The girls scatter toward the corner, all chatter and neon bottles. As they go, Lila shoots me a look—Don’t waste this.Then she slips out the door, taking every witness with her.
Now it’s just us. The air still hums from the music. The mirrors glow faintly with her reflection.
“You’re not mad at me anymore?” My voice comes out low, rough.
Joy twists the cap off her bottle. “I never was.”
“That right?”
She nods, takes a long sip. “We were friends, Wes. That doesn’t have to change.”
I freeze. My heart slams in protest.Friends.No fucking way.
“We’re not friends.”
She blinks, startled, defensive. “Okay.” Her breath catches, and she covers the shake with another sip.
I step closer. “I don’t want to be friends.”
She trembles. When she starts to turn, I catch her wrist—gentle, but firm enough to make her face me. Her expression flickers between hurt and habit. The mask slides into place. Polished, practiced, perfect. Probably standard issue in her family.
“Joy,” I rasp. “Josephine. Look at me.”
She lifts her chin, defiant. Eyes glistening, jaw tight.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For being a jackass. For walking out that night instead of staying. For making your name the problem when the problem was my ego.”
She stares at me, walls still up, waiting for thebut. Waiting for the conditions.
I don’t give her one.
Her mouth twitches. “That’s one way to put it.”
“You never lied. I built a version of you from what you let me see—fearless, funny, shining brighter than the sun, impossible not to fall for. The Joy you show the world is real. You built her from what you were given, and that isn’t a crime. When I saw there was even more to you, I panicked I wasn’t enough and I punished you for my fear. But all you did was edit the frame; I stuffed it with my own bullshit.”
Her eyes shimmer, her throat working. “Wes?—”
“I’m not done.” My pulse pounds. “We don’t owe our parents a damn thing except respect. You don’t have to become a replica of them. You slipped into an alter ego because that’s the only way to change. It’s the only way you could breathe. I should’ve understood that instead of treating you like a con.”
She lets out a watery laugh, half sob, half joke. “Disassembling the social order before breakfast again, Alaska?”
“Only when it’s standing between you and me.”
Her laugh fades. She twists the cap on her water bottle until it squeaks. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything. I kept persuading myself it wasn’t relevant—that what mattered was what we were, not where I came from.” She shakes her head, a small, helpless motion. “I didn’t expect it to get real. And then Alaska happened, and it was real, and I panicked too.”
The silence stretches, soft and sharp all at once.
“I wanted you to stay that night,” she whispers finally. “Even if you were angry. Even if you hated me.” Her voice cracks. “I kept waiting for you to come back. To knock on the door. To tell me we could fix it.”
“I’m sorry.” The words catch in my throat. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve told you that I love you.”
She goes still. “What?”
“I love you.” I say it slower this time. “I don’t care whose daughter you are or what zip code raised you.” I take a breath, steady but wrecked. “I want the woman who built her own name from scratch and spends her inheritance on kids who can’t afford dance lessons. The one who decides how she shows up in the world.”
A tear escapes, quick, rebellious. “I love you too.” Her voice is shaky but sure. “Please forgive me, Wesley. I was the worst kind of idiot.”
I step in, closing that last inch between us. My hand finds her jaw, my thumb catching the tear before it can fall. “Hey,” I murmur, rough. “You’re not an idiot. You’re mine.”
