"Ten years of us and we're just . . . done?"
Before she can answer, the door bursts open. Amelia stumbles in, face pale, phone clutched in her hand.
"It's James. He's at the hospital." Her voice shakes.
"What? What happened?"
"His mom had surgery, but that's not—" Amelia swallows hard. "Brodie texted me. James is being admitted."
"What do you mean, admitted?" Ivy steps forward, her hand unconsciously reaching for mine before she catches herself. The almost-touch burns worse than if she'd actually made contact. "Is he okay?"
"I don't know." Amelia's eyes are wide, scared. "Brodiesaid it was bad."
"Caleb?" Ivy's voice breaks through the static in my head. "We should go."
And there it is. That soft concern I don't deserve. Even now, even after everything, she still cares. Still shows up.
"Yeah." I force my legs to move. "Let's go."
We leave the bowling alley behind, the conversation unfinished, the wounds still raw. But somehow, watching Ivy slide into Amelia's car instead of mine feels like the real ending.
Maybe some breaks are meant to stay broken.
Five days. That's howlong it's been since everything imploded at Lucky Strike, and I've spent every single one of them perfecting the art of avoidance. Well, except for that one night I showed up at Brodie's drunk off my ass, but we don't talk about that.
I'm halfway through shoving frozen waffles into my mouth when Dad clears his throat from the doorway. He's already dressed for work—flannel shirt tucked into jeans, boots laced tight—but he's not moving toward the door like usual.
"So." He scratches his jaw, that sandpaper sound he makes when he's thinking too hard. "Boston."
"Yeah." I take another bite of waffle, syrup dripping onto my plate. Running away has always been my specialty, but this time I might've taken it a bit too literally. "Tonight."
"Look, son, I . . ." He stops, runs a hand through his graying hair. "Maybe I should've said this before, but—"
"Dad, it's fine." I cut him off, not ready for whatever this is. "You don't haveto—"
"I'm proud of you." The words tumble out fast, like he's been holding them back for years. "For the gaming thing, for taking this chance. I know I haven't always been . . . I might've been too hard on you, and—"
"Really, it's okay." I stand up, suddenly desperate to escape this kitchen, this conversation, the weight of his guilt-heavy eyes. "I should probably pack."
He deflates slightly, shoulders sagging. "Right. Of course."
I dump my plate in the sink, hyperaware of the silence stretching between us. Dad hovers by the doorway, like he wants to say more but doesn't know how.
Then, before I can react, he steps forward and pulls me into a hug. His arms are solid around me, and he smells of coffee and Old Spice, and for a second, I'm eight again, before everything got complicated.
It's weird. But also . . . nice.
"Caleb?"
"Yeah?" My voice comes out muffled against his shoulder.
He releases me, clearing his throat. "Just . . . call when you get there. Your mother worries." He pauses, looks away. "I do too. Want to know how you're settling in."
The olive branch is so tentative, so unlike him, that my chest does this weird squeeze thing.
"Sure," I manage. "I'll call."
He nods once, sharp and decisive, then heads for the door. The soft click of it closing leaves me alone with my half-eaten waffle, and the strange sense that we're both trying to fix something neither of us can name yet.
