"We are NEVER, EVER, EVER getting back together!" I bob my head as I belt, drumming the steering wheel like it's my drum kit.
Elijah snorts from the passenger seat. "Is this what being in love does to you, Z? Turns you into a Taylor Swift fanboy?"
"Oh, don't judge me," I smirk, glancing over at him. "I'm happy in love."
Elijah takes a long swig of that disgusting shake my sister makes him. The greenish-brown sludge clings to the sides of his bottle, but somehow he's actually enjoying it.
My face scrunches involuntarily—how can he drink that swamp water?
"Yeah, I can see that," Elijah chuckles, chugging more of his shake. "And considering you didn't come home last night, I have a wild guess you spent the night at Caroline's again?"
Heat crawls up my neck and I press my lips together.
I don't need to spell out how things have... progressed with Caroline. From Elijah's knowing smirk, he's already figured it out.
He pats my shoulder, looking genuinely happy for me. "Well, well. Look who finally won't die a virgin with blue balls."
I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. "You're such an ass."
He smirks. "Maybe, but at least I get to witness history. My boy finally getting some."
"Shut up."
He chuckles again, taking another sip of his gross shake. "Relax, I'm just saying. You look... different lately. Happier."
"Maybe that's because I am," I say, keeping my eyes on the road but smiling anyway.
"Yeah," he says, leaning back. "That much is obvious."
Fifteen minutes later, I'm back in my room, tossing my duffel bag onto the floor. I'm halfway through pulling off my hoodie when my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I fish it out and see Mom flashing on the screen.
"Hey, Mom. What's up?"
Her voice comes through warm and soft, the kind of tone that always makes me picture her smiling. "Oh, hi, sweetheart. Did I call at a bad time?"
"Nope," I say, sitting on the edge of my bed and raking a hand through my damp hair. "Just got back from workout. What are you up to?"
There's a faint clatter on the other end—metal against glass, maybe the hum of the mixer—and I can already picture it. She's in the kitchen again.
That's been her thing lately. Baking.
She bakesevery day.Cupcakes, muffins, pies—stuff that could win awards if she ever bothered to sell them, which she won't.
Mom's not in it for the money. She doesn't really need it anyway.
Dad left us more than enough when he passed. He was smart about it, even back then. Picked up multiple properties across Florida—condos near the beach, a few apartment complexes, even some commercial spaces—and turned them into rentals. The man had a knack for real estate; every investment he made just kept growing.
Now the income from those places practically runs itself. We've been well-off for a long time, and Mom's never had to worry about finances.
So baking isn't about business for her. It's just what keeps her busy. What keeps her smiling.
She always says it makes the house feel less empty. And since she can't possibly eat everything she makes, she ends up sharing most of it—drops off a few trays next door at Caroline's parents' place and donates the rest to nearby shelters.
"Oh, you know," she says, voice light and distracted, "just prepping the ingredients for strawberry cheesecake cupcakes and some lemon poppyseed loaves."
I can almost smell it through the phone. "You really need to start a bakery, Mom. I'm serious."
She laughs softly. "Sweetheart, if I started selling them, it would stop being fun."
