Roman raises a brow. “Good news?”
“Depends,” I say. “Sierra wants the great room tonight for some kind of heritage walk.”
Caleb’s jaw drops. “She’s going to go to war with the network on your floor?”
Nolan’s eyes sharpen. “And you’re…okay with that?”
I keep my expression steady.
I don’t let anything from the darkroom show.
They don’t get that piece of me—not yet.
“Yeah,” I say simply. “If Sierra says it’s important, I trust her judgment.”
Roman nods once. “Then we’ll clear the room.”
The knot in my chest tightens, but not painfully.
The same old fear is still there.
The same what-ifs.
But for the first time in eleven years, the chaos doesn’t feel like it’s closing in.
It feels like the beginning of something new.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sierra
By the timeI get back to my room, the Banger Sisters crew has everything spread out and the floor looks like a scrapbook factory detonated. Photos, ticket stubs, ripped notebook pages, and at least four empty cocoa mugs litter every surface.
The shoebox hits the quilt with the soft thud of something heavier than cardboard. Emotional weight. Historical weight. The kind you try not to think about until you’re ripping it all open in front of four women you trust with your life.
Charlie whistles low. “Damn, girl. That’s not a box. That’s an archive.”
“It’s a shrine,” Holly corrects, scooting closer. “Your personal Smithsonian of ‘Oh No I Have Feelings’.”
Eve flops onto her stomach and pulls a label maker from her tote like she’s arming herself. “I brought organization tools. Don’t judge me. I like order in my chaos.”
Dixie kicks the door shut and sets down the other two shoeboxes she insisted on carrying. “And I broughtsnacks, because this?” She gestures at the spread. “This feels like a group project powered by sugar and tears.”
My pulse thrums under my skin. The snowstorm outside lashes the windows, wind whistling across the old glass. We’re technically trapped—but I’ve never felt less stuck in my life.
Charlie holds up a crinkled slip of paper. “Yeah, babe. This is a man you never got over. Exhibit A: this note literally says ‘don’t forget how he looked at you today.’” She pauses. “We already know how he looked at you today, and you’re still trying to breathe normally.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “We are not discussing my respiratory patterns.”
“Oh, we are,” Eve deadpans. “We’re discussing everything. This is group therapy with scissors.”
Dixie lifts a photo of Everett laughing, head tipped back, shirt half untucked. “Okay but like… were you TRYING to emotionally torture yourself? This is criminally pretty.”
“I took that during the fall festival setup,” I mutter.
Charlie gasps. “So the year you almost fell off a ladder and he caught you by the belt loop?”
“That’s unrelated.”
