Because I’ve spenttwelve yearstrying to unlearn a crush that refuses to die. And addictions need abstinence if you’re going to take your life back.
“Not this year,” Fallon says. “Olympics are next summer, remember? Training camp in Wyoming for the holidays. Lucky cat.” Fallon beams with pride. “We’ll video call on the day.”
Something softens in her eyes when she looks at me. Searching. Gentle. And my pulse stumbles.Does she know?Has she guessed that Ally has been the gold standard since I was eighteen? That every woman I meet gets compared to her without my meaning to?
No, she can’t. I’ve never said a word. Never slipped. Always kept distance when I should. Always been careful.
Still… Fallonseesmore than most, always uncannily good at reading between the lines.
She pats my knee. “Text Mac. Tell him you’re going. He keeps the cabin stocked.”
“Yeah, one case of whiskey and enough jerky to feed a small country.”
“Then stop for some sensible groceries. And pack a book without your face on the cover.”
Across the room, the guy who plays my brother gets bucked off the mechanical bull. The bar erupts. Someone calls for tequila slammers, and Fallon and I share a synchronized grimace.
“My cue,” she says, kissing my cheek. “Go home. Pack warm things. Take care of yourself. And Nate?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re allowed to want to be your own person.”
She disappears into the crowd, velvet swinging behind her, and I feel something like gratitude. And something like grief. Since Mom passed, Fallon’s the only family who’s ever felt unequivocallysafe;always nurturing, unfailingly pleased to see me, and never expecting me to be anyone other than myself.
I pull out my phone and stare at a contact I haven’t used in months.
Ally Montrose.
My thumbs type:Hope training’s going well. Have fun in Wyoming.
I delete it before I can convince myself to press send. Even ‘brotherly’ messages are a slippery slope when I’m already unraveling at the edges.
Across the bar, the cast starts a drunken hum-along to the show’s theme. I can’t tell if it makes me nostalgic or nauseous, but either way, it’s enough.
Fallon’s right. I need to leave this city. Leave my father’s shadow. Leave my own head. So, before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my jacket and push through the crowd, already planning the drive. I’ll text Dad on the way; he’ll be fine with me using the place. We’ve been… better, recently. Notcats in the cradleor anything, but working on a film together helped us find a little common ground, and we text more often now.
Montana, here I come. A few weeks of cold, quiet, blessed solitude. Christmas and the New Year alone with my thoughts in the peace and quiet of a cozy cabin. Maybe I’ll finally get my head on straight, come up with a viable plan that lets me be Nate, rather than Mac’s natural successor.
Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll even be able to finally put this impossible, unrequited crush on my stepsister to rest.
Somehow.
CHAPTER 2
Ally - 28
“Motherfucking butthole titfaced pig fucker!”
Ooh. That was a good one.
Every few minutes I’ve been spewing out whatever creative filth my brain can conjure, but interestingly I haven’t cried yet. I should probably examine that at some point. But not now. Right now I’m trying to make Mac’s comfy old SUV pretend it’s a snowplow and get me through this blizzard without dying.
The snow started out harmless, almost romantic. Soft little confetti flurries that make you remember each snowflake is different. Now, in late-evening pitch black, it’s a full-on assault of chunky globs, bound to settle.
The wipers slap back and forth like a metronome for my questionable decisions. Like storming away from the Olympic archery team’s Christmas “bonding” getaway.
Like driving a few hundred miles through Montana to my former stepdad’s cabin the day before New Year’s Eve.
