“How big?”
“Like THIS big.” The kid spreads his arms as wide as they'll go.
“Whoa. That's a serious beard. We’re going to need more supplies for that one.” Everett glances around the table, then spots a tangle of brown yarn. “What do you think—brown like mine, or should we go full mountain man with the gray?”
“GRAY!” The boy bounces on his heels. “Like a WIZARD beard!”
“Excellent choice. Very distinguished.”
I lower my camera just long enough to feel the full weight of what I'm watching.
Everett Morgan, fifth-generation lodge owner,subject of my teenage fantasies, my first love—myonlylove, and the man I still can't stop wanting—on his knees on frozen ground, covered in craft supplies, helping a stranger's kid build a fake wizard beard.
This is the man I told it meant nothing.
This is the man I watched leave town because he couldn't stand to see what I'd broken.
This is the man who looked at me last night and saidwe'd be alone togetherlike it was a promise instead of a pipe dream.
My throat tightens.
A woman approaches Everett—the redheaded girl's mother, based on the matching hair. She's got the frazzled look of someone who's been chasing a child through a festival for hours.
“Thank you so much,” she says, putting a hand on his arm in that casually grateful way strangers do. “She was worried she wouldn’t be allowed to participate being a girl and all. You're so good with her.”
“She's a natural.” Everett stands, brushing yarn fuzz off his jeans and watches the little girl help the boy with his wizard chic. “You've got a future beard champion on your hands.”
The woman laughs. “Do you have kids of your own?”
My lungs seize, the breath lodging in my chest.
I watch Everett's expression flicker—just for a second—before he slides his customer-service smile back into place.
“Not yet,” he says. “Someday.”
Someday.
The word echoes in my skull, rattling against all the walls I've built.
Eleven years ago, we talked about someday. Whispered it into the dark of the Shred Shack, tangled up in each other, too young and too stupid to know we were already doomed.
Someday we'll tell them.
Someday we won't have to hide.
Someday we'll have this forever.
I thought we were telling stories.
He was declaring his future.
And someday never came.
Now he's thirty-one, still single, still waiting for something that looks a lot like everything I stole from him.
The woman moves on, dragging her yarn-bearded daughter toward the registration table. Everett watches them go, and for just a moment, his mask slips.
He looks tired. Lonely. Like someone carrying a weight he never asked for.
