Kit gave me a look I couldn’t quite interpret, then nodded and handed me a crumpled program. The top corner had a faint smudge.
I took it gratefully and let my eyes skim the list of class names and songs, pretending to care about the order of the medley.
“Selene?” a voice said beside me.
I turned to find one of the moms from Winnie’s class sliding into the seat behind me. She was tall and smiley and always seemed to have her life together in a way that made me feel vaguely sticky and underdressed. Tonight was no exception—her curls were shiny, her lipstick flawless, and she smelled like expensive perfume and eucalyptus baby wipes.
“Hey,” I said, managing a smile.
“Can you believe how packed it is?” she asked, fanning herself with the program. “I swear, every time it’s like this. My husband’s late, of course. Probably still circling the parking lot.”
I nodded like I knew exactly what that was like. As though I hadn’t checked my phone twice already since sitting down.
She leaned in conspiratorially. “Or maybe he stopped for beer. He always does this thing where he gets here just as the lights go down and then acts like he didn’t miss anything.”
I gave a polite laugh, my thumb brushing over my phone screen again. Still blank.
It’s just traffic. Or overtime. Or a last-minute hiccup at the jobsite.
That was all. I knew there had to be a reason Austin was running later than expected.
I tucked the phone into my bag, folded my hands in my lap, and tried not to think about the coat beside me. I tried not to hope he’d walk through the doors any second, cheeks flushed from the cold, apologizing with his eyes before he even reached me.
The gym lights flickered once, then again. A hush rippled through the crowd as the overhead fluorescents dimmed to half bright.
The show was starting, and the seat beside me was still empty.
THIRTY-ONE
AUSTIN
The smellof spackle and drywall dust clung to my hoodie. I’d been smoothing and sanding all morning, and by the time I climbed into my SUV, my hands were raw and my shoulders were stiff. I cracked the window, letting in a wash of cold air that smelled like woodsmoke and October.
My phone buzzed against the dash. I glanced at the screen, thumb already mid-reach to decline whatever spam was trying to get my vote or my soul or my subscription—but it wasn’t spam.
It was Brody.
That alone made me pause. He didn’t call. We texted. Short things. Things with no weight. Memes about him being an old man or sarcastic remarks about small-town life, the kind of conversations that didn’t ask for anything and didn’t offer much either.
I swiped to answer.
“Hey,” I said, adjusting the volume with my knuckle.
There was a brief delay, just long enough to make me think he might’ve pocket-dialed me.
Then his voice came through—low, like he was already regretting whatever he was about to say. “Hey. I know you’ve been stretched thin. You good?”
I blinked. “Uh . . . yeah.”
It came out slower than I meant it to. Not because it wasn’t true—just because he’d asked.
Brody didn’t always ask about things. Not in that tone, anyway.
He cleared his throat. I heard the faint creak of a chair, a metallic shuffle. Somewhere behind him, a muffled voice over a radio squawked in and out.
“Are you around?” he asked. “I found something I wanted to show you.” There was a beat. And then he said, “It’s not a trap, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I let out a short breath, halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Didn’t cross my mind.”
