"Caroline..." His voice is rough, frayed like a rope about to snap. "Please tell me you believe me."
The words land between us like a live wire, buzzing, sparking, impossible to ignore.
My chest thuds so hard it feels like my ribs might crack, every part of me screaming in two different directions — one desperate to run, the other desperate to close the gap and just... believe him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ZACH
Ican see it — the flick of her gaze, the tiny hitch in her breathing — like her whole body can't decide whether to believe me or not.
If this were before, she would've believed me already. Would've forgiven me, called me an idiot, punched my arm, and we'd be fine.
But not now.
The air between us feels different. Heavier. Like we're standing on a fault line, waiting to see which way the ground will split.
And I can read it in her face — shewantsto believe me. She gets why I said those things, why I let them out of my stupid mouth instead of just manning up and telling Jacob the truth: that I was in love with my best friend.
God, I should've just said it. Owned it. Instead, I let panic and jealousy and pure, unfiltered male stupidity run the show. First time I'd ever been in love, and yeah, I completely fumbled it.
Can you name one person who was an expert at love on their first try? No?
Yeah, me neither.
I wish I could tell her all of that. Wish I could make her see that it wasn't malice, it was me — an eighteen-year-old idiot with a crush so big it rewired my brain and turned me into the human embodiment of a bad decision.
And still, she's sitting there, fighting it.
I wait. For her to say something. Anything.
But she doesn't. She just sits there, quiet, staring at the floor like the words I just said are too heavy to pick up.
So, I do what I probably shouldn't — I stare.
God, she looks different up close.
When I saw her at La Playa that night, I honestly thought I was losing it. She looked like her and not like her at the same time, like my brain was trying to merge two versions of Caroline that didn't quite fit together yet.
She'd lost weight since I last saw her. Her curves more defined, her frame more...God, more everything.
The way her shirt skims over her waist, the way her jeans hug her hips—perfect. She looks like she could take someone's breath away just by walking into a room.
She definitely took mine.
And her hair. It used to be this nut-brown mess she always tied up because she said it frizzed too much. Now it's long, silver-bright, glossy enough to belong in a shampoo commercial. Tonight, she's wearing it down, framing her face perfectly, catching the light every time she moves.
She's wearing makeup too, but barely—just enough to make her skin glow. She doesn't need it. She never did. I always thought she was prettiest barefaced, freckles scattered like constellations across her nose and cheeks.
She really has changed.
And yet the thought squeezes something in my chest, sharp and aching. Yeah, she's stunning—this gorgeous, self-assured woman sitting in front of me now—but a part of me can't stop missing the girl who used to curl up next to me on the couch.
Back then, she was all warmth and softness, the kind of softness you could sink into. She felt solid, comforting — like having my own personal pillow that laughed at my dumb jokes and stole my hoodies.
I loved the way she filled the space beside me, the way her weight settled against me like she trusted me to hold it. It felt right. Perfect. Like she was built to fit me.
My sugarplum.
