But I can’t get into that right now. It’s too heavy, too much.
Instead, I say, “I like it. Being in the middle of things. Helping people figure stuff out. Even if it’s just parking arguments and float disasters.”
Lo lifts an eyebrow. “Speaking of. I heard there was a float involved in my… uh. Return.”
“Oh, absolutely,” I say. “You made quite the entrance. People are still picking glitter out of their hair.”
She groans and drops her forehead to the table. “Kill me.”
“No can do. I have plans to keep you alive long enough to at least witness the gala’s ice sculpture drama.”
She lifts her head just enough to glare. “Still a dork.”
“Still your friend.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
She goes still.
I wait. Let her breathe through it.
Because it’s true. No matter what happened, no matter how many years passed or how many towns she vanished through, that never changed. I never stopped being her friend.
She just forgot how to let me be.
And maybe now she’s remembering.
CHAPTER 7
Lo
Nope.
Nope, nope, nope.
This is not happening.
Hayes Whitlock is not sitting across from me as if nothing has changed. Like it could still be senior year, and we’re splitting fries at the diner after he bailed me out of detention for yelling at Principal Richards.
Like I’m not currently sweating through my damn hoodie and trying not to crawl out of my own skin because I clearly can’t control myself.
And apparently? Hayes smells really fucking good now. Clean cotton and honeycomb, like the emergence of spring after a long, dark winter.
Since when?
His scent reminds me of sun-warmed linen and the kind of quiet that makes you feel safe. And my body? Oh, my body is very into it. My body is screaming: “Hey, bestie, remember this guy? Maybe let’s climb him like a tree.”
God.
I dig my nails into the underside of the table and try not to breathe too deep. Because every time I do, I get another lungfulof Hayes, and it’s as powerful as jamming my hand in a live socket. I know it’ll hurt, but I can’t stop touching it.
He hasn’t even touched me. He’s just sitting there, being all Beta and soft-voiced and caring, which is somehow worse.
“Lo,” he says, smiling brightly.
As if my thighs aren’t clenched under the table and my glands aren’t going haywire and my heart isn’t doing that stupid thing where it skips every time he tilts his head.
His voice sounds again, soft and reassuring. “You okay?”
