seat, in the faint, woodsy smell that lingered in the air.

I shoved the key in the ignition, hands shaking slightly.

My face was burning, but it wasn’t the sun.

It was what I’d walked in on.

What I always seemed to walk in on.

Aubrey in his space. Her hands on his sweatshirt. Her lips on his.

Like it was hers. Like he was hers.

I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles went white.

I shouldn’t have come back. I knew it then with a clarity that cut like glass. I should’ve gone anywhere else—Philadelphia, Boston, hell, even back to Paris. I’d spent so long trying to forget him, to unlearn the way my heart beat louder when he walked into a room, and now here I was, right back where it started. Right back to being the girl in the background.

I pulled into the parking lot of the little grocery store off Main, the one with the faded striped awning and uneven pavement. There were only a few cars. It was early still. The town hadn’t fully stretched awake yet.

I sat in the driver’s seat for a second, trying to breathe normally. Trying not to picture his hands in her hair or the look in his eyes when she kissed him. Trying not to imagine what would’ve happened if I hadn’t come back inside.

My hands unclenched slowly.

You came here for milk and sandwich stuff. You’ll go in. You’ll buy it. And then you’ll leave.

That’s it.

That’s all this was.

I grabbed my bag and headed inside.

The cool air hit me like a reset button. For a minute, I let myself get lost in the rhythm of the store. The squeak of the wheels on my cart, the soft hum of the overhead lights, the faint sound of a classic rock song playing through dusty speakers.

Eggs. Bread. Tomatoes. Cheese.

My eyes scanned the aisles like they were trying to find anything else to focus on.

And that’s when I saw him.

Nate.

Standing near the refrigerated juices, holding a bottle of orange Gatorade. He looked up and saw me at the same time.

His face broke into a slow, warm smile.

“Well, if it isn’t Cousins’ most elusive heartbreaker,” he said.

I blinked. “You again.”

“Me again,” he said, walking toward me, Gatorade still in hand. “Wasn’t sure I’d see you again this summer.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, my voice a little too flat. “Here I am.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You okay?”

I gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Sure. Just shopping.”

He studied me for a second—long enough that I started to feel a little self-conscious, like maybe he could tell I was seconds from falling apart.

Then he said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about you.”

That caught me off guard.

I furrowed my brow. “What?”

“Since the bar,” he said. “You were… memorable.”

I let out a short, dry laugh. “You mean drunk.”

He grinned. “That too. But mostly cute. Smart. Kinda intense.”

I looked down at my cart. “I don’t think I made the best impression.”

“Well,” he said, stepping closer, “you made an impression.”

There was a beat of silence.

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little nervous. “So… I was wondering if you’d want to go out sometime. Nothing big. Coffee, maybe. Or ice cream. There’s that new place near the pier. We could go for a walk.”

I should’ve said no.

I should’ve told him I wasn’t in the right headspace. That this summer wasn’t what I thought it would be. That I had history tangled up in the floorboards of every room of that beach house.

But instead, I heard myself say:

“Yeah. Okay.”

His eyes widened. “Yeah?”

I nodded. “Sure. Why not.”

It was impulsive. Reckless, even. But maybe I needed reckless right now. Maybe I needed something—someone—that didn’t carry the weight of a thousand what-ifs.

“Great,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Can I get your number?”

I gave it to him. He texted me right away so I’d have his.

“Tomorrow?” he asked. “Seven?”

“Sounds good.”

He smiled again, and this time it was softer. Kinder. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

I didn’t say anything. Just smiled back and pushed my cart toward checkout.

My heart wasn’t racing. There were no fireworks. But there was… relief.

Because for the first time in days, maybe weeks, something wasn’t about Conrad Fisher.

And that alone felt like a win.

The house was quiet when I got back.

No laughter. No murmured voices from the living room. Just the steady hum of the fridge and the faint clink of wind chimes from the porch. Aubrey’s tote bag was still by the door, her sandals tucked neatly underneath, but she was gone.

Good.

I set the grocery bags down on the kitchen counter a little too hard and winced when a tomato rolled out and hit the floor. I didn’t pick it up right away. Just stood there for a second, staring at it like it might do something.

I could still feel the echo of Nate’s smile. His easy energy. The way he looked at me like I was someone new, not someone with over twenty years of Conrad Fisher etched into her bloodstream.

Tomorrow. Seven. Ice cream and a walk. Simple.

I could do simple.

I started unpacking—eggs first, then sandwich stuff. Reached for the milk.

“Hey.”

I didn’t jump. I’d heard his footsteps. I just didn’t turn around.

“Need help?” Conrad asked, voice low, careful.

I grabbed the bread and stuffed it into the pantry. “Nope. I’m good.”

He lingered behind me anyway. I could feel it—the weight of him, just watching. Probably trying to gauge what version of me he was going to get today. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of unraveling in front of him again.

I opened the fridge and shoved the juice inside a little too hard.

“Belly,” he said softly. “About earlier—”

“It’s fine.” I cut him off. Finally turned to face him. “You don’t have to explain.”

He blinked. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“We’re friends, right?” I said. My voice was calm. Even. A little too sweet. “So you don’t owe me anything.”

His jaw flexed. “Still, I—”

I yanked the milk out of the bag and tried to set it down on the counter, but my grip slipped—and the stupid carton tipped sideways. It hit the edge, cracked open, and white spilled everywhere.

“Shit,” I muttered, trying to grab it before more leaked out.

Conrad moved forward instantly, reaching for a dish towel. “I’ve got it—”

“No, I’ve got it,” I snapped, snatching the towel from him. “Seriously. You don’t have to play hero.”

He held up his hands, caught off guard. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Yeah? Well maybe don’t.”

He stared at me like I’d slapped him.

The milk puddled at our feet. Cold. Sticky. Pointless.

I dropped the towel on top of it.

“Why can’t you just let me be fine?” My voice cracked, sharp and small and furious all at once. “Why can’t you just let it go, Conrad?”

He looked stunned.

I didn’t stop.

“You had no problem doing that last time. When you left. When you said it was a mistake. When you…” I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. “When you let me walk away like none of it mattered.”

His expression twisted. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I’m trying to apologize—”

“I don’t want your apology!” My voice broke, louder now, echoing in the kitchen like a fire alarm going off. “I don’t want it if it’s just gonna be followed by another kiss I wasn’t supposed to see or another girl in your sweatshirt or—”

The front door creaked open.

We both froze.

Aubrey stepped inside, her cheeks flushed from the sun and the wind. She was barefoot, sandals dangling from her fingers. Her gaze flicked between us—me with tears in my eyes, Conrad halfway to the paper towels, milk bleeding across the tile like a crime scene between us.

“Hey,” she said carefully. “Everything okay?”

I cleared my throat. Wiped my face.

Conrad stepped back. Way back. Like distance might fix what had already cracked open.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just spilled the milk.”

I bent down to mop it up, hands shaking again. This time, it wasn’t about rage or grief or humiliation.

It was just… exhaustion.

Conrad didn’t say another word. Neither did Aubrey.

I cleaned up the mess, one slow swipe at a time, until the floor was dry again.

Until I was empty again.

Chapter Text

The next morning was deceptively perfect.

Blue skies, warm breeze, the sound of the ocean curling in and out like it had nothing better to do. The kind of day that begged you to be barefoot. That made you want to grill hot dogs and cannonball into the deep end and forget you ever had complicated feelings about anything, ever.

I stood by the kitchen sink, twisting the ring off the cap of my water bottle, watching the condensation drip down my wrist. I hadn’t slept much. After everything yesterday—the milk, the shouting, the kiss—I’d stayed up late in bed, the sheets tangled around me, eyes on the ceiling, phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline.

Nate had texted.

Looking forward to tonight. Bring that pretty smile with you.

It made me smile when I read it. For real. Not forced. Not half-hearted.

And maybe that’s what I needed.

The front door burst open with the kind of energy that only ever belonged to one person.

“Hellooo? The party has arrived!” Jeremiah’s voice rang through the house like a crash of cymbals.

Kate followed behind him, carrying a small duffel and her always-perfect curls piled on top of her head. She gave me a quick wave. “Hey, Belly!”

I smiled. “Hey.”

Jeremiah dropped his bag dramatically in the foyer. “Where is everybody? Sleeping in? Or did we beat the rush?”

“Steven and Taylor should be here soon,” I said. “Not sure where Conrad is.”

Not that I was looking.

Not that I hadn’t already scanned the house for signs of him, eyes skipping past the doorway to his room, listening for the sound of his voice and hating myself for it.

Jeremiah clapped his hands together. “Well, good. Because Kate and I have a brilliant idea.”

Kate grinned like she’d been holding it in all morning. “Okay, so. We were talking about the wedding reception and how we want it to be fun. Like actually fun, not just old people slow dancing and awkward speeches.”

“So,” Jeremiah continued, clearly hyped, “we thought it would be awesome if the bridal party—aka all of us—learned a couple viral dances.”

I blinked. “Like TikTok?”

“Exactly,” Kate said. “One for the girls, one for the guys. You know, surprise everyone at the reception, break it out in the middle of the party, full synchronized chaos.”

Jeremiah struck a pose. “Imagine this—me, Steven, Conrad, and whoever else we rope into it, doing a full choreographed boy band routine. Then the girls come in and slay.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Slay?”

Kate nodded, dead serious. “Absolutely slay.”

I let out a laugh. “You want us to practice… this weekend?”

“Duh,” Jere said. “Poolside dance rehearsal. Make it a whole thing. We’ve got like thirty-five people coming to this backyard wedding, and at least twenty of them are family I haven’t seen in years. We need something to keep the chaos contained.”

“You mean distract from it,” I said, still smiling.

“Tomato, tomato,” he said, grabbing a grape from the fruit bowl.

Kate looped her arm through mine. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. And it gives us an excuse to hang out before everything gets crazy.”

I hesitated.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement—Conrad, stepping in from the back deck, his hair a mess and sunglasses perched on top of his head like he’d just gone for a walk or maybe stayed outside on purpose.

He didn’t look at me, not really. Just did that barely-there nod. Like we were two people occupying the same space, nothing more.

It was fine. It had to be.

“Actually,” I said, clearing my throat, “I can’t.”

Jeremiah turned to me, frowning. “What? Why not?”

I capped my water bottle again. “I have a date.”

Silence.

Conrad froze, just for a second, like someone had pulled a string taut in his spine.

Jeremiah blinked. “Wait—what?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. Just ice cream. Walk on the pier. No big deal.”

Kate looked between us and said gently, “That sounds nice.”

“It does,” I said, a little too brightly. “I could probably use something nice.”

Jeremiah recovered quickly. “Okay, okay. I see you. Look at you, mysterious summer girl. What’s his name?”

“Nate,” I said.

Conrad didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask who Nate was—he already knew. Knew exactly when I met him, where, how drunk I’d been, how close we’d stood. He didn’t ask where we were going or how I was getting there. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, jaw tight, like he was chewing on words he didn’t think he had the right to say.

Jeremiah threw an arm around me. “Well, I hope Nate knows he’s got competition when we drop our choreo at the wedding. I mean, have you seen my robot?”

He proceeded to give me a deeply cursed attempt at the robot dance, which made Kate groan and cover her face.

“Oh my god, please stop.”

“I’m giving the people what they want!”

I laughed again—really laughed. For a second, it felt easy. Light.

Then my eyes drifted, just briefly, to Conrad.

He still hadn’t moved.

Still hadn’t said a word.

And maybe that was the part that hurt the most—not that he kissed Aubrey, not that he let her in—but that when it came to me, to us, he had nothing left to say.

And I was tired of being the only one who did.

I stood in front of the mirror, pulling my hair into a low bun and then undoing it five seconds later. My fingers were shaky. Not because I was nervous for the date, exactly. More like… restless. My skin didn’t feel like it fit right.

Nate had texted twenty minutes ago: Still good for 7? I’ll swing by to pick you up.

I stared at my reflection. Mascara, gloss, the dress I’d stuffed in the back of my suitcase thinking I wouldn’t need it here. It was casual. Flirty. A little more than what the situation probably called for.

But I needed the distraction.

The knock came before I’d even zipped up the side. I jumped, thinking it was Nate already, but then I heard the door creak open and Jeremiah’s voice calling out, “Yo, Bells?”

I zipped the dress and opened the door. “In here.”

He sauntered in like he owned the place, still in his board shorts and a Cousins Beach tank. He flopped face-first onto my bed, limbs sprawled like a human starfish. “You going somewhere fancy or just trying to make the rest of us feel underdressed?”

I rolled my eyes. “I have a date.”

“I know.” He grinned into my comforter. “Conrad’s been pacing like a golden retriever on crack since you said it.”

I froze for half a second, then went back to brushing out the ends of my hair. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Okay,” he said, voice muffled. Then, after a beat, “What’s going on with you and my brother?”

I stopped brushing.

“Nothing,” I said, too quickly. “We’re working on being friends again.”

Jeremiah rolled over, propping himself up on his elbows now, watching me carefully. “Friends who don’t speak? Who barely look at each other?”

I exhaled through my nose. “It’s complicated.”

“That’s one word for it.”

There was something in his voice I didn’t like. Like he was winding up to something. Like a wave about to break.

And then he dropped it.

“You remember when we made out that summer?”

I blinked at him. “Seriously?”

“I’m not saying it for fun, Belly.”

I turned away, adjusting the strap of my dress. “Yeah. I remember.”

He sat up straighter. “Do you remember how mad I was when I found out about you and Conrad?”

I nodded once. “You didn’t talk to either of us for months.”

“Right. And you two decided not to be together because of me.”

My eyes flicked to his in the mirror. “What are you getting at?”

Jeremiah rubbed his hands on his knees, then looked up. “That fall—when I was still being a little shit about it—Conrad came to me. Practically begged me to let it go. Said he needed my blessing.”

My stomach twisted. “Why are you telling me this?”

“He said it hurt. Like, physically hurt him. Not to be with you. Not to tell you how he felt. I’ve never seen him like that, Belly. And I’ve known him my whole life.”

I turned, arms crossed over my chest. “Well, he got over it. He moved on.”

“Did he?”

His question hung in the air like static.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Swallowed hard.

“Jere—”

“I’m just saying,” he went on, quieter now. “You’re not the only one who’s been walking around like something’s missing. Like maybe there’s a piece of you still stuck in the past.”

I didn’t know what to say.

Because he wasn’t wrong. But he wasn’t right, either.

“I can’t keep doing this,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Reading into every look, every silence. Wondering what might’ve been if we’d just… chosen each other back then.”

Jeremiah stood slowly, like he sensed he’d already said enough. “You don’t have to choose anything right now. Go on your date. Clear your head. But don’t pretend none of it mattered. Don’t lie to yourself just because it’s easier.”

He gave me a soft look, like an older brother and the best friend I used to know all rolled into one. Then he ruffled my hair on his way out, totally ruining it.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, hands folded in my lap, heart beating somewhere way too close to my throat.

Conrad had begged for permission.

His chest had hurt.

But if that was true, why did it feel like we were strangers now?

Why did it feel like the distance between us was growing by the second?

And why—if I was really over him—did I suddenly feel like I couldn’t breathe?

Chapter Text

The sun was just beginning to dip by the time Nate pulled up in front of the house. It cast the whole street in a soft, peachy glow—like Cousins had filtered itself to look sweeter than it really was. Like it was trying to fool me into feeling light again.

I smoothed down the hem of my dress as I walked toward his car.

He got out before I reached the passenger door and opened it for me.

“Hey,” he said with that easy, unassuming smile.

“Hi,” I said, sliding in.

The door shut softly. No slam. No jolt. Everything about Nate was like that—gentle. His voice, his movements, even the way he drove. One hand resting casually on the wheel, the windows cracked to let in the smell of salt and sunblock and last-light warmth.

“I figured we could grab ice cream and walk the pier?” he said.

“That sounds perfect.”

And it should’ve been.

He remembered I liked mint chip. Asked cup or cone. Handed me his napkin without hesitation when mine started dripping. When a seagull dive-bombed a toddler nearby, he made a joke that actually got a laugh out of me.

But beneath all of it, everything felt just a little bit… off. Echoey. Like I was underwater, watching myself go through the motions.

Jeremiah’s voice kept playing in my head.

He said it hurt. Not being able to tell you how he felt.

Did he?

I tried to focus on Nate. I really did.

He looked good. Sun-streaked hair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, just enough stubble to be interesting. The kind of guy you could introduce to your parents. The kind who said thank you to waiters and remembered your favorite flavor without being told twice.

Any other time, I might’ve leaned in when his hand brushed mine. I might’ve rested my head on his shoulder when we reached the edge of the pier.

Instead, I stood with my arms resting on the wooden railing, staring out across the horizon like it held some answer I’d missed.

Conrad had asked Jeremiah for permission.

Conrad had begged.

But he’d also called us a mistake.

So what was I supposed to do with that?

Why did he still look at me like I meant something, only to pull away every time I got too close?

More than anything, why did I still let him live in my head rent-free?

I swore I was done. I spent four years trying to unlove him. Burned the photos. Deleted the voicemails. Blocked and unblocked him like I was rewiring my heart.

But the second he walked back into my life, it was like my lungs remembered him first.

“You okay?” Nate asked, quietly.

I turned to him. His brow was furrowed, concerned—but not pushy.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just… long day.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

I shook my head. “Not tonight.”

He nodded, like he understood.

We walked the rest of the pier in silence. The kind that might’ve been comforting, if it were someone else. But tonight, it just made me feel more alone.

At the edge of the dock, the wind picked up. I tucked my hair behind my ear as we turned back toward the street.

Nate’s hand brushed mine again, lingering this time. I let it.

I let him walk me to the car.

Let him drive us back with the windows down and the radio playing low.

And when he parked at the curb and turned toward me with a hopeful kind of smile, I knew what was coming.

He leaned in just a little, giving me space. Waiting.

I shook my head gently. “Nate… I’m sorry.”

He froze. “Too soon?”

I hesitated. “I don’t think I’m ready to date anyone right now.”

He nodded slowly, like he’d expected it. “Is it because of the guy from the bar? The one who… carried you out?”

I let out a quiet breath. “It’s complicated.”

That was all I said.

And to his credit, Nate didn’t ask for more. He didn’t press. Just gave me a soft smile—one that looked a little disappointed but not bitter.

“Thanks for tonight,” I added. “It really was nice.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It was.”

He got out and opened my door for me one last time.

I murmured a thank you. Watched him get back in and drive away.

I stood there a while, arms folded, the hem of my dress brushing against my knees in the warm breeze.

And then I heard it.

Laughter.

Coming from the backyard—familiar, careless, the kind that rang through old summers and stayed stuck in your chest no matter how many times you told yourself to move on.

Conrad.

It was his laugh.

And no matter how thoughtful Nate had been, how soft or safe or sweet—

It was that laugh that echoed in my ribs.

That laugh that made everything else feel like pretend.

And I hated it.

I hated that Conrad Fisher still had the power to ruin a perfectly good night.

And I hated myself even more for letting him.

The back door creaked open under my hand, and for a second, I thought about going straight upstairs. Avoiding all of it. Pretending I was too tired, or that I had a headache, or that I’d eaten too much ice cream to socialize. But then I heard the laughter—loud and warm and familiar—and I stepped out anyway.

Everyone was out by the pool.

The tiki torches were lit, soft flames flickering in the dusk light. Music pulsed from a Bluetooth speaker, low and easy, some indie band Steven liked. The air smelled like salt and sunscreen and charcoal from whatever they’d grilled earlier. Kate was on a lounger, her legs flung over Jeremiah’s lap. Taylor was stretched out beside them in a pink bikini top and cutoffs, holding a wine cooler in one hand and her phone in the other. Steven had his feet in the pool, shirtless and grinning at something Jere said.

And then there was Aubrey.

Curled up beside Conrad on a chaise. Her arm looped through his. Her cheek resting against his shoulder like it belonged there. He wasn’t even touching her, not really, but she looked… content. Like someone who had claimed her spot and had no plans on moving.

Conrad’s eyes met mine for only a second before flicking away.

“Belly’s back!” Taylor sang, propping herself up on one elbow. “How’d the date go with hot bar guy?”

I froze. “It was… amazing.”

My voice was too bright. Too smooth. Like I’d rehearsed the answer on the way back just in case.

Taylor grinned. “Ooooh. Tell me everything.”

I shook my head, smiling like I was too shy to share, like the night had been so perfect I had to keep it to myself. But the truth was, I couldn’t tell her anything. Not really. Not when my whole body still felt like it was humming in the wrong key.

Aubrey didn’t move. She just turned a page in her book—something thick and literary-looking with deckled edges and a bent spine.

I walked over to the edge of the pool and kicked off my sandals. The cement was warm beneath my feet.

“Come on,” Taylor said, sitting up straighter. “We’re doing round two of ‘Poor Decisions Saturday.’ Kate brought gummies.”

Kate held one up between her fingers like a prize. “Organic. Vegan. Delicious.”

Everyone but Conrad laughed.

I hesitated.

Taylor squinted at me. “Wait… Belly? You want one?”

“Sure,” I said, surprising even myself.

All heads turned.

“Hold on.” Steven sat up. “You don’t do this stuff. You’re like… Little Miss Straight Edge. We used to call you Buzzkill Belly.”

“Thanks for that memory,” I muttered.

“I’m just saying maybe don’t start tonight,” Steven added, his voice lighter than his expression. He glanced around like he was hoping someone would jump in, deflect, redirect—anything.

His eyes landed on Conrad.

But Conrad didn’t say a word.

Didn’t look up.

Just kept his gaze on the rim of his glass, thumb tracing the condensation like he hadn’t heard a thing.

And maybe that said more than anything he could’ve answered out loud.

But Taylor just grinned and tossed the gummy toward me. I caught it without thinking.

“Belly,” Steven warned.

“It’s fine,” I said, popping it into my mouth before I could talk myself out of it. “I’m fine.”

Jeremiah let out a low whistle. “This summer’s getting interesting.”

Taylor handed me a wine cooler next, already opened. “To poor decisions!”

We all clinked bottles—even Conrad, though he didn’t say anything. His beer stayed untouched in his lap. I didn’t look at him again. I wouldn’t give him that.

At first, it really was fine.

The music was good, the air warm and sticky in that nostalgic, summer way. The gummy hit slowly, like someone was dimming the lights in my brain. Everything got a little looser. Softer around the edges. I finished the wine cooler and opened another. The cold fizz burned in the best way.

Taylor turned the music up.

Something with a beat. Something I didn’t know the name of but wanted to dance to anyway.

I stood up, stretching my arms over my head, and let my hips move with the rhythm. Just a little at first. A sway. A pulse. The way I used to dance in my room when no one was watching.

“Yesss, Belly!” Taylor cheered.

Jeremiah whooped.

I kept moving.

And then I started picturing him in my head.

Conrad.

The way he used to look at me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. The way his hands felt on my waist that night in December. The way he’d kissed me in front of the fireplace, slow and reverent, like I was something holy.

God, I’d wanted it to be him.

It had always been him.

Even that first time, here. The world had gone quiet outside, just the wind and the ocean and the fire crackling behind us. He’d looked at me like he couldn’t believe I was real. Like he’d waited his whole life for that night.

And then he touched me—softly at first, like he was scared I might disappear. I’d never felt more sure of anything in my life. That I wanted him. That I loved him. That if he asked, I’d stay there forever.

But forever didn’t last.

Not for us.

Not really.

A sharp pang bloomed in my chest, and I pressed my palm against it.

“Air,” I mumbled. “I need… air.”

No one heard me. Or if they did, they didn’t stop me.

I stumbled away from the pool, my head buzzing, my feet bare as I crossed the warm deck and wandered down toward the dunes.

The sand was cool between my toes. The moon was bright and full, the ocean glittering beneath it like silver. I walked until the music faded behind me, until the only sounds were the waves and my own breathing.

I stepped into the surf, letting it lap over my ankles.

It grounded me. A little.

But the ache in my chest didn’t go away.

I rubbed at it like I could smooth it out, like I could erase the weight of everything—the history, the memory, the way he still got under my skin even when I swore I’d revoked him from my heart.

I was supposed to be done.

Supposed to be moving on.

Nate had leaned in to kiss me. Gently. Carefully. Like he wanted it to be perfect.

And I’d pulled back.

Not abruptly. Not harshly. Just enough.

I offered him a quiet apology and a softer smile, hoping it would land somewhere between kindness and honesty.

Because the truth was, I didn’t feel it.

Not really.

Because no matter how hard I tried to forget, there was only one person I’d ever wanted to kiss me.

And he was sitting by the pool with someone else curled up beside him.

Chapter Text

Conrad

I knew she wasn’t okay the second she said the date was “amazing.”

Belly couldn’t lie to me. Not convincingly. Not when it mattered.

She said it with that sugary, high-pitched voice she used when she was bluffing her way through something—shoulders pulled back, that too-wide smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Then she grabbed a gummy like she was daring someone to care.

I didn’t stop her.

I just watched.

And when she started dancing—wild, loose, flushed from the wine coolers and maybe whatever was kicking in—I watched harder.

She moved like she was trying to forget.

And I watched like I didn’t know how to remember anything else.

Then she was gone.

Just slipped away, like mist in headlights.

No one noticed. Not Taylor, not Steven, not even Jere.

But I did.

I started to follow her—gut pulling me toward the dark, down the path I already knew by heart—when I felt a hand clamp around my wrist.

Aubrey.

“Don’t,” she said softly, but firmly. “Let her brother handle it.”

I didn’t answer.

“She’s not your responsibility, Conrad.”

She meant well.

But Belly had always been the exception to every rule I tried to live by. Especially that one.

So I left Aubrey standing there and followed the path I’d always take if she needed me.

By the time I reached the beach, she was already in the water.

The moon hung low and yellow, smearing its reflection across the waves like an open wound. Belly was just a shape in the surf, her dress floating around her legs, her hair tangled down her back.

For a split second, I thought I’d lost her again.

“Belly!” I called out, louder than I meant to.

No answer.

“Belly, come back inside. I’m not dragging your dead body out of the ocean.”

Still nothing.

“Come out of the water.”

She turned slowly, like it physically hurt to acknowledge me.

“Leave me alone,” she said, voice hoarse.

I could’ve. Maybe I should’ve.

But I didn’t.

“I can’t.”

The words slipped out, and they were truer than anything I’d said in months.

I started toward her, heart hammering. I didn’t know if I was mad or terrified. Probably both.

And then I did what I always do when I’m scared I’ve already lost her.

I acted without thinking.

I lifted her—soaked, stubborn, furious—and slung her over my shoulder like I’d just pulled her from the wreckage of some invisible crash.

She thrashed against me.

“No! What are you—Conrad! Put me down!”

“You’re drunk,” I said. “And high.”

“Put me down!”

“I’m not putting you down.”

“Let go! Let me go!”

So I did. As gently as I could.

She landed on the sand with a soft thud and a hiss of breath.

I offered my hand. Reflex. Instinct. Something older than either of us.

She smacked it away like it stung.

“Just go,” she said, standing on her own, water dripping off her like she didn’t even feel it.

“I’m not leaving you.”

“But you already did,” she whispered, and I swear I felt the whole night shift around those words.

Like they cracked something open that had been holding everything together.

She looked at me—really looked—and it was like being gutted.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “That you talked to Jeremiah. That you asked for his blessing. That you still cared.”

I felt like the air had been knocked out of me.

She knew.

I didn’t even ask how. It didn’t matter.

“I don’t—” I started.

“Don’t say you don’t know,” she snapped, her voice trembling. “You do know. You just didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t think it mattered anymore.”

“That’s such bullshit,” she bit out. “You let me think you were done. You let me think I was the only one holding on.”

I looked down. The sand clung to my ankles like guilt.

“If I’d known you felt that way…” Her voice cracked. “I would’ve fought for you.”

I looked up.

“What?”

“I would’ve fought for us, Conrad.”

She said it like a confession. Like it hurt.

“I mean, at prom, after the funeral—I would’ve been there. I would’ve stayed. I would’ve fought.”

I felt my heart lurch. Like it wanted to crawl up into my throat and beg her to take us back in time.

“You think I wanted to let go?” I said, and my voice came out too sharp. “I thought you were better off. I thought… I thought you’d be happier without me dragging you into my grief.”

She stared at me. Wet lashes clumped together. Cheeks streaked with salt.

“You never even said it,” she whispered.

“Said what?”

“That you loved me.”

My breath caught.

“I thought you knew,” I said, voice cracking. “From the moment we kissed on the beach. I thought you always knew.”

“Then why did you call me a mistake?” she asked, and it nearly knocked me over.

Because I’d tried to make it easier for her to walk away. Because I was drowning and didn’t want to take her down with me. Because I thought pushing her away would protect us both from something worse.

“Because I was broken,” I said quietly. “And I didn’t want to break you too.”

“You should’ve let me decide that,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said. “I know that now.”

She stood there, eyes full of all the things I’d never said, and I felt like I was bleeding out one word at a time.

“I thought we loved each other,” she said.

I took a step closer, something in me cracking open. “We did,” I answered, my voice low. “I still… love you.”

God, it felt like a confession. Like peeling something raw from my chest and holding it out in the open, hoping she’d still recognize it. Hoping it wasn’t too broken or too late.

I didn’t mean for it to sound like a question, but maybe it was. Maybe I wanted her to tell me it wasn’t all for nothing. That even after everything—after the silences and mistakes and years we couldn’t get back—there was still something left.

Her breath caught, just barely. I saw it. Felt it like a tremor in my own body. But she didn’t look at me.

“It’s too late now,” she said softly, and turned before I could stop her. “You’re too late.”

The words gutted me.

Too late.

Like a door slamming shut. Like a clock I couldn’t rewind. I stood there, stunned, watching her walk away—knowing I deserved it, but still praying she’d turn around just once.

Just once.

But she didn’t.

And just like that, she was gone again.

I stayed on the beach long after her footsteps faded into the sand. The wind bit at my skin. The tide kept rolling in, indifferent. I stood there and let it hurt—because if this was really the end, I needed to feel all of it. Every second I let pass without saying what I should’ve said. Every time I pulled back instead of fighting for her.

I still loved her.

But maybe love, on its own, wasn’t enough anymore.

By the time I walked back to the house, the backyard had gone still. The pool lights glowed blue and undisturbed. Someone had turned off the music.

The quiet felt like punishment.

I stepped onto the porch and pushed the door open.

Upstairs, the hallway light was on. A shadow passed beneath the crack under my door, then stilled.

My stomach sank.

Aubrey.

I paused for a second before turning the knob. She was standing at the dresser, her overnight bag half-packed, her movements careful, efficient.

She didn’t flinch when she saw me. Just glanced up, then back down to fold a sweater.

“I’m going to stay at a hotel tonight,” she said, not looking at me. “I’ll catch a train back to Boston tomorrow.”

I didn’t say anything.

She zipped the bag slowly, her fingers steady like this was something she’d rehearsed.

“It’s over, Conrad.”

I closed the door behind me. “Aubrey—”

“No,” she said quietly, turning toward me. “Don’t. You don’t have to explain. I’m not even sure there’s anything left to explain.”

The salt still clung to my skin. My shirt was damp, cold against my back. The ocean hadn’t let me go yet, and neither had she.

But it was already over.

She finally looked me in the eye.

“I saw the way you ran after her,” she said. “I saw the way you looked at her all night. I’ve seen it since she got here.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing good would’ve come out. She shook her head before I could speak.

“I don’t hate you,” she went on. “And I don’t blame you. I knew what I was walking into when I came. I think I just… hoped you’d be further out of it. Further away from her.”

I swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “I know.”

Silence fell between us. Not sharp. Just heavy. Tired.

“I was never going to be her,” she said after a beat. “And you never really gave me space to be anyone else.”

I ran a hand through my hair, something inside me folding in on itself. “You deserve better than this.”

“I do,” she said softly, like it was just a fact.

She pulled the bag onto her shoulder, walked to the door, and paused.

“I hope she figures it out,” she said. “I hope you do too.”

And then she was gone.

The room smelled faintly like her perfume—citrus, clean linen—but it was already fading.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands slack in my lap. The air felt too still. My heart had finally slowed, but everything inside me still reeled.

I didn’t love Aubrey. Not really. I think I wanted to—for a while. Because it was easier than holding onto something that hurt. I told myself Belly had moved on. That I was allowed to do the same.

But tonight had ripped that lie wide open.

She’d never left me.

Not really.

She was still the center of it all—the before, the after, the ache I couldn’t name.

And now she was slipping through my fingers all over again.

Chapter Text

The sunlight was already spilling through the blinds when I opened my eyes, but the brightness didn’t touch the heaviness sitting in my chest. My throat ached, scratchy from crying until sleep finally dragged me under.

Junior Mint was pressed against me, his little knit scarf scratchy against my cheek. I clutched him tighter, the way I used to when I was thirteen and still thought stuffed animals could protect me from the dark. Maybe they still could—at least from this kind of dark.

He was Conrad. He was my first love. He was every flutter I used to get when I caught him looking at me across the pool, every stupid hope I’d written into my diary, every little girl daydream I’d ever had. And now, in the harsh light of morning, holding him just felt like holding everything I’d lost.

My eyes burned, and I didn’t want to see my reflection to know how bad they looked. Puffy, red, weak. I hated that anyone might notice—that he might notice.

How was I supposed to look at Conrad after last night? How was I supposed to look at Aubrey?

I pressed Junior Mint to my chest like he could answer for me.

I couldn’t do this. Not in this house. Not with him down the hall. Not with her brushing her teeth in the same bathroom, wearing his sweatshirt, slipping into his room at night.

I thought I’d been stronger than this. That I could handle being here without breaking apart. But the truth was staring me right in the face—sitting heavy in my lap with button eyes and a stupid red scarf.

I couldn’t stay.

I had to get out before I shattered in front of him all over again.

The decision settled in my chest like a stone.

I couldn’t stay.

Not here. Not with him in the room down the hall. Not with the memory of his voice still echoing in my head.

I still… love you.

It had been barely a whisper, but it was louder than anything else in the dark. Louder than the waves. Louder than the part of me that had worked so hard to forget him.

And it broke something open I wasn’t ready to deal with.

I sat up slowly, pressing Junior Mint to my chest one last time, then set him carefully at the edge of the bed like he might shatter if I wasn’t gentle. My legs were stiff, my neck sore, my body still hollowed out from last night.

I swung my feet over the edge of the mattress and stood, pausing to listen.

The house was quiet. Still early.

I crept to the door and eased it open, just a crack. My eyes darted to the right.

Conrad’s door was still shut.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Good.

I didn’t want to see him. I couldn’t—not after everything. Not after the way he’d said it like it still meant something, like he meant it. Not when I knew that she was probably curled up in his bed just hours ago, her shampoo on his pillow, her earrings on the nightstand.

Whatever last night was… it didn’t matter now. Not in the daylight. Not in this house.

I slipped out and padded down the hallway on bare feet. The bathroom light buzzed faintly as I flipped it on. My reflection made me wince.

Yikes.

Red eyes, skin blotchy, my braid barely hanging on. I looked like a ghost of someone who used to have things figured out.

I brushed my teeth, hard. Scrubbed at my face like I could wipe the night off of it. Splashed cold water across my cheeks. Pinched them until they stung, trying to bring some color back, some version of me that didn’t look like she’d crumbled in the moonlight.

I was not going to cry again.

Not this morning.

Not in front of him.

By the time I made it downstairs, I had on a sweatshirt and clean shorts and the best poker face I could manage. The kitchen smelled like toast and coffee and cinnamon oatmeal—the same way it always did when Jeremiah was the first one up.

He was sitting at the counter, still in pajama pants, shirtless, hair a mess, spoon halfway to his mouth.

He looked up at me, then grimaced.

“Damn, you look like crap.”

“Thanks,” I said flatly, pulling open the fridge like I hadn’t been crying myself sick for half the night.

He shrugged. “Just being honest.”

I grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and leaned against the counter across from him. “Hey… can I ask you something?”

He made a noise that sort of meant sure, though it came out more like what now?

“Can I go back to Boston with you and Kate?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “Just until the wedding.”

His spoon froze halfway to his mouth. “Why?”

“No reason.”

He gave me a look. “No reason, huh?”

I didn’t say anything. Just sipped my water and stared at the table like it held the answers.

Jeremiah put his spoon down, chewing slowly like he needed time to think through the right kind of no. And I already knew it was coming.

“No,” he said finally.

“Why not?”

He pointed at me with the spoon. “Well, first of all, we literally have no room. And second of all? You were not exactly the most pleasant houseguest the last time.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” I said, crossing my arms. “That was all because of Kate’s demon cat.”

“You mean the elderly tabby you claimed was possessed?”

“It was possessed. It stared at me for hours. You saw it.”

He shook his head, laughing under his breath, but then his expression sobered. “Look, I’m not letting you use me to run away from your problems again.”

“I’m not running away from anything.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Conrad.”

I stiffened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, Jan.”

“I’m serious,” I snapped. “There’s nothing going on between me and Conrad.”

He didn’t say anything. Just arched his eyebrows like he didn’t believe a word of it.

And then, like the universe had a cruel sense of timing, footsteps padded across the hall. I didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was.

Conrad.

He rounded the corner, hair messy, T-shirt wrinkled, eyes still soft with sleep. He blinked when he saw me.

We both froze.

For a second, it was like everything in the room dropped away—the kitchen, the breakfast, Jeremiah. All I could hear was the echo of his voice from last night.

I still… love you.

My stomach twisted.

Conrad looked at me. Just me.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, rough with sleep and something else I couldn’t name.

“Hey,” I said back, barely above a whisper.

Jeremiah let out a loud cough. “Yeah. Nothing going on at all.”

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. I just needed to move. To get out of that room before everything caved in again.

I stepped away from the counter and turned toward the stairs.

But as I moved, so did Conrad.

We both hesitated at the same moment, then went the same direction. Our bodies bumped—chest to shoulder, a soft thud that felt louder than it was.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, my eyes fixed on the floor, on anything that wasn’t him.

He didn’t say anything. Just stilled beside me as I slid around him, my skin prickling with heat that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

I didn’t look back.

I just walked—fast, before I could hear his voice again. Before I could ask myself why I still remembered the exact feel of his chest beneath that stupid T-shirt.

Before I could forget that this wasn’t supposed to mean anything anymore.

I was halfway to the stairs when he called after me.

“Belly.”

I stopped.

I didn’t want to stop. My legs told me to keep walking. But something else—something dumber, more fragile—made me turn.

He took a tentative step forward. “Can we talk? About… last night.”

Panic bloomed in my chest.

No. No, no, no.

Not here. Not now. Not when everything still felt like it might split open if he said one more word like that again.

But before I could answer, footsteps thundered down the stairs.

Taylor.

She stopped two steps from the bottom, one hand on the banister, eyes flicking between me and Conrad.

“What's going on?” she asked, eyebrows already up.

Conrad stepped back without saying another word. He ran a hand through his hair and disappeared back toward the kitchen.

I didn’t move until he was gone.

Taylor gave me a look. The kind that wasn’t playful or smug—just knowing. “Belly…”

“I need to talk,” I said, grabbing her hand. “Upstairs.”

She didn’t ask. Just nodded and followed me up.

And even though I could still feel the heat of Conrad’s eyes on my skin, I didn’t look back.

We barely made it through the doorway before I let go of Taylor’s hand and collapsed onto the bed, face-first into the pillow.

The second the door shut behind her, the weight of it all settled back on my shoulders like it had been waiting there for me.

Taylor sat at the edge of the mattress, cross-legged, arms folded. She didn’t say anything at first. Just let me breathe.

“So,” she finally said. “What was that?”

I rolled over, eyes on the ceiling. “Nothing.”

“Try again.”

I didn’t answer.

“Was that the same kind of nothing that has your cheeks all blotchy and your voice sounding like you gargled sand?”

I closed my eyes. “He said he still loves me.”

Silence.

Then: “Shut the actual fuck up.”

I opened my eyes again and looked at her. “Last night. On the beach. After everything… he said it. He said he still loves me.”

Taylor blinked. “Is he—does he think this is a game? He has Aubrey in the house, Belly.”

“I know.”

“He told you he loves you and then went back to his room with her?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have an answer.

Taylor stood up, pacing now. “No. Nope. Absolutely not. I’m sorry, but fuck Conrad. What does he expect you to do with that? Sit around and wait to be picked like it’s The Bachelor?”

“I don’t know what he expects.”

She stopped pacing. “I do. He expects you to fall back under his spell. Because you always did.”

I sat up slowly. “I’m not that girl anymore.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

I looked away.

“Belly,” she said, softer now. “You’re not the same person who used to follow him around like a lovesick puppy. You’ve lived a whole life since then. Paris, now grad school, actual adult choices. You’ve grown up.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t shrink back into her. Don’t let him make you that girl again. He doesn’t get to pull you into his orbit just because he suddenly feels like saying the things he should’ve said years ago.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “You’re right. I can’t fall under his spell again.”

Taylor nodded firmly. “Exactly. You’ve got to keep it just friends. For your own sanity.”

“I know.”

“Because you let him blur that line, even a little bit? You’ll be right back in the middle of a love triangle you didn’t ask for. With Aubrey, of all people.”

I winced. “God.”

“You deserve so much more than to be somebody’s maybe.”

I nodded, throat tight.

Taylor sat down next to me again and pulled me into a hug. “Let him figure his own shit out. But don’t let him drag you down with him.”

I pressed my forehead to her shoulder. “Okay.”

We stayed there like that for a while—just quiet, her hand rubbing small circles into my back—like she knew I needed to be held in place before I floated off and did something stupid.

Like believe him. Again.

Chapter Text

The sun had shifted by the time we all ended up in the living room, slanting through the wide front windows in long golden streaks. It was the kind of light that made everything feel soft and suspended—like maybe, for just a second, nothing was broken.

But I didn’t feel soft. I felt stretched thin. Brittle.

I sat on the edge of the armchair, one leg tucked under the other, picking at a fraying thread on the hem of my shorts. Across from me, Steven and Jeremiah were arguing about whether or not a toaster oven counted as actual cooking. Kate had her legs draped over Jeremiah’s lap, absently scrolling on her phone, and Taylor sat at the far end of the couch, one arm hooked lazily over the backrest, watching the boys with bored amusement.

And Conrad.

He was perched on the arm of the sofa, close enough to feel but far enough that I could pretend not to notice. He hadn’t said much since we’d all drifted downstairs—just the occasional murmur, a nod, a quiet laugh when someone said something funny. But I noticed the way he didn’t meet my eyes.

Fine. That made two of us.

I hadn’t spoken to him since this morning. Hadn’t looked directly at him. Hadn’t let myself feel anything about that moment in the kitchen—when his voice broke the quiet with Can we talk about last night and I’d almost let my heart crack wide open in front of Taylor.

I was furious now.

Furious that he’d said it. Furious that I’d believed him, even for a second. Furious that he got to walk around this house like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t split my chest in half beneath the moonlight only to go back to someone else’s bed.

Taylor was right. I couldn’t let myself fall back into that spiral.

I wasn’t sixteen anymore.

I wasn’t going to be a supporting character in the great romantic tragedy of Conrad Fisher and Whoever He Chose This Time.

I kept my eyes on the thread in my lap, twisting it between my fingers until it snapped.

“So where’s Aubrey been all day?” Steven asked, casually tossing a throw pillow at Jeremiah, who immediately swatted it away.

My head jerked up before I could stop it.

Across the room, Conrad stilled.

It was a simple question. Innocent. But the way silence bloomed in the room afterward—sharp and immediate—told me the answer wasn’t.

Conrad shifted his weight, rubbed the back of his neck. “She left last night.”

“What?” Steven blinked. “Where’d she go?”

“Back to Boston,” Conrad said. “To see her family.”

That was it.

No more. No less.

Taylor and I locked eyes across the room. I could tell from her expression she was thinking the same thing I was.

That’s it?

Kate looked up from her phone. “She just left? That late?”

Conrad shrugged like it didn’t matter. “She wanted to get back.”

He didn’t look at me.

And I didn’t ask the question screaming in my head.

Did she leave before or after you told me you still loved me?

No one pushed for more details. The conversation shifted back to takeout and whether or not someone should make popcorn while we waited. But I couldn’t focus.

I just sat there, pulse pounding in my ears, trying to pretend like I hadn’t spent the last twelve hours convincing myself I was nothing but a temporary distraction to him—and now, suddenly, Aubrey was gone?

Why didn’t he say anything?

If they broke up—if that was real—why not just say it?

Because that would’ve meant admitting last night meant something.

Because maybe it didn’t.

My jaw clenched. I was tired of being confused. Tired of the way he made me feel like I was constantly walking barefoot across broken glass, never knowing which step would finally cut too deep.

I had to get out of this room.

“I’m starving,” Jeremiah said, groaning and flopping dramatically into Kate’s lap. “Someone should get pizza.”

“I thought you were gonna make us eggs,” Steven said.

“Those eggs were four hours ago.”

“I could go for pepperoni,” Taylor added, pulling her knees to her chest.

“Same,” Steven said.

“I’ll go,” Conrad said, already standing.

That got my attention.

He moved toward the entryway, reaching into his pocket for his keys like it was already decided. He hadn’t looked in my direction since the question about Aubrey, but I saw the tension in his shoulders.

It hit me all at once: I had to talk to him.

Not yell. Not cry. Just… talk.

Because if I didn’t, this thing—this ache, this question burning a hole through my stomach—was going to follow me for the rest of the summer. Maybe longer.

I stood before I could overthink it.

“I’ll go with you.”

The room stilled.

Conrad looked at me then, finally.

Not a long look. Not intense. Just surprise. Like I’d caught him off guard.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“I want to,” I said, more firmly than I expected.

Taylor shot me a look—half warning, half girl, really?—but she didn’t say anything. And I was grateful.

Jeremiah raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. For once.

“Alright then,” Conrad said quietly, and opened the door.

I followed him out, letting the door shut behind me.

And for the first time all day, the silence between us felt like it meant something again.

Conrad opened the driver’s side door without a word.

I reached out and shut it again.

Hard.

He blinked at me, startled. I stepped between him and the car, planting myself in front of the door like a challenge.

“You wanted to talk about last night,” I said, my voice steady even though my heart was pounding. “So talk.”

He exhaled, like he’d been holding it in since the moment I volunteered to ride with him.

“We broke up,” he said. “Aubrey and I. Last night.”

That threw me. I blinked.

“You what?”

“We ended things.” His voice was calm, but there was a finality behind it that hadn’t been there earlier. “We both knew it wasn’t going anywhere. It hadn’t been for a while. We were just… delaying the inevitable.”

I stared at him, too many thoughts colliding to make sense of any of them.

“She left last night,” he added, softer now. “Right after she packed her stuff. I didn’t want to tell everyone at once. I wanted to tell you first.”

Something in me twisted at that. It should’ve softened me. But it didn’t.

Because it was still too messy. Too late. Too confusing.

And he’d let me sit in that living room, fuming, thinking she was still part of his life while I tore myself up for feeling anything.

“So last night,” I said, voice tight, “was that before or after you broke up with her?”

His jaw flexed. “Before.”

I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek. “Of course.”

He frowned. “Belly—”

“No,” I snapped. “You don’t get to just say that and expect me to fall back into it like no time has passed.”

“I didn’t expect that.”

“Really?” I took a step back and immediately bumped into the Range Rover. “Because it sure felt like it. The way you said it. The way you looked at me.”

“I meant it,” he said quietly.

God. He said it like a promise.

Like something I’d dreamed about for so long, but now that it was real, it didn’t fit anymore. Like trying on an old sweatshirt that still smelled like someone you used to be.

I shook my head, more frustrated than anything. “You can’t just come back after five years and drop that on me like it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“Well it feels like everything and nothing at the same time, so excuse me if I’m confused!”

He stepped closer, and my back pressed harder into the car door.

“You want me to take it back?” he asked, eyes sharp, low voice threading into my bones.

I swallowed. My heart was thudding so loud I was sure he could hear it.

“Yes,” I lied. “I want you to take it back.”

He leaned in slightly. Not close enough to touch. But it felt close. Too close.

“No.”

The word landed between us like a dropped match.

“I’m not taking it back,” he said. “I still love you. That hasn’t changed.”

And something about hearing it again—without the ocean and the moon and the fog of gummy wine haze—was worse. Because now I was sober. Now I was clear. And my body still reacted like he was the only person who could make me feel like this. Like my skin was suddenly too tight. Like I was teetering on the edge of something I didn’t trust myself not to fall into.

I hated that he still had this effect on me.

That even five years later, one step from him and my knees felt shaky and my breath came too fast. That just being backed up against his stupid car made me want to drag my hands through his hair and kiss him until we forgot who we were mad at.

No one else made me feel like this.

Which terrified me.

“I think…” I started, and then forced the words out before I could stop myself, “I think we were always better off as friends.”

He looked like I’d slapped him.

Something flickered across his face—hurt, frustration, disagreement—but he swallowed it down and nodded once.

“Okay,” he said after a long moment. “Friends, then.”

The words tasted wrong on his tongue. I could hear it. And still—I clung to them like a shield.

He didn’t move right away. Just stood there in front of me, eyes holding mine like he wasn’t ready to let go of whatever we were just now.

And then—he reached around me.

I froze.

For a split second, I thought he was going to kiss me. The air between us charged, magnetic. His face was close enough that I could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the sleep-creased collar of his T-shirt. His arm brushed the side of my waist, and my heart stuttered.

But instead of touching me, his hand found the car door handle behind me.

He opened it.

The movement nudged me off the door, forced me to shift closer to him just to make space. For a second, we were practically chest to chest. And it was the most breathless second of my entire summer.

I couldn’t look at him.

Couldn’t breathe, really.

I stepped back fast, the air rushing in between us like a dam breaking. My hands trembled as I smoothed my sweatshirt, pretending like that hadn’t just happened. Like I wasn’t dizzy from standing that close. Like I didn’t want to make the worst decision of my life and pull him right back to me.

I turned on my heel and walked around to the passenger side, forcing myself to breathe as I climbed in.

Friends, I told myself again.

Like a prayer. Like a lie.

But even with the door shut, even as I buckled my seatbelt and stared straight ahead, I could still feel his eyes on me.

And the worst part was?

Some small, stupid part of me hoped he felt just as wrecked.

Chapter Text

Conrad

The pizza place was nearly empty, thank god. Late afternoon lull, just two teenagers behind the counter arguing about a playlist and a guy in a Red Sox cap scrolling on his phone near the window.

Belly stood beside me, arms folded across her chest, hair pulled up in that high knot she always did when she was trying not to think too hard about something. She hadn’t said much since we got in the car. Just gave me a clipped “thanks” when I handed her the aux cord and stared out the window the whole drive over, like the trees might offer better company than me.

I didn’t blame her.

I was still trying to figure out how the hell this friends thing was supposed to work.

Because the truth was—I didn’t want to be her friend.

I wanted to be the person she ran to when things fell apart, not the one she guarded herself against. I wanted to be the one who knew what she was thinking before she said it, not the guy she avoided eye contact with like he might shatter her if she blinked the wrong way.

And yeah. I knew I had no right to want any of that.

I’d messed it up. Years ago. At every turn.

I’d let my fear of losing her become the very thing that lost her. I thought I was protecting her from my grief, from my mess, from the slow unraveling I didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t want to bring her down with me. So I pushed her away and called it love.

And now, here we were. Five years later. And somehow, she still looked at me like I mattered. Even when she didn’t want to.

The bell over the counter dinged, snapping me out of it.

“One large pepperoni, one veggie, and garlic knots,” the girl said, sliding the boxes toward me.

I reached for my wallet, but Belly was already pulling her card out of her back pocket.

“I’ve got it,” she said.

I hesitated. “You sure?”

She didn’t look at me when she nodded. “Yeah. It’s the least I can do after you drove.”

I let her. Because arguing with Belly over something as small as a pizza bill felt… pathetic. And because I didn’t trust myself to speak just yet.

We stepped back toward the door, the scent of melted cheese and oregano thick in the air between us. She held the knots and I grabbed the boxes, balancing them in one hand as I pushed open the glass door.

The heat outside hit different now—late August sun heavy and slow, sticking to your skin.

She walked a few steps ahead of me, her flip-flops slapping lightly against the sidewalk, and I couldn’t help watching the way her braid swung gently behind her. It was shorter now. She was taller. Older. Different.

But when she turned halfway to hold the door to the car open, her eyes met mine for just a second, and it was like nothing had changed at all.

Like I was seventeen again, wrecked and breathless just from looking at her.

God.

She’d leaned against my car an hour ago, all fire and frustration and raw honesty, and I still hadn’t recovered. The way her chest rose and fell, her lips parted like she was trying not to say something she’d regret, the way her body gave me just enough space to reach for the handle—barely.

She said we were better off as friends, but her eyes had told me something else.

Or maybe that was just me. Still hoping. Still reading too much into every breath she took.

I loaded the pizzas into the back seat and slid behind the wheel, gripping it tighter than I needed to.

I didn’t know how long I could do this.

Not when she sat next to me smelling like coconut shampoo and sunscreen, not when her leg brushed mine every time we hit a bump. Not when I caught her biting her lip at red lights like she was thinking of a hundred things she wouldn’t say out loud.

I wanted to say, I’m not going to screw it up this time.

I wanted to tell her, You don’t have to protect your heart from me anymore.

But promises were cheap. And she deserved more than a few pretty words in a parking lot. She deserved someone who showed up.

So I kept driving. Kept my hands on the wheel. Kept my mouth shut.

Because if staying quiet meant keeping her in my life—even if it hurt—I’d do it.

For now.

But God help me… I didn’t know how long I could keep it up if she kept looking at me like that. Like she was holding on just as tight, and just as scared to let go.

Chapter Text

The house was too quiet.

No footsteps overhead. No arguing in the hallway. No Steven yelling about someone stealing his charger or Taylor blasting music while she did her makeup. No Jere and Kate giggling in the kitchen, trying to sneak bites of whatever they were cooking before anyone else woke up.

Just stillness. That heavy, post-summer hush that only happens when people leave.

I stood at the top of the stairs, hand on the railing, listening.

It was Sunday morning.

And everyone was gone.

I should’ve felt relief. Space. A chance to breathe again.

But all I felt was the press of it—us—hanging in the silence like fog.

I padded down the stairs slowly, barefoot, wearing a soft old T-shirt and shorts I’d slept in. My hair was in a messy braid from the night before, and I didn’t bother checking the mirror. No one was here to see me.

Except him.

I smelled the eggs before I saw him.

Conrad was in the kitchen, back turned, standing over the stove like he had a thousand times in this house. Barefoot in gray sweatpants and a navy shirt that clung to his back in all the familiar places. He was focused, spatula in hand, the way he always got when he cooked—like it mattered, like it was something he could control.

He glanced over his shoulder as I stepped into the room.

“You’re up,” he said, voice still a little raspy from sleep.

I nodded, folding my arms around myself. “Barely.”

“Hungry?”

The question caught me off guard.

Simple. Easy. The kind of question you ask a friend.

I hesitated.

I was supposed to be taking the friend thing seriously. Taylor’s voice echoed in my head—don’t let him rope you back in, don’t let him blur the line—and I straightened my shoulders like I could armor myself in it.

“Sure,” I said, keeping my voice light. “I could eat.”

He nodded once, like that answer made everything easier.

I sat on one of the stools at the island and watched him crack another egg into the pan, his movements fluid and quiet. He didn’t try to talk. Didn’t fill the silence with small talk or questions or apologies.

He just cooked.

And maybe that was worse.

Because this was what he did best—Conrad in quiet moments, Conrad in his own rhythm. No big declarations. No games.

Just simple acts that made you forget to guard yourself.

I curled my fingers around the edge of the stool and told myself to keep breathing.

This was fine.

We were friends.

I could do this.

I had to.

He slid a plate in front of me—two eggs, golden toast, a little pile of strawberries on the side. Nothing fancy. But still, thoughtful. Still him.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, tucking my legs under me on the stool.

He nodded and took the stool across from me, his own plate balanced in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other.

We ate in near silence. The only sounds were the occasional scrape of a fork, the clink of his spoon against the rim of his mug.

It felt domestic. Familiar in the most disorienting way.

Like we’d done this a hundred times before—which we had, back when mornings like this weren’t rare, when we’d sneak out of our rooms before the others woke up and eat cereal at the counter while the house was still quiet. Back when it was simple.

But it wasn’t simple now.

I could feel him across the counter. Not just see him—but feel him. The energy between us, low and heavy and pulsing just beneath the surface of everything we weren’t saying.

He buttered his toast slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Like this wasn’t strange. Like this wasn’t the first morning we’d ever had alone together in years.

“I forgot how good you are at this,” I said eventually, spearing a strawberry.

“At what?”

“Breakfast.”

He smiled—small and crooked and unguarded. “It’s the one thing I don’t burn.”

I gave a quiet laugh, and for a second, we both paused. Something passed between us. Not heavy. Not painful. Just real.

I reached for my water, needing something to do with my hands.

“So…” he said after a beat. “How’s the friend thing going?”

I nearly choked on my sip.

He was watching me now, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I recovered fast. “Flawlessly, obviously.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Obviously.”

“Why? Are you failing already?”

His smile widened a little. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

And there it was again—that flicker of something under the words. That current we kept trying to ignore.

I looked down at my plate, at the half-eaten strawberries, and forced a smile.

“We’re doing great,” I said, almost to myself.

Because if I said it enough times, maybe it would be true.

He nodded slowly, and the smile slipped from his face. He didn’t argue. Didn’t press.

We finished the rest of the meal in silence.

But the kind that wasn’t empty.

The kind that held every word we weren’t ready to say.

The opening credits of Sabrina were still rolling when I heard Conrad’s muffled voice somewhere behind me.

He’d been in and out of the kitchen all afternoon, making noise under the sink, muttering to himself like he was trying to will a broken pipe into submission. A part of me thought I should’ve offered to help, but another part liked the idea of him figuring it out on his own. I’d told myself it was because I didn’t want to get in the way.

But really?

I liked watching him.

From where I sat on the couch—legs curled under me, laptop balanced on my thighs—I could see him through the open kitchen archway. He was in a faded gray T-shirt, damp at the collar from where he kept wiping sweat off his neck with the back of his hand. His toolset was scattered across the floor, a towel balled up near his knee. Every so often he’d go quiet, just the sound of metal clinking under the counter, and then sigh like the world was ending.

I pressed pause on the movie as Audrey Hepburn’s character made her way up the driveway of the Larrabee estate. Right as the romantic music swelled—

“Fuck!”

I jumped.

The word came sharp and sudden, followed by a loud thwack and the unmistakable gurgle of rushing water.

I scrambled off the couch. “Conrad?”

“In here!”

I rushed into the kitchen and immediately slipped a little—water was already pooling across the tile. My socks were soaked within seconds.

Conrad was half-under the sink, legs sprawled, hair flopping into his eyes as he struggled with a wrench. Water was spraying from somewhere deep in the shadows of the cabinet, drenching his shirt, the cabinets, the walls.

“Turn it off!” he shouted, over the sound of the miniature geyser erupting inside the kitchen.

“I don’t know where—”

“The shutoff valve! It’s right—here, come here!”

I dropped to my knees beside him, slipping again on the slick tile. “Where?!”

He grabbed my wrist and guided my hand under the sink. “There! That silver knob!”

I had to lean over him—completely over him—to reach it. My hair fell into his face, my hip brushing his stomach as I stretched my arm deep into the cabinet. His other hand was still bracing the wrench, and I could feel the heat radiating off his chest, his breath against my collarbone.

It was chaos.

It was soaked and stupid and uncoordinated and somehow—

We were laughing.

I twisted the valve hard, and the spray stopped with a final sputter, the silence afterward so sudden it was almost funny.

I collapsed back onto my heels, breathless. “You good?”

He looked up at me from where he was still wedged under the sink, water dripping from his bangs. “Define good.”

I laughed again, pushing my hair off my forehead. My shirt clung to my back, soaked through. “Maybe next time you stick to your strengths. You know. Like med school things.”

He grinned—real and unguarded. “No more YouTube plumbing tutorials. I swear.”

We both sat there a moment longer, wet and ridiculous, before finally shifting apart. I helped him slide out from under the cabinet, and our arms brushed, his hand finding my elbow without meaning to.

There was a second—just one—where our eyes met.

We were still close. Too close. Breathing hard, water running down our faces, our shirts, the cabinets behind us.

And for a heartbeat, it felt like everything else—friendship, timing, fear—evaporated under the weight of this. The nearness. The memory of who we used to be. The truth of who we still were.

I swallowed hard.

Then I stood, brushing my wet hands on my shorts.

“We need a mop,” I said, voice higher than I meant it to be.

He stood too, dripping, smiling through it. “We need a miracle.”

And just like that, the moment broke.

We were both laughing again, water pooling at our feet, soaked from head to toe in whatever the hell kind of disaster that was.

But under it—somewhere quieter—I could still feel the buzz of where we’d touched. Still feel him under my skin.

And I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep pretending I didn’t.

Chapter Text

Monday had slipped in like a warm breath, soft and slow, wrapping everything in that end-of-summer stillness. The kind where the air doesn’t move unless you make it. The kind where every sound feels louder—birds in the trees, the hum of a distant lawn mower, the soft creak of the porch steps beneath my feet.

I hadn’t planned to swim.

But when I opened the back door and felt the heat already clinging to my skin, I turned right around and changed. My one-piece was dark blue, simple, the kind you wore when you weren’t trying to impress anyone.

I threw a thin cover-up over it anyway, grabbed my towel, and stepped out into the sun.

The pool shimmered like glass.

I was halfway down the steps when I heard the thud of footsteps overhead.

I looked up.

Conrad was on the roof.

Not dangerously high—just the flat section over the kitchen extension. He’d climbed out the window off the upstairs hallway. His shirt was nowhere in sight, just loose drawstring shorts and a tool belt slung low on his hips. He had a hammer in one hand, squinting against the sunlight as he looked down at me.

My breath caught—not just because of the way he looked up there, golden and easy, like some kind of cursed Greek statue—but because he was already watching me.

“Hey,” I called, shielding my eyes with one hand.

“Hey,” he called back, resting the hammer against his thigh.

I hesitated for a second, then slipped my cover-up over my head. The heat made it stick to my skin as it slid off, and I folded it quickly, tossing it onto the nearest lounge chair.

I didn’t think much of it.

Until I heard the distinct clatter of metal hitting the roof.

My head snapped up.

The hammer had slipped from his grip and landed with a hollow thud near the pool.

“Shit,” I muttered, half-laughing. “Sorry—did I startle you?”

He waved a hand. “It’s fine. I’ve got another one.”

I raised a brow. “What, like a backup hammer?”

“Always come prepared,” he said, his tone dry but the corner of his mouth twitching.

I dipped my toes into the pool, trying not to let the moment sit too heavy between us. But it lingered anyway—warm and charged and stupid.

I didn’t mean to distract him.

But some small part of me was smug about it anyway.

He adjusted the hammer belt at his hip, eyes back on the shingles now like nothing had happened.

And I dove into the pool without saying another word, letting the water swallow whatever I was feeling before it got too loud.

The pantry was basically a war zone.

A few crushed granola bar wrappers, an empty cereal box someone had shoved back on the shelf instead of throwing away, and one lonely packet of oatmeal that I was not about to eat dry out of spite.

I opened the fridge next, already bracing for disappointment.

And yep—disappointment delivered.

All the stuff I’d bought—my yogurts, my strawberries, my cold brew, the half tub of spinach artichoke dip I’d been saving—gone. Vanished. Like Jeremiah and Steven had eaten their way through the entire weekend with no regard for other people’s food.

All that was left now was Conrad’s stuff. The fridge looked like a health food commercial. Pre-cut celery sticks, grilled chicken in glass containers, a giant tub of plain Greek yogurt, and one of those weird green juices that smelled like lawn clippings.

I sighed and closed the fridge.

Pop-Tarts it was.

I found the last pack in the back of the cabinet, crinkled and warm from the afternoon heat, and leaned against the counter to eat it cold, staring out the window while the late sun melted over the trees.

I’d taken two bites when I heard the soft creak of the stairs and padded footsteps behind me.

“Is that all you’re gonna eat for dinner?” Conrad asked, voice still a little hoarse from his shower.

I didn’t turn around right away. “You ate all my groceries.”

He paused. “That wasn’t me. That was all Jere and Steven.”

“I know,” I said, finally glancing over my shoulder.

His hair was still damp, curling a little at the ends. He’d changed into a clean T-shirt and joggers, barefoot, smelling faintly of whatever soap he used upstairs—clean linen or cedar or something that made my stomach feel annoyingly warm.

“I need to go to the store,” I added, waving the Pop-Tart. “This is survival mode.”

“You can eat whatever I buy,” he offered, opening the fridge. “There’s chicken. I could make you something.”

“Not grilled chicken.”

He looked over his shoulder, deadpan. “That’s the only thing I know how to make besides breakfast.”

I smirked. “Exactly.”

He rolled his eyes and shut the fridge. “Fine. Leave it to you.”

I nodded. “I will.”

He moved toward the cabinet, grabbing a glass, filling it with water from the fridge dispenser. “We can go to the grocery store tomorrow. I have to go out anyway—Jere texted me about picking up some stuff from Michaels. Wedding decorations or something?”

I laughed. “Why are you picking up wedding decorations?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. He said Kate made a list and sent him the link and then said I could do it since I’m still in town.”

“Sounds about right.”

He looked at me then, over the rim of his glass. His expression was open in that quiet, familiar way.

“You wanna come with me?”

The question was simple. Casual. But it felt like something else underneath.

I studied him for a second, trying to figure out if this was some kind of test. If we were really doing this—just spending time together, not talking about anything heavier than Pop-Tarts and Michaels and chicken.

And maybe that was okay.

Maybe that was what we needed.

“Sure,” I said.

His mouth twitched. “Cool.”

I went back to my Pop-Tart.

He refilled his water.

And for a second, the silence between us didn’t feel like tension.

It felt like something soft. Something new.

Maybe even something beginning again.

The sun had dipped behind the trees by the time I found the pasta.

It was tucked all the way in the back of the pantry, behind an unopened box of protein powder and a half-full bag of stale tortilla chips. Just a forgotten box of penne—slightly bent, dust clinging to the edges, but sealed. Perfectly fine.

I held it up like a trophy.

Dinner was saved.

I boiled water and pulled out one of Conrad’s containers of grilled chicken—he had like four in the fridge anyway, and if I chopped it up and added enough garlic and olive oil, it wouldn’t even taste like sadness.

I didn’t tell him I was cooking. Just turned on the kitchen speaker, played some soft, barely-there playlist, and moved around the space like it belonged to me again.

There was something oddly comforting about being in this house after dark. The windows glowing gold, the air heavy with the smell of garlic and rosemary, the sound of the pasta water bubbling over.

When I was plating everything—just two bowls, one for me and one for him—I heard the soft creak of his door upstairs.

A few seconds later, he padded into the kitchen barefoot, in sweatpants and a hoodie now, hair messy again from whatever nap or book or whatever he'd lost himself in.

He stopped at the entrance, like he didn’t expect it.

“You cooked?” he asked, surprised.

I shrugged, spooning the pasta into bowls. “I found a box of penne. And your chicken was just sitting there, begging for purpose.”

A slow smile crept across his face. “Is this your way of saying sorry for mocking my grilled chicken earlier?”

I handed him a bowl. “Don’t get used to it.”

He leaned against the counter, still watching me like he was trying to place something about this moment. Something neither of us wanted to say out loud.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

And I had. It felt good, somehow. Grounding. Like even though everything between us was tangled and complicated and still too fragile to touch, I could still make something. I could still do something kind without it meaning everything.

We sat on opposite sides of the island, bowls steaming between us.

The silence wasn’t awkward.

It was… easy.

Familiar.

I didn’t need to look at him to know he was smiling when he took the first bite. I could feel it.

“Not bad,” he said, around a mouthful.

“High praise, coming from a chicken enthusiast.”

He laughed, quiet and real.

And for a little while, that was enough. Just pasta. Just warmth. Just the small, ordinary act of sharing a meal with someone who once broke your heart and still somehow felt like home.

Chapter Text

Tuesday morning crept in quietly.

The sky was pale and cloudless, and the house smelled like leftover garlic and dryer sheets. I woke up earlier than usual, maybe because I knew we were leaving the house today. Or maybe because part of me had started measuring time by how long it had just been me and Conrad in this house.

I took my time getting ready. Light makeup, hair pulled half-up with a claw clip, one of my favorite sundresses—blue and white with little flowers down the side. It was casual enough for running errands but still made me feel like I had my life together. Even if I absolutely didn’t.

When I came downstairs, Conrad was already by the door, keys in hand, wallet in his back pocket, sunglasses pushed up in his hair.

He looked… normal. Comfortable. Familiar in that way that shouldn’t still make my chest ache.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said, grabbing my tote bag and pretending this was the most casual thing in the world. “Let’s go buy fake flowers.”

He smirked as we walked out into the heat. “And candles. And vases. And whatever else Jere and Kate forgot to put on the list.”

“Didn’t they already clear out the Michaels in Boston?”

“Yeah. Apparently there was a fake floral shortage,” he said, unlocking the car. “This is very serious wedding business.”

“Oh, I know. I got lectured about centerpiece cohesion by Kate for forty-five minutes on FaceTime.”

He snorted. “I got stuck googling the difference between cream and ivory.”

I opened the passenger door. “Welcome to the wedding trenches.”

We both got in, buckled up, and settled into the kind of silence that used to scare me—but didn’t anymore.

This was fine.

Two friends. Doing errands. Picking up plastic eucalyptus and battery-operated tealights and maybe a grocery run after if we weren’t too tired.

Totally normal.

Totally safe.

But as he backed out of the driveway, his hand brushing the gearshift between us, I felt that familiar flutter low in my stomach. The one that didn’t care about timelines or heartbreak or fake flowers.

I ignored it.

This was a friend thing.

Just a friend thing.

And if I repeated it enough times, maybe I’d believe it.

Chapter Text

Wednesday morning came slow and warm, heavy with salt in the air and the kind of stillness that always settled in before the tide changed.

Two weeks from the wedding.

That was all that was left.

The countdown had started in my head the night before, ticking toward something I wasn’t sure I was ready for. The house had felt too quiet after dinner, too full of things unspoken. And I couldn’t stop replaying the way Conrad had smiled at me across the table, like he didn’t want the night to end.

I hadn’t decided yet if I was going back to Philly before the wedding. My parents were getting in on Saturday—flying back from Spain with too many souvenirs and stories and sunburns, I was sure—but part of me wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. Even if staying felt dangerous.

Even if staying meant mornings like this.

I hadn’t done laundry, which meant my options for a swim were limited to the bottom of my drawer: a black bikini I hadn’t worn all summer. Not since before Paris. Not since everything changed.

I pulled it on anyway, tying the straps behind my neck, smoothing the fabric with one hand and telling myself it didn’t matter. It was just a suit. Just a swim.

I padded down the hallway toward the mudroom to grab a towel before heading out to the pool.

That was when I saw him.

Conrad.

He was facing away from me, halfway into his wetsuit. The zipper was still down, his surfboard leaning against the bench beside him. His back was bare, tan and freckled from the sun, shoulder blades shifting under smooth muscle as he worked the sleeves up his arms.

I stopped in my tracks.

Oh.

I bit my lip before I could stop myself.

It wasn’t even fair. The way he looked—wet curls stuck to the nape of his neck, board wax smeared on his fingers, like he was part of the beach itself. Like something you could only see at this house, on this week, when no one else was looking.

He turned slightly, just enough to catch me standing there.

Our eyes met.

He froze.

I straightened like I’d been electrocuted.

“Uh—sorry,” I said quickly. “I was just grabbing a towel.”

He blinked, confused, one arm still tangled halfway into his suit. “It’s okay.”

His gaze dropped to my bikini for the briefest second—so quick I almost didn’t catch it—and then he was looking away again, zipping up like the motion could erase whatever that moment was.

I grabbed the towel hanging on the hook beside him, careful not to brush against his arm. I could feel the heat radiating off of him anyway.

We stood there, both suddenly too aware of everything—our swimsuits, our closeness, the echo of something we weren’t allowed to touch.

“You’re going surfing?” I asked, because I had to say something.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling the zipper up the rest of the way. “Tide’s decent. Figured I’d get out for a bit.”

“Cool.”

“You going for a swim?”

I nodded, holding up the towel. “Didn’t do laundry, so... bikini it is.”

His lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile. “It’s a good call. Looks like a pool day.”

I didn’t say anything else.

Just nodded again and stepped aside, slipping past him and out the door into the sun.

But even with the light on my skin and the breeze against my face, I could still feel the electricity crackling in the air behind me.

And I knew he felt it too.

The water was warm against my skin—just the right kind of cool underneath, where the sun couldn’t quite reach. I dipped under once, twice, letting the chlorine blur my vision and clear my head. When I came up for air, the world felt quieter. Softer.

But not empty.

Not of him.

I floated on my back for a while, arms stretched out, hair fanned around me like seaweed. The sky above was cloudless and blue, too perfect to look at directly. The kind of sky that begged you to dream under it. Or fall in love under it. Or fall back in love, which was worse.

I tried not to think of him.

I tried to let the water carry the weight for me.

But every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. Standing in the mudroom, half in his wetsuit, back bare and sun-warmed. The way his eyes flicked down—just for a second—when he saw me in my bikini. Like I surprised him. Like I still mattered.

And the worst part?

I felt it.

The flutter. The flush. That low buzz in my stomach that hadn’t fully quieted since Saturday night.

It was ridiculous. I was swimming laps to avoid my ex-boyfriend like we were in high school again. Only we weren’t kids anymore. We weren’t playing at what this was. There was no summer curfew, no whispered secrets at night, no first kisses on the beach.

And still, every time he looked at me lately… it felt like a memory trying to become real again.

I kicked harder, pushing across the pool in one clean stroke, then flipped and drifted to the edge, pressing my forehead against the warm concrete lip.

How was I supposed to keep pretending this was friendship?

How was I supposed to survive two more weeks of this—of his crooked little grins, of dinners at the kitchen table, of him watching me like he didn’t know where to file the way he felt?

We’d drawn the line. Agreed to it. Friends.

But out here, under the sun, surrounded by water and air and memories, I couldn’t help thinking of all the reasons I’d ever loved him.

And all the ways it had never really gone away.

The sun was hot on my back by the time I pulled myself out of the pool, water dripping down my legs as I padded across the deck. I wrapped my towel around my shoulders, hair clinging to my skin, and headed inside.

The house was cool in that comforting, slightly damp way old beach houses always were—like it had absorbed decades of sun and still hadn’t let go of any of it.

I changed quickly upstairs—nothing fancy, just a ribbed tank top and a pair of old denim shorts, the ones with the frayed edges I always reached for when I didn’t want to think too hard. My skin still smelled like sunscreen and chlorine. I didn’t bother brushing my hair.

By the time I made it down to the kitchen, my stomach was growling. I opened the fridge, scanning for something easy. Sliced turkey, cheese, some tomatoes I’d picked out yesterday. I grabbed the bread and started assembling a sandwich, humming under my breath.

That was when I heard the door creak open behind me.

Conrad.

He limped into the kitchen, hair damp and windblown, his wetsuit peeled halfway down to his waist and clinging to his hips, like he hadn’t bothered drying off before coming in.

I looked up from the mayo jar, brow furrowing. “Hey. You okay?”

He waved it off, brushing wet hair from his forehead with the back of his arm. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

But something about the way he said it—too fast, too casual—made me pause.

He was walking funny. Not like sore muscles or a bad landing. He was favoring his left leg, subtly, like he didn’t want me to notice.

I didn’t press. Not yet.

He crossed the kitchen behind me and started up the back staircase, leaving a faint trail of sandy footprints.

I turned back to my sandwich.

And then I saw it.

Just a faint smear at first—at the base of the stairs. But then another. And another. Small red prints. Wet. Fresh.

My stomach dropped.

“Conrad?” I called, voice rising.

He didn’t answer.

I rushed to the base of the stairs, my eyes locked on the pattern—barefoot steps, and alongside them, a drag of something darker. A streak of blood arcing up the white-painted wood.

Shit.

“Conrad!”

I was already moving before he answered, already halfway up the stairs, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

The door to the master bathroom was half-open.

I pushed it wider and froze.

Conrad was sitting on the edge of the tub, a towel pressed tightly against his upper thigh. His wetsuit was on the floor in a soaked, tangled heap, and he was wearing nothing but black swim shorts and the kind of grimace that told me this was not fine.

There was blood. A lot more than I expected.

It soaked through the towel, dripping sluggishly down his leg, leaving a faint streak along his shin and the tile beneath him.

My stomach dropped.

“Jesus, Conrad.”

He looked up, sheepish. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“You’re bleeding everywhere.”

“It looks worse because of the water—”

I didn’t let him finish. I was already moving.

Under the sink, I found what I needed—rubbing alcohol, gauze pads, clean towels, the first aid kit from the linen closet I’d organized back weeks ago from boredom. My hands moved automatically, heart pounding somewhere in my throat. 

“I’ve got it,” he said behind me. “Really. I’m a med student, remember?”

“Med student who just bled his way across the staircase,” I snapped. “So maybe don’t argue.”

He went quiet.

When I turned back to him, he had one hand still loosely holding the towel, the other braced against the tub. His knee was bent, the gash high up on his thigh, just beneath the curve of his shorts. The skin around it was red and angry, like something sharp had torn straight through him.

I knelt beside the tub, grabbing a fresh towel to gently replace the soaked one.

Conrad hissed through his teeth.

“Sorry,” I murmured, soaking a cloth with warm water and wringing it out before dabbing the dried blood from his leg.

He was silent as I worked, eyes trained on the tile, jaw tight. I kept my own breathing steady, even as the heat radiating off his skin made my fingers tremble.

Up close, his skin was covered in droplets—saltwater and sweat. There were goosebumps along his thigh. His abs flexed slightly every time I touched the cloth to the cut. I tried not to notice.

I failed.

When I reached for the alcohol, he glanced down. “That part I definitely can do myself.”

I looked at him. Really looked. His skin was pale beneath the tan, lips parted slightly from the effort of holding it together.

“Let me,” I said.

He didn’t argue.

I pressed the alcohol-soaked gauze to the wound and he let out a low, strangled sound—something between a groan and a curse—and then dropped his head forward until it rested on my shoulder.

My heart stuttered.

He didn’t move.

His forehead pressed against the curve of my neck, warm and wet and close. His breath hit my collarbone in uneven bursts. One of his hands lightly gripped the edge of the tub, the other hanging loose beside my thigh.

I kept cleaning the wound, gently this time, rinsing it with a fresh cloth before dabbing it dry. I could feel every rise and fall of his chest, every pulse of pain that rippled through him.

But I could feel something else too.

The heat between us—low and thick and humming with all the things we hadn’t said.

When I was done, I set the gauze aside and reached for the bandage roll. His head was still resting against me, not quite heavy but grounding, like he needed the contact just to breathe.

“All done,” I whispered.

Slowly, so slowly, he lifted his head.

And suddenly we were so close.

His face inches from mine. His eyes dark and searching. My lips parted, breath catching in my throat.

The air between us pulsed with something heavy. Something alive.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

His gaze dipped to my mouth, just for a second. My stomach twisted.

“Thank you,” he said softly, voice rough and sincere.

“You’re welcome,” I breathed, barely able to get the words out.

I should’ve stood up. Should’ve walked away.

But I didn’t.

Because he was still looking at me like that—like I was the only thing in the room that made sense.

And without thinking—without thinking—I leaned in.

Our lips brushed.

Once. Soft. Gentle.

Then again—hungrier. Desperate. All the tension from the last few days crackling to life in one spark, one pull.

His hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing the edge of my cheekbone. My fingers fisted into the towel draped over his leg. Our mouths moved together—slow at first, then faster. Hotter.

The kind of kiss that made my toes curl, made my spine forget how to hold me up.

His lips were warm and familiar and new all at once, his tongue gentle but insistent, coaxing me deeper. I shifted closer, knees pressed against the tub, hand sliding higher up his thigh without thinking.

That’s when he hissed again—this time not from pleasure.

His body jolted under mine.

I pulled back instantly.

“Oh my god—sorry—”

I’d gripped right over the cut.

His face twisted in pain, and mine flushed in mortification. My breath caught in my chest, everything crashing down at once. The kiss. The way I’d forgotten where I was, what I was doing.

What I wasn’t supposed to do.

We stared at each other, both breathing hard.

I stood too fast, my legs shaky. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Belly—wait—”

But I was already backing toward the door.

“I can’t—” My voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”

I turned and ran before he could say another word.

My feet hit the hardwood hard and fast, echoing down the hallway as I pushed my door open and slammed it behind me. My back hit the wall, breath caught in my throat.

“No, no, no,” I whispered, pressing my hands to my face. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

I slid down to the floor, heart racing, stomach twisting.

Because this wasn’t a moment I could brush off. It wasn’t some fluke of timing or emotion.

I’d kissed him.

I had crossed the line.

And the worst part?

I hadn’t even wanted to stop.

Chapter Text

I hadn’t left my room since yesterday.

Not for food. Not for coffee. Not even to grab the book I’d left on the living room couch.

The house was too quiet. Too charged. Every creak of the floorboards outside my door made my pulse spike, even though Conrad never knocked. Not once.

And maybe that’s what hurt more than anything else.

He was giving me space, and I hated that he knew I needed it.

The kiss still lingered on my lips like heat from a stove—soft, burning, shameful. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back on the bathroom floor, kneeling in front of him, his mouth on mine, his hand curled at my jaw like he was afraid to let go.

And then I touched his thigh. Right where the cut was.

And it all shattered.

I bolted like a coward. And he didn’t come after me.

Not last night. Not this morning.

Just silence.

No text asking if I wanted breakfast. No knock to see if I needed anything. No lazy jokes about how long it took me to get out of bed.

I curled tighter beneath the covers, my phone screen glowing against the dim room. The clock said 2:11 PM. I’d wasted the whole day already.

I opened the Amtrak app.

Train to Philadelphia. One-way. Friday morning.

No.

Tonight.

I couldn’t do another evening in this house. Not with the way it still smelled like ocean salt and sunscreen. Not with the sound of Conrad moving around downstairs like nothing had happened. Like we were still playing this stupid game of “just friends” when my body had made a mockery of it in one breathless moment.

I booked the ticket. 5:38 PM departure.

That gave me less than four hours to pack and figure out how the hell I was going to say goodbye.

I didn’t even have a key to my parents’ house anymore. They’d changed the locks sometime after I moved to Paris and never got around to getting me a spare. 

I opened a second app. Reserved a hotel near Rittenhouse Square. Close enough to my dad’s office that I could pretend I was just waiting for them to get home Saturday afternoon.

It was all happening fast. Deliberately fast. Because if I slowed down, I’d think about it too much.

I sat up. My head spun a little from the motion.

I hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s sandwich.

I should’ve gone downstairs and made something. But I couldn’t face that kitchen. Couldn’t face him.

Instead, I stood and walked over to my suitcase. Pulled it from the corner where it had been collecting dust and indecision. I didn’t bother folding anything neatly. Just stuffed clothes in, crammed toiletries into the side pouch, zipped it hard and fast like I could pretend this was a normal trip.

Like I wasn’t running.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the closed door.

How was I supposed to tell Conrad?

Hey, thanks for bleeding all over the floor and letting me clean your wound and kiss you senseless in your swim trunks. I’m just gonna disappear now. Hope you enjoy the rest of your summer. See you at the wedding.

I rubbed my palms against my jeans, heart hammering.

He hadn’t tried to talk to me. But I knew he was waiting for me to be ready. That was his thing. Always waiting. Always letting me set the tempo.

It used to feel comforting. Now it just made me feel guilty.

I picked up my phone. My finger hovered over his contact for a second.

Then I set it back down.

No.

Not like this.

I had to face him.

Even if it was just for a minute.

I zipped up the suitcase and took a breath. A big one. The kind you take before a dentist visit or a breakup or the end of something you aren’t ready to end.

And then I opened the door.

The hallway was quiet, but I could hear Conrad downstairs—footsteps pacing in the kitchen, the occasional creak of the drawer he always yanked too hard. For all his calm, he was restless when he didn’t want to be.

I swallowed and made my way down the stairs, every step feeling heavier than the last.

He didn’t look up when I entered the kitchen. He was standing by the sink, rinsing out a glass, bare feet on the tile, sleeves pushed up, curls a little damp. I wondered if he’d gone for another surf or just stood under the shower trying to scrub off what happened between us.

He finally turned.

His eyes flicked to the suitcase in my hand. Then to me.

“You’re leaving.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I have a train in two hours,” I said, voice flat.

He nodded once. Set the glass down too gently. Like if he slammed it, he might lose control.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye?”

“I was.”

“When?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“Gee, thanks.”

The sarcasm made my spine straighten.

“I don’t owe you some long goodbye, Conrad.”

“You think that’s what I want?”

I shrugged, too sharp. “I don’t know what you want. I never have.”

“Bullshit.”

I flinched.

He stepped toward me. Just one step. But it was enough to make the room feel smaller.

“You’re running away,” he said, voice low.

“Don’t.”

“You are. This is what you do when it gets hard.”

I laughed bitterly. “I kissed you. And then I freaked out, yeah. But don’t stand there and pretend you didn’t let me.”

“I never said I didn’t want it.”

“Exactly,” I snapped. “You wanted it. You let it happen. And then you went quiet, like you always do.”

“You needed space.”

“Don’t act like you were being noble.”

He threw up his hands. “What do you want me to say, Belly? That I’ve been going out of my mind since it happened? That I keep replaying it over and over like some idiot?”

I felt the heat rise in my chest. “You don’t get to say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t matter now. I’m leaving.”

“You’re running.”

“Stop saying that!”

“Then stop running.”

My hands curled into fists at my sides. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

He stepped closer again. His voice wasn’t calm anymore—it was sharp, tired, wounded. “What do I have to do, Belly? Huh? What do I have to do to make you believe me?”

I stared at him, breath shaking.

“To make you realize I still love you?” he said, louder now. “That I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

“Don’t—”

“That I fucked it up, okay? That I let grief and fear and everything else get in the way, and I let you go, and I’ve regretted it every goddamn day since?”

“Stop,” I said, my voice cracking.

“I love you, Belly.”

“Stop saying that!”

“I will never not love you.”

“Shut up!” I shouted, loud enough that my throat burned. “Just stop talking!”

He stilled. Eyes on mine. Breathing heavy.

And then he took another step.

I backed into the counter. My palms flat against the edge.

“I know you felt something,” he said, quieter now. “In the bathroom.”

“No.”

He shook his head. “You kissed me like you meant it.”

“I didn’t.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

He took another step. We were so close I could feel the warmth of his body now.

“You felt it,” he murmured. “At Michaels. You looked at me like you used to.”

“Stop it.”

“Or that day in the kitchen,” he went on, “when you stepped on the glass, and I cleaned your foot. You wanted me to kiss you then. I felt it.”

I looked away, blinking hard.

“You can lie to yourself all you want,” he said, “but I know you. I know every version of you.”

I shook my head. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then why did you let me go?” I whispered, tears rising.

His jaw clenched. “Because I thought I had to. Because I thought I’d wrecked you.”

“You did.”

We stared at each other, all the air pulled from the room. My chest was heaving. My body buzzed like I’d been holding in a scream.

He stepped closer. One more inch, and he’d be touching me.

And then he said it.

“You still love me.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a truth.

A bomb.

And it detonated in my chest.

I pushed at his chest. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to know that.”

“But it’s true.”

“Fine. Yes. I love you!” I yelled, my voice breaking. “Are you happy now? I never stopped loving you. Is that what you wanted to hear? That even after everything, I’m still this pathetic girl who—”

He closed the space between us in one breath.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

And then—

I don’t know who moved first.

Maybe it was me. Maybe it was him.

But suddenly our lips crashed together, desperate and hungry, like we’d been holding it back for years. And maybe we had.

His hands gripped my waist like he was afraid I’d disappear. I curled my fingers into his shirt, yanking him closer, breathing him in like oxygen.

The kiss was soft for one heartbeat—just the warm slide of lips, the tremble of restraint.

And then it turned.

Hot. Sensual. Raw.

His mouth opened against mine, and I gasped as his tongue brushed mine, every nerve in my body lighting up at once. My back arched against the counter, and he followed, pressing closer, deeper. His hand slid up my spine, fingers tangling in my hair, and I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

We kissed like it was inevitable. Like we were built for this.

Every part of me said yes.

Yes to this mouth. Yes to this heat. Yes to this boy I had tried so hard to forget.

I tilted my head and kissed him harder, like I could make up for all the time we lost. His hands were everywhere—waist, cheek, hip, like he couldn’t decide where to anchor himself.

I moaned into his mouth.

And he pulled me even closer.

The world tilted.

The floor could’ve disappeared and I wouldn’t have noticed.

It was just him.

And me.

I don’t know how long we kissed.

Long enough for my lips to feel swollen. For my heart to lose its rhythm. For the whole world to narrow down to the taste of him—warm, familiar, dizzying.

But eventually, the panic caught up to me.

It started as a tremor in my fingertips. A flicker of warning in the back of my throat.

And then it bloomed—hot and sudden and impossible to ignore.

I broke the kiss.

Pulled back, breathless.

Conrad’s eyes opened slowly. They were dark, searching. His hands were still on my waist, but he didn’t pull me in again. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me like he already knew I was about to run.

My chest heaved. I could feel the wall going back up, brick by shaky brick.

“Belly—” he started, voice quiet.

“I—” I shook my head.

He leaned in slightly, his forehead almost brushing mine. “Don’t shut me out again,” he whispered. “Please.”

The words gutted me.

Because he said them like he knew what it felt like. To be shut out. To lose me. To want me anyway.

And he wasn’t begging. He was just being honest.

I looked down. His shirt was rumpled in my fists. My mouth still tingled.

“I should cancel my Uber,” I said, barely above a whisper.

That cracked something in him.

He blinked once. Then laughed—short and surprised.

I smiled, a breathy laugh bubbling up in my throat, too. “It’s already on the way.”

“You booked it before the dramatic confession?” he teased, shaking his head.

“I had a plan,” I said. “It didn’t involve kissing you.”

He grinned. “Good plan.”

“It was a safe plan.”

“Well,” he said, brushing a curl from my cheek, “screw safe.”

And then he kissed me again.

This one was different.

Gentler. Sweeter. Just the press of lips and the slow exhale of two people realizing they weren’t ready to stop.

It was the kind of kiss that said, Okay. Let’s try again.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine for a second. Just breathing.

I didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

But something had changed.

And we both felt it.

Chapter Text

Conrad

She slept in her room.

I slept in mine.

It would’ve been easy—too easy—to let last night bleed into something more. To follow her down the hallway, wrap myself around her like I used to, pretend like nothing had changed and everything had.

But we’d made a decision. Mutually. Silently. Then out loud.

We were going to take it slow.

Especially after the kiss.

Especially after everything.

I knew what people would say. What she might start telling herself if we moved too fast. That I’d just broken up with Aubrey. That I didn’t know what I wanted. That this was some rebound fantasy I’d built up in my head and handed to Belly like it was real.

But it was real.

The second her mouth met mine in that kitchen, I knew I hadn’t made any of it up.

The feeling I’d been chasing for years?

It had a name. A voice. A mouth that fit mine like we were made for this.

But now… now we had to be careful.

I couldn’t lose her again.

So when she said she was going to bed after we cancelled her Uber—barefoot, cheeks flushed, lips still red—I nodded. Said goodnight. 

And I let her go.

Even though my entire body was still humming.

Even though every instinct screamed to follow.

This morning, I woke up before the sun. My back was stiff from sleeping wrong. My heart heavier than I wanted it to be. I rolled onto my side and stared at the ceiling, the light shifting blue through the curtains.

I kept thinking about that moment in the kitchen. The way her voice broke when she told me to stop saying her name. The way her hands shook when she told me she still loved me. The way she kissed me like she was starving for it. For me.

She hadn’t said anything after that second kiss. Just looked at me like the world had tilted sideways and she didn’t know which way was up anymore.

But she didn’t run.

And that had to mean something.

Downstairs, I heard the soft thud of the fridge opening. The creak of a cabinet. Belly was up.

I rubbed a hand over my face and sat up.

We’d agreed—no telling Steven, Taylor, or Jere. Not yet. Not when there were still so many things between us we hadn’t talked about.

Like how we broke each other.

Like what we wanted now.

Like why she stayed after all this time.

I didn’t know how we were going to figure any of that out.

But I knew one thing for sure.

I’d wait for her as long as it took.

I showered like it might rinse some of the nerves off me.

It didn’t.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror afterward, towel around my waist, palms flat against the counter, staring at myself like the reflection might have an answer.

It didn’t.

All I knew was that Belly was downstairs. Probably drinking coffee barefoot in that oversized hoodie she’d been living in since she got here. Probably pretending like she didn’t know exactly how much last night changed everything.

I changed, ran a hand through my hair, and made my way down the stairs.

Halfway to the kitchen, I stopped.

She was there—exactly how I pictured. Mug in hand. Knees tucked into the chair. The morning light hit her hair just right, catching the gold. She hadn’t seen me yet.

And for a second, I thought about just walking in. Saying “morning” like nothing had shifted. Like we hadn’t kissed each other breathless in the kitchen less than twelve hours ago. Like I didn’t still feel it in my bones.

But that would’ve been cowardly. And I’d promised myself, if we were doing this—really doing this—I wasn’t going to hold back anymore.

So I crossed the last few steps, heart pounding like an idiot, and when she finally turned toward me—

I leaned in and kissed her.

Soft. Careful. Nothing like last night.

Just a gentle press of my mouth against hers.

Good morning.

When I pulled back, her eyes fluttered open and she smiled. That same Belly smile that always felt like summer and forgiveness.

“Hi,” she said softly, cheeks pink.

“Hi,” I echoed.

And just like that, I could breathe again.

Chapter Text

The kiss was soft. Just a brush, really. Barely anything. But it landed like an echo in my chest.

Conrad pulled away, his lips still close enough to kiss me again if he wanted. And I think he almost did.

Instead, he gave me a small smile and stepped back, reaching for a mug from the cabinet like it was the most normal morning in the world.

I curled my hands tighter around mine and watched him move around the kitchen—white t-shirt wrinkled like he’d yanked it out of the drawer in a hurry. I’d seen him like this a hundred times. A thousand. But now everything felt new again. Or maybe it just felt fragile.

We didn’t say anything for a while. I sipped my coffee. He made his. The silence between us wasn’t tense exactly—it just buzzed a little louder than usual.

Eventually, I said, “There’s leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

He looked over his shoulder. “Is it the one you threw together with my sad grilled chicken?”

I grinned. “Maybe.”

“Then I’ll take my chances.”

He reheated it while I sat cross-legged at the table, watching the way he moved—more relaxed than yesterday, like something in him had settled. Maybe because of the kiss. Maybe because I hadn’t run again. I wasn’t sure yet.

We ate breakfast together quietly. Talked about nothing in particular. He asked if I wanted to help clean out the linen closet upstairs since it was on his summer to-do list. I said only if we found more than one beach towel between us. He laughed. It was easy. Light. Like the air had finally shifted.

After breakfast, we took our coffee mugs upstairs and spent the next hour folding sun-bleached towels and organizing pillowcases that all somehow mismatched. There was a faded set with tiny sea turtles that I swore Susannah had bought when we were twelve. Conrad held it up and said, “These are vintage now.”

By noon, the house had warmed up. I changed into denim shorts and tied my hair up, and we migrated to the sunroom with a puzzle we found in the closet—one of those impossible 1,000-piece beach landscapes that Susannah used to leave half-finished on the card table every August.

“Do we even know if all the pieces are here?” I asked, shaking the box skeptically.

“Only one way to find out,” Conrad said, pouring them onto the table like a challenge.

We got about fifty pieces in before we both admitted defeat and left the rest scattered like seashells across the tabletop. Then Conrad opened the windows and a breeze swept through the whole house, salty and full of something that almost felt like hope.

He disappeared for a bit after that to check on something in the shed, and I wandered into the kitchen to clean up the mugs and leftover dishes we hadn’t touched since this morning. I found sand in the sink. A whole constellation of it. I didn’t even mind.

Later, he reappeared with a dusty old fan he’d taken apart and rebuilt, proudly plugging it in like he was Thomas Edison. The thing rattled like it might fall apart any second, but I let him have his moment. I told him he was a regular handyman now. He told me to put it in writing.

I didn’t.

By late afternoon, I stretched out on the couch and opened my laptop to check emails I’d been avoiding since Paris. He sat on the floor beside the coffee table, sorting through a box of old board games from the hall closet. He found a deck of Uno cards and challenged me to a game.

I won. Three times.

“I think you’re cheating,” he muttered, watching me lay down another Draw Four with a smug smile.

“Maybe you just suck at this,” I said, kicking his foot under the table.

He grinned, that lopsided grin that always made me feel a little too warm inside. “Rematch after dinner.”

We cooked together without talking about it. It just happened. He started chopping an onion and I boiled pasta. We didn’t need to coordinate. We’d done this before. Years of summers. Years of muscle memory.

When we sat down to eat, we didn’t light candles or do anything fancy. Just two plates, two forks, the last of the wine from the bottle I’d opened the other night. We talked about Jeremiah and Kate. About how the flowers from Michaels looked less fake in the right light. About how neither of us really knew what the wedding song would be, or if Jere had even picked one.

Afterward, I washed the dishes and he dried them, and for a second, I thought about what it would feel like to do this every night.

But I didn’t say anything. And neither did he.

It was dark by the time we migrated back to the living room. The house had cooled slightly, windows still open, the breeze carrying the distant hush of waves and the creak of wood in the rafters.

“Movie?” I asked, dropping onto the couch with a throw blanket.

Conrad sat beside me, just close enough that our knees brushed. “Only if it’s something pretentious and black-and-white.”

I smirked. “So, Casablanca?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll allow it.”

I grabbed my laptop and propped it up on the coffee table, tilted just right so we could both see. No TV in the living room—Susannah’s rule. “If you’re watching a screen,” she used to say, “you’re not looking at the water.”

But tonight, I didn’t miss the water. Not when he was beside me, arm grazing mine, legs stretched out next to mine under the blanket.

We watched in silence. Or mostly silence. He murmured a few lines under his breath like he’d seen it a dozen times before. I laughed when he quoted “Here’s looking at you, kid” with just enough sarcasm to make me nudge him in the ribs.

He looked over at me when I did, smile faint, eyes a little too soft.

I looked away.

Halfway through, I realized I’d stopped breathing normally. I kept noticing things. The way his thigh pressed into mine. The way he smelled—something warm and clean, like soap and sea salt. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for mine.

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

My heart felt like it was trying to beat out of my chest.

But I didn’t say anything. And neither did he.

We just sat there. Watching the screen. Listening to Ingrid Bergman whisper things that felt truer than I wanted them to.

At some point, he shifted slightly, turning just enough that his shoulder brushed mine with more intention than before. I glanced over at him. He didn’t look away.

And for a moment, we just… stayed like that.

Not moving. Not speaking. Just there.

And maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything.

When the credits rolled, I closed the laptop slowly. Neither of us moved to turn on a light.

“Good movie,” he said softly.

I nodded. “Classic.”

Silence again. Not awkward. Just heavy with something unspoken.

He stood first, stretching, yawning. “I’m gonna head up.”

“Okay,” I said, even though I wasn’t ready for the day to end.

He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. Turned to look at me. “Night, Belly.”

I swallowed. “Night.”

And then he was gone.

My pulse hadn’t slowed.

I sat there trying to pretend the ache in my chest wasn’t real. That the shape of his body on the couch next to mine hadn’t carved something permanent into me. That I hadn’t noticed the way he looked at me when he said goodnight, like he was asking a question without words.

Maybe I already knew my answer.

Maybe I’d known since the moment I kissed him in that bathroom.

I stood slowly. My legs felt like they didn’t belong to me. Like I was moving underwater, or dreaming something I wasn’t supposed to want this badly.

The stairs creaked under my feet.

The hallway was quiet.

The door to his room was cracked open just slightly—enough to show me the light was off, but not enough to see if he was still awake. My hand hovered over it for a second.

Then I knocked.

Once.

Soft.

The door opened almost instantly.

He was already there. Standing just a step back. T-shirt and boxers. 

Neither of us said a word.

My breath caught in my throat as his eyes met mine. They searched me like he was waiting for me to disappear again. Like he was afraid to blink.

I stepped inside.

He closed the door behind me.

Then I reached for him.

Our mouths met in the quiet, no words, just breath and heat and years of knowing each other too well. His hands found my waist, then my back, then the nape of my neck like he was memorizing the shape of me all over again.

I kissed him like I meant it.

Because I did.

I kissed him like I was starving for it.

Because I was.

He let out a soft sound against my lips, like he couldn’t believe this was real. I felt his fingers fist gently into the back of my shirt, tugging me closer, and I melted into him.

Everything about him felt familiar.

But new.

His mouth trailed down to my jaw, to my throat, then back to my lips like he couldn’t choose where he wanted me most.

I didn’t care.

I just wanted all of him.

We stumbled back toward the bed. My knees hit the mattress and he caught me, kissing me again—slow and deep, the kind of kiss that made my head spin and my skin flush. I tugged at the hem of his shirt, and he let me pull it over his head.

His skin was warm under my hands, taut with something I couldn’t name.

I let him take mine off too.

There was reverence in the way he looked at me.

Like I was something sacred.

We sank down into the sheets, still tangled in each other, our hands everywhere—his thumb brushing under my rib cage, mine trailing down the line of his spine. His body hovered over mine, then pressed against mine, and I felt my whole world tilt.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was ours.

When he slid inside me, it was like remembering something I hadn’t realized I’d forgotten. My fingers gripped his shoulder, and he kissed my mouth again, slower this time, like he wanted to feel every second of it.

There was nothing between us but skin and history and the kind of want that couldn’t be undone.

My name left his lips like a prayer.

And I let myself believe it.

Because right here—right now—I wanted him.

Not just the idea of him. Not just the version I’d built up in my head over five years apart.

Him.

The boy I’d loved since I was ten.

The man who still made me feel like summer.

His pace was gentle at first. Tender. But when I wrapped my legs around him and whispered his name back into his mouth, everything changed.

It got hotter.

Deeper.

His hands cradled my jaw. Mine fisted into his hair.

The way he looked at me—like I was his whole world—I didn’t know how I’d ever live without it again.

And when I came, it was with his name on my lips and his heartbeat pressed to mine.

He followed a breath after, trembling against me, his mouth at my shoulder, whispering something I couldn’t quite hear. But I felt it.

I felt everything.

When it was over, we didn’t move right away.

We just stayed there.

Breathing.

Wrapped up in each other like maybe if we held on tight enough, the rest of the world would fall away.

I didn’t know what tomorrow would look like.

But tonight—I belonged to him.

And he belonged to me.

The silence stretched for a while, soft and comfortable. His fingers traced lazy lines along my spine. I rested my cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I missed you,” I said quietly. It felt too small for everything I meant by it, but I didn’t know how else to begin.

Conrad exhaled, his hand stilling on my back. “I missed you too. Every day.”

I tilted my head to look up at him. “Why didn’t you say something?”

His jaw tensed. “Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”

My throat ached. “You hurt me.”

“I know,” he said softly. “And I hurt myself, too. I thought I was protecting you. From me. From everything. But all I did was make it worse.”

I nodded, blinking hard. “I wasn’t perfect either. I let go before I really understood why you were pushing me away. I didn’t fight for us.”

“We both messed up,” he said, brushing his fingers through my hair. “But we’re here now. That has to mean something, right?”

I nodded again, slower this time. “It does.”

We laid there in silence for a few more breaths, wrapped around each other like we were trying to relearn how not to flinch.

“We don’t have to tell anyone,” I murmured. “Not yet. Not Taylor. Not Steven. Not even Jere.”

“Agreed,” he said instantly. “Let’s just… keep this between us for now. No questions. No judgment. Just you and me.”

“Just us,” I echoed, letting the words settle like a promise.

He kissed my forehead. “We’ll figure it out.”

“The long distance?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Boston. Stanford. After the summer, we’ll deal with it. We’ll make it work.”

I traced a small circle on his chest, right over his heartbeat. “I want this to work.”

“Me too,” he whispered. “More than anything.”

And for the first time in years, I believed him.

Chapter Text

The light came in soft through the cracks in the curtains, spilling across the sheets like water. I blinked slowly, still half-asleep, the weight of the night settling warm and heavy in my bones.

Conrad’s arm was draped across my waist. One of my legs tangled with his. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest against my back, steady and slow.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

I just lay there and let myself feel it—his breath at the back of my neck, the curve of his fingers where they’d stilled against my hip, the faint scratch of stubble brushing my shoulder.

It didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like the first time I’d slept in my real body in years.

I turned in his arms slowly, careful not to wake him. But of course I did.

His eyes opened almost the moment mine did.

For a second, we just looked at each other. Not smiling. Not speaking. Just… looking.

Then he reached for me.

His hand slipped up my spine, pulling me in, and when he kissed me, it was slow and unhurried. The kind of kiss that says we’re still here. That whatever happened last night wasn’t just nostalgia or timing or heat.

It was something we meant.

My body moved without thinking, pressing into him like I already belonged there. Maybe I always had. His hand slid to my thigh, pulling it over his hip. My breath caught.

“Morning,” he murmured against my mouth.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

His fingers dipped beneath the hem of the sheet, slow and teasing. My lips parted. I could already feel myself unraveling.

But then—

Click.

The front door.

Voices.

Laughter.

The unmistakable sound of Steven’s loud “We’re back!”

Conrad froze.

So did I.

We stared at each other for a second, still wrapped around each other, hearts racing for a different reason now.

He exhaled a soft curse under his breath and dropped his forehead to mine. “They’re early.”

“Obviously.”

Another voice now—Taylor, calling out something about breakfast. Jeremiah laughing behind her. Someone dropped a bag too hard on the wood floor.

Reality hit like cold water.

I pulled away reluctantly, sitting up and clutching the sheet to my chest. Conrad stayed still, eyes closed like he was trying to memorize the last second before everything shifted again.

“I should…” I began, already sliding out of the bed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse.

I grabbed my pajama shorts from the floor and yanked my shirt from the chair by the window. My body still felt warm from his, sore in the best way. I didn’t want to let go of the feeling.

But I had to.

For now.

Conrad sat up, scrubbing a hand through his hair and glancing toward the door like it had betrayed us. “I’ll go down. You shower.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

We didn’t kiss goodbye.

Didn’t say anything else.

Just a quick look. A silent promise.

He left first, careful not to make a sound on the stairs. I heard Kate say, “Connie! Did you miss me?” in her usual teasing voice.

His laugh came easy. Like he hadn’t just woken up tangled in me, like he hadn’t just kissed me breathless ten seconds ago.

I shut the door and leaned against it for a second, heart thudding.

Then I stepped into the shower.

The water ran hot over my skin, rinsing away the sleep and the tension and the ache of everything I wasn’t ready to feel in front of other people yet.

But underneath it all—I was still smiling.

We’d said what needed to be said. Finally.

And no matter what happened next, that part was real.

By the time I came downstairs, my hair was still damp, and my nerves were shot.

The smell of eggs and toast hit me first, buttery and warm. The kitchen was alive with noise—forks clinking against plates, Taylor laughing at something Steven said, Jeremiah making espresso like he was auditioning for a coffee commercial.

I paused in the hallway, my hand curling tighter around the banister. Then I walked in like nothing was different.

Even though everything was.

They were all gathered around the kitchen table—Taylor perched on Steven’s lap, Kate and Jeremiah squished together on the bench side, and Conrad across from them, sitting like he hadn’t been in my bed less than an hour ago.

His eyes lifted the second I stepped in.

And for a moment, it was like the rest of the room blurred.

The air thinned. My face went hot.

Then he blinked, looked away, and took a bite of toast like he wasn’t still in my bloodstream.

“Belly,” Kate said brightly, “perfect timing. Jeremiah saved you some eggs, and I cut up strawberries because I remembered you like them with honey.”

“Thanks,” I said, voice steadier than I felt.

I crossed the kitchen and grabbed a plate from the counter. My fingers brushed a fork, and for a second I couldn’t remember how to move normally. Like walking to a table, sitting down, making small talk—it was all suddenly too much.

Conrad didn’t say anything. But I could feel him.

Watching.

Not watching.

Breathing in rhythm with mine.

I slid into the only open seat—between Kate and Taylor, directly across from him. Our knees didn’t touch, but they might as well have.

“So,” Kate said, brushing her hair into a low ponytail, “tonight. Bar crawl.”

“Oh God,” Taylor groaned dramatically. “Do we have to call it that? It sounds like we’re in college.”

“We are going out,” Kate clarified, “in coordinated outfits. With a pre-planned route. That is literally the definition of a bar crawl.”

Jeremiah grinned. “We’ll start on Newbury, then maybe end up by the waterfront. Laurie’s driving up later, and Mia’s catching the train in. You remember Mia, right?”

Taylor’s eyes lit up. “Your maid of honor?”

Kate nodded. “She’s insane in the best way. You’ll love her.”

“Okay but wait,” Steven cut in. “Are we splitting up for this?”

“Some of it,” Kate said, stabbing a piece of melon. “Ladies go one way, guys go another. It's like… tradition or something. And also, let’s be honest, we’re not all gonna last the whole night.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” Conrad said quietly, his voice low and smooth, like it wasn’t meant for anyone in particular.

My eyes flicked to him before I could stop myself.

He was looking at me again.

Not smiling. Not smirking. Just watching.

And the second our eyes met, I felt it in my stomach.

The heat. The ache. The memory of his mouth on mine.

I looked away.

Taylor leaned over and bumped my shoulder. “You’re quiet.”

I shrugged. “Still waking up.”

Still trying to breathe like he didn’t wreck me in every timeline.

Kate didn’t notice. She was already listing bar names, trying to pick a first stop. Taylor chimed in with one that had a dance floor, Steven vetoed it because of “bad tequila memories,” and Jeremiah said something about picklebacks that made everyone groan.

The whole thing felt so normal. So easy.

Except it wasn’t.

Because under the table, Conrad’s knee shifted closer. Just barely. Just enough.

I didn’t move away.

I couldn’t.

He didn’t say a word. But I felt it.

We weren’t going to make it through this weekend pretending nothing happened.

We were already in too deep.

Upstairs felt like a fever dream of hairspray and chaos.

Taylor had taken over the shared bathroom with her curling wand, singing off-key to whatever song was blasting from her phone, and Kate was using the hallway mirror to reapply lip liner with military precision. Steven and Jeremiah were arguing through opposite doors about where the good cologne had disappeared to.

I slipped into my room and shut the door.

The black mini dress I’d packed on a whim—the kind I hadn’t worn since Paris—lay folded neatly on the edge of my bed. I’d almost forgotten I brought it. Thin straps, a low scoop back, and hem just long enough to count. I slipped it on slowly, smoothing it down over my hips. My hair had air-dried into soft waves, and I left it that way—messy but intentional. A quick swipe of mascara, a dab of gloss.

Then I stood in front of the mirror and tried not to overthink everything.

I didn’t look like the girl who used to cry over him.

I looked like someone who knew what she wanted.

Heart beating a little too fast, I stepped into my sandals, crossed the hall, and pushed open Conrad’s bedroom door without knocking.

He was buttoning up his shirt—white, slightly wrinkled, sleeves rolled just above his elbows. His hair was still damp, curling a little at the ends.

He looked up. Froze.

Then swallowed hard.

I shut the door behind me. Turned the lock with a soft click.

His gaze swept over me, slow and stunned. Like he couldn’t believe I was real.

“Hey,” I said, voice light.

“Hey.” He blinked. “Wow.”

I smiled. “Wow?”

“You look…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t even know. Gorgeous. Dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

He stepped closer. “Absolutely lethal.”

I laughed, my nerves cracking. “You’re such a dork.”

“And yet,” he said, voice dipping low as he reached out and ran a thumb lightly over my bare shoulder, “you’re in my room. Again.”

His hand slid down my arm and then dropped, like he didn’t trust himself to keep touching me.

God, he was so confident when it mattered—last night he’d made me feel like I was the only thing in the world—but now? With the sunlight bleeding across the floor and his shirt half-buttoned and his cheeks just a little pink?

He was shy.

Tongue-tied.

And somehow, that made me want him even more.

I took a step closer. He didn’t move. Just watched me with that quiet intensity that used to undo me every time.

“I like this version of you,” I teased.

“What version?”

“The one who blushes.”

He gave me a crooked smile. “Only for you.”

I didn’t say anything. Just rose on my toes and kissed him.

It started soft—familiar, easy. His mouth moved against mine like he already knew the rhythm, the weight of me. But then he pulled me closer, hands splaying across my lower back, and the kiss deepened.

Felt like gravity shifting.

Like heat pooling between us.

I curled my fingers in the open collar of his shirt just as someone jiggled the doorknob behind me.

“Conrad?” Jeremiah’s voice, loud and casual. “Hey, do you have my shoes? My new Nikes?”

We both froze.

Conrad exhaled against my mouth. “Sorry, man. I don’t have ‘em.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Silence. Then the sound of Jeremiah walking off down the hall.

I looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“Close call,” I whispered.

He grinned. “Totally worth it.”

I stepped back, smoothing the front of my dress. “I should go.”

“Wait.” He caught my hand, brushed his lips against my knuckles like we were in some old black-and-white movie. “You’ll try to sneak back in later?”

I smirked. “Maybe.”

He leaned in and kissed me one last time, soft and lingering, his thumb sweeping the side of my jaw.

“Have fun tonight,” he murmured against my lips.

“You too.”

And then I slipped out of his room—heart thudding, skin buzzing, still tasting him on my mouth—and melted back into the blur of the hallway, where no one knew I’d just come undone all over again.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

I woke up smiling.

That was the first thing I noticed—not the light peeking through the curtains, not the faint ache in my thighs, not the way the sheets were tangled halfway off the bed like a storm had passed through.

Just the smile.

Soft and secret. Pressed into the pillow like it had nowhere else to go.

I stretched slowly, my body sore in the good kind of way. The kind of soreness that lived in the space between muscles and memory. I reached out blindly across the bed, my fingers searching for familiar warmth.

But the space next to me was empty.

His pillow was still dented. The covers still rumpled. But he was gone.

I didn’t panic. Didn’t overthink it. Not this time.

Instead, I just laid there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling and feeling something I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time.

Happy.

God, I was happy.

Like really, actually, no-caveats happy. Like the kind of happy where you hum while you brush your teeth and don’t even notice.

Which, incidentally, was exactly what I did ten minutes later in the bathroom—Conrad’s t-shirt hanging halfway down my thighs, hair a mess, toothbrush dangling out of my mouth like something out of a teen rom-com.

I changed into real clothes—soft jean shorts and a tank top—and padded down the stairs, the floorboards cool under my feet.

The house was mostly quiet. I could hear someone moving around in the living room—maybe Steven or Jere—but the kitchen was empty when I walked in.

Then I heard the door.

A few seconds later, Conrad walked in, brown paper bag in one hand, keys in the other.

He stopped when he saw me. Just—stopped.

Like I’d knocked the wind out of him.

And maybe I had.

I grinned. “You left me alone in your bed. Rude.”

He held up the bag. “Bribery.”

I gasped, snatching it out of his hands before he could say another word. “Are these—?”

“Double chocolate. From the fancy place. I got up early.”

I was already digging through it. “You absolute hero.”

Before I could tear into one, I looked up at him—and kissed him instead.

Just leaned in and pressed my mouth to his, chocolate muffin forgotten for the moment. His lips were warm, still a little chapped from sleep. He tasted faintly like coffee.

I pulled back, just a breath away. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said, eyes never leaving mine.

And then he gave me a look.

That look.

The one that said, Are we really doing this?

Like he was amazed and scared and over-the-moon all at once.

So I kissed him again.

Slower this time. Sweeter. Like an answer.

Yes. We’re doing this.

“Yes!” a voice shouted behind us. “Finally. Jesus.”

We jumped apart.

Steven was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, shirtless in plaid pajama pants, hair sticking up at odd angles, holding a bowl of cereal and looking entirely too smug for someone who’d just walked in on his sister mid-kiss.

“Do you mind?” I asked, cheeks already hot.

He spooned cereal into his mouth and leaned against the doorframe. “Not really.”

Conrad coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Morning, man.”

Steven narrowed his eyes at him. “Morning.”

Then he pointed his spoon at him like a threat. “You break her heart again and I’m actually gonna fight you.”

Conrad nodded solemnly. “Fair.”

Steven looked vaguely disappointed that he didn’t push back. “Cool.” He turned to me. “Also, Mom’s gonna know. Just FYI.”

“Thanks, Steven.”

He walked to the sink, dumped the rest of his cereal, and then left like he hadn’t just dropped a verbal grenade on our very new, very fragile thing.

I looked at Conrad.

He looked at me.

Then we both burst out laughing.

“That went… better than expected,” I said, wiping at my eyes.

“Honestly? Yeah.”

I reached back into the bag and pulled out a muffin. “You weren’t kidding. These are warm.”

“I literally waited for them to come out of the oven.”

“Okay, now I have to marry you.”

He leaned against the counter, watching me like I was the muffin. “We just got back together.”

“Details.” I broke off a chunk of chocolate and popped it into my mouth. “Mmm. This is illegal.”

He smiled, soft and sleepy, like he still couldn’t believe I was really standing here. Eating muffins. Kissing him like it was normal.

And maybe it was.

Maybe we’d earned a little normal.

I perched on the counter, swinging my legs. “So… now what?”

“Well,” he said, sliding closer, “I was thinking…”

He took another step, standing between my knees now. His hands rested lightly on my thighs.

“Do you want to go for a walk?”

I blinked. “A walk?”

He shrugged. “It’s nice out. And you’re always nicer to me after muffins.”

“I’m always nice to you.”

He tilted his head. “Are you?”

I took another bite of muffin. “Depends. Do I get coffee too?”

He grinned. “I’ll make it to-go.”

And just like that, I leaned in and kissed him one more time.

Because this—this right here? The quiet, the easy, the everyday kind of magic?

It felt like everything I’d been missing.

And now that I had it again—

I wasn’t letting go.

The sun was still low in the sky, soft and hazy, casting a pale wash of light over the shoreline like someone had drawn it in with pastels. The ocean rolled in quiet and calm, the way it always did at Cousins right after sunrise—like even the waves knew it was too early to be loud.

Conrad’s hand found mine as we walked barefoot along the sand, fingers sliding together like muscle memory. Like no time had passed at all.

And maybe that was the truth. Maybe time hadn’t changed anything that really mattered.

We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to. The quiet between us felt peaceful in a way it hadn’t in years. Like we’d already said all the hard things. Like we’d survived the storm and were finally standing on the other side of it.

Just us.

“Hey,” he said after a while, his voice still a little sleepy, like it hadn’t fully woken up yet. “Wait.”

I paused, brushing the wind out of my face as he stopped walking and turned toward me. He reached into the front pocket of his sweatshirt and pulled something small out.

It was silver.

And familiar.

My heart stuttered.

Dangling from his fingers was the infinity necklace.

The same one I’d taken off at prom, hands shaking in the rain, tears blurring everything. The one I had left in his palm like I was pressing every last part of us into it.

“You kept it?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

He gave me a look like I’d just asked him if water was wet. “Of course I kept it.”

The morning sun caught on the pendant, making it glint softly, like it was glowing.

“I didn’t think you’d want to hold onto it,” I said.

“I didn’t think I’d get to give it back,” he answered quietly. “But I do now. So I’m going to.”

My breath caught in my throat.

He stepped closer, and I didn’t even have to think about it—I turned around, lifting my hair. The breeze danced along my neck, cool and light.

His hands were warm as they fumbled a little at the clasp, not quite steady. It made something twist in my chest. Even now, even here, he was nervous.

When he finished, I turned back around.

He was already watching me.

“I meant it, you know,” he said. “When I gave it to you the first time.”

I remembered. God, I remembered everything about that morning. I was sixteen. He was seventeen. The sand had been cold under our legs. His hands had trembled then, too.

“What did you say again?” I asked, even though it was engraved in me.

“That no matter what happened between us,” he said, brushing his thumb gently over the pendant, “we’d always be infinite.”

I swallowed hard.

This time, the ache in my chest wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t sad.

It was soft. Bright. Full.

I reached for him, and he met me halfway.

We kissed with the ocean breathing behind us and the morning sun painting everything in gold and blue. The light spilled across the water like a promise.

We kissed like we knew exactly what we were doing.

Like we meant it.

Like we’d always meant it.

Like we were infinite. Again. Still. Always.

Chapter Text

Epilogue

The sky was pink.

Not just any pink—but that specific, heartachingly soft, cotton-candy hue that only ever really showed up at Cousins. The kind that made everything look like it had been brushed over in pastel, dipped in some dreamy filter that didn’t exist anywhere else in the world. It was the color of memory, of childhood, of summers that stretched too long and then not long enough. It was the in-between—just after dinner, right before the stars came out. That golden lull when the day was exhaling and the night hadn’t yet found its breath.

The waves lapped quietly in the distance, a gentle hush like the ocean was whispering secrets to itself. The breeze curled around me like an old friend, familiar and kind, still smelling faintly of sunscreen and salt, with a trace of grilled corn wafting from the neighbors’ barbecue. Somewhere behind us, someone was playing music on a crackling speaker—a Motown song I couldn’t quite name, the kind that always sounded like summer no matter what season it actually was.

I was barefoot in the sand, ankles crossed, knees tucked into my chest. The hem of my dress fluttered in the breeze, brushing against my calves. The sand was still warm beneath me, the kind of warm that felt alive somehow, like it had memorized the sun and was refusing to let it go. Like it knew how to hold on.

Beside me, Conrad sat in that familiar quiet way of his, arms looped loosely around his knees, squinting toward the shoreline. His hair was longer now, a little wilder. The salt had made it curl in soft waves. There was stubble on his jaw, and a fading tan line at the edge of his t-shirt. He smelled like sunscreen and cedarwood and the faintest hint of the coffee he still insisted on drinking hot, even in the heat.

Out in the shallows, our girls were shrieking with laughter, the smaller one chasing the bigger one through the foamy edge of the surf. Their bathing suits were soaked, heavy with water and sand and joy. Their hair was slicked back from their faces, curls bouncing, eyes bright with the kind of happiness that didn’t need a reason.

I could see pieces of myself in them—my nose, my curls, my awkward knees—but more than anything, I saw him. The tilt of their heads when they were pretending not to listen, the quiet mischief in their smiles, the way they scanned the world like they were already trying to memorize it. They were all Conrad. And yet entirely themselves.

“They’re gonna be freezing in ten minutes,” I said, nudging him gently with my shoulder.

“Worth it,” he said, without even glancing my way.

I smiled, because I knew exactly what he meant.

We’d been coming back to Cousins every summer since the summer. The one where everything changed—when truths were told and hearts were broken and stitched back together again. And each year, it had been like turning a page in a book we thought we’d already finished. Some chapters were quiet, some loud. But this one—this summer—felt different.

It felt like peace.

Because this time, we weren’t proving anything. Not to ourselves. Not to anyone else. We didn’t have to.

We’d already lived the messy parts—the tears, the silences, the heartbreaks and near-misses. We’d chosen each other anyway.

Jeremiah and Kate got married that same summer, right after the dust settled. They said “I do” barefoot on the beach behind the summer house, the sand curling over our toes, the waves crashing just far enough away that it sounded like applause. Kate wore a white sundress that whipped in the wind, and Jeremiah cried so hard during his vows that Steven had to hand him his pocket square and say something like, “Real men sob in public, but I draw the line at snot.”

It was chaotic and beautiful and entirely them.

That summer was a deep breath after years of holding everything in.

But the real test came later.

Because Conrad and I didn’t stay in the same place for long. He had Stanford. I had Northeastern. And between us were time zones and airports and the impossible ache of missing someone so much it turned into a kind of physical thing.

Long distance was lonelier than I’d imagined. We’d survived the big stuff—the declarations and the kisses that shook the earth—but no one warned me about the quiet. The mornings I reached for my phone only to remember he was still asleep. The evenings where I watched the sun set alone. The texts that read “I miss you” and somehow didn’t feel like enough.

But we made it work.

Because we wanted to.

Because even when things were hard, even when the days stretched and the nights ached, I still loved him more than I ever thought I could love anything. And he loved me right back.

Every time he flew in for Christmas or I visited during spring break, it felt like hitting pause on the loneliness and play on something that made sense again. Cousins was our reset button. Our compass. Every August goodbye still hurt—but it didn’t break us. We always found our way back.

And then, he did the unthinkable.

He transferred.

Left California. Left Stanford. Left everything.

Conrad Fisher—who used to worship the West Coast like a religion—moved to Boston for his residency. For me.

“I think the ocean’s better on this side, anyway,” he said with a shrug. But I saw the truth in his eyes. He would’ve followed me anywhere.

We found a little house just outside the city. Two bedrooms. Slanted ceilings. Floors that creaked like they were sighing under the weight of history. That first night, the mattress was still on the floor and the paint samples were still taped to the walls. We ate pizza cross-legged in the middle of the living room, arguing about colors and kissing between bites.

It didn’t feel like starting over.

It felt like arriving.

That next year, we got married.

Back in Cousins. Backyard of the summer house. Hydrangeas in bloom. A small guest list. Big feelings. He gave me Susannah’s ring, and his hands were shaking when he slipped it onto mine. I looked out at Laurel and saw her eyes shining. And I knew—I knew—we were exactly where we were always supposed to be.

Later—on a sleepy Sunday, over pancakes and too much syrup—I took a test that changed everything.

He stared at it for a long time. Then at me. His voice was small when he asked, “Are you okay?”

I was more than okay. I was terrified and thrilled and so full of love I didn’t know where to put it. I cried. He laughed. And then he kissed me like he’d just realized I was his whole future.

Two girls, close in age. Close in everything. We forgot what sleep was. We lived on caffeine and baby wipes. He took the night shifts. I packed the lunches. He carried them through every fair, every boardwalk, every storm. He was the soft place they always landed.

And when the house was finally quiet—when both girls were asleep and the ocean whispered at the windows—he’d pull me close and say, “We made this.” Like it still surprised him. Like it still humbled him.

And now, here we were.

Our daughters drenched and giddy and wild in the waves. The sun inching higher, warming everything it touched. The sand between my toes. The love of my life beside me.

“You think they’ll remember this?” I asked.

He turned, brow furrowed. “What?”

“This. All of it. The summers. The house. The ocean.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched them, the corners of his mouth lifting.

“They’ll remember,” he said softly. “Because we do.”

I leaned my head on his shoulder.

And for a long time, we just sat there—two kids who grew up and somehow, miraculously, found their way back. Who chose each other again and again until love didn’t feel like a question anymore.

Cousins wasn’t just a place.

It was the setting of our whole story.

Our beginning.

Our middle.

Our always.