I don’t move until the door shuts behind him. And then I sit there alone, falafel untouched, heart pounding, knowing that no matter what I decide, it’s already too late.
I get lost in my head for a little.
Then I stand and follow him out.
Jamie’s cigarette glows orange against the dark, the ember cutting through the night like a warning light. He leans back on the hood of his car, smoke curling lazily into the air, a grin tugging at his mouth like he’s been waiting for me to show up.
“It’s about time,” he says, flicking ash to the ground.
“Don’t start,” I mutter, slamming the door shut. My chest is still tight from the conversation with my uncle, the weight of it pressing against my ribs. “This could end really, really badly.”
Jamie laughs—low, reckless, the kind of sound that makes you want to punch him and follow him at the same time. “If it’s terrible, we still have hockey.”
I can’t help it, I snort. “And Bella.”
He tilts his head, smirking. “Bella’s nice. Maybe we leave her alone for the rest of the year.”
The grin fades slowly as silence seeps between us. The kind that fills in the cracks of everything we’re not saying. Finally, he exhales, flicks what’s left of the cigarette, and pushes off the car.
“Come on,” he says. “We’re going to her place.”
“Jamie—”
“She’s leaving, Miles. It’s now or never.”
I want to say that it’s not, but I know I’m wrong. So I follow him.
The drive is quiet. The kind of quiet that hums under your skin. Jamie drums his fingers on the steering wheel to a beat only he hears, headlights carving a path through the wet pavement. My head’s spinning with everything—Rico, my uncle, Chloe’s name in their mouths. Her voice when she told Jamie she was leaving.
When we pull up outside her building, the windows are dark except for one. Third floor. I know which one’s hers.
Jamie kills the engine. We sit there for a second, the engine ticking.
“You sure about this?” I ask.
He glances over, smirks. “Nope.”
We climb the stairs. He knocks once. Then twice.
The door opens halfway. She’s in a hoodie, her hair damp, like she’s just showered. Bare legs, paint on her hands. Her eyes widen when she sees both of us standing there.
“What are you two doing here?”
Jamie leans against the doorframe, easy as ever. “Can we talk?”
She looks between us, suspicion tightening her shoulders. “About what?”
“Everything,” I say.
She hesitates, then sighs and steps back. “Fine.”
The apartment smells like detergent and rain. There are suitcases and bags stacked by the door, half-packed.
Paris. She wasn’t lying.
Jamie sits on the counter, and I take the arm of the couch. Chloe stands near the window, arms crossed.
“Well?” she says. “I can’t say I was expecting the both of you.”
