My breath shudders.
There’s a memory that slams into me without warning — him leaning against my locker, smiling like the world was kind. His hand slipping into mine. The night by the river, his hands shaking as he promised he’d come back.
Your smile, my ghost.
“I loved you,” I whisper.
His voice is hoarse. “I never stopped.”
The space between us collapses.
This kiss is nothing like the one in my kitchen.
This one is desperate. Claiming. Years of loss and longing crashing together in the press of his mouth against mine. I gasp, my hands fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer because the truth has finally torn the floor out from under us and I need something solid.
His hands slide to my waist, anchoring me, steady and sure. He kisses me like he’s making up for lost time, like he’s been holding this back for a decade and can’t anymore.
I kiss him back just as hard, just as hungry, tears slipping down my cheeks because grief and relief feel the same in my body right now.
When we finally pull apart, foreheads pressed together, we’re both breathing hard.
“I’m angry,” I admit. “And hurt. And scared.”
“I know,” he says. “I am too.”
“But I don’t want to run,” I whisper.
His thumb brushes my cheek, gentle. “Neither do I.”
From across the room, Daisy calls out, “Are you done talking yet? I need a quote for my ending!”
Brendon laughs, breathless and real, and something in my chest loosens.
“Coming,” he calls back.
He looks at me one more time, eyes steady. “One step at a time?”
I nod. “One step.”
SIX
BRENDON
I don’t go back to my mom’s house after the fire station.
I drive until the town thins out, until the road narrows and the trees close in like they’re trying to keep secrets. Snow dusts the branches, catching the headlights in brief, blinding flashes. I roll the window down despite the cold, letting the air bite at my face like penance.
Anger hums under my skin.
Not the explosive kind. The quiet, corrosive kind that settles into your bones and waits.
I pull over near the overlook by the river—the same stretch of water where I used to park my truck when I was seventeen, when the future felt like something you could outrun if you drove fast enough. The river is darker now, heavier with winter, moving slow and sure like it knows exactly where it’s going.
I lean against the hood and breathe.
She thought I cheated.
The words loop in my head, over and over, each time landing a little harder.
