It was a thunderstorm. Electric, bombastic, a deluge of feelings, desires, and need.
With him, I didn’t just breathe—I drowned in the air we shared, in the way he looked at me, in the way he touched me. I didn’t just love—I burned with it, felt it in my bones, in my blood, in the ache of letting go. I didn’t just live—I came alive, more than I ever had before.
And I would love him forever.
Even if it ended. Even if it shattered me.
If he left, there’d be a hollow space inside me, so deep I knew it’d never fully close. But I wouldn’t regret him. I couldn’t.
Because the pain of losing him wouldn’t erase the depth of living through this love.
I didn’t feel like explaining that to anyone, especially not my brother, who texted me about mundane things like our mom’s plumber, as if we didn’t have anything else to discuss. Fit me perfectly to keep it at that level. Ruby understood—sort of. She didn’t quite get the part about the gaping wound in your heart. But thankfully, I knew that Daphne—who had been the one to metaphorically kick my ass into realizing it—did.
A few days after our night out, I came in from the garage, where I had been making a batch of calendula lip balm and filming the process for my YouTube channel. The scent still clung to me as I walked into the house and found Owen and Walter deep in conversation about football.
American football.
They were comparing players—debating quarterback stats and game strategies. I leaned against the counter, listening for a moment, enjoying that they seemed to be on good terms with each other. That wasn’t always the case.
“You’re both wrong,” I said, smirking as I joined them. “If you want real strategy, soccer has it beat. You don’t get time-outs or a dozen coaches yelling plays into your ear. It’s all about reading the field yourself, adapting on the spot.”
Walter chuckled. “And yet, most Americans don’t care.”
“They should,” I shot back, making Owen laugh as he placed a clean coffee cup on a shelf.
“You heard her,” he said to Walter.
Just then his phone buzzed.
He grabbed it from his back pocket, his expression shifting the moment he saw the name. “I have to take this,” he said, already walking away, pressing the phone to his ear.He moved through the living room and out the French doors to the backyard.
My heart lurched.
I didn’t know why. I could only guess that this was the call I knew would come eventually. But the minute he disappeared, I felt the air shift, like something had been set in motion that I couldn’t stop.
Walter kept talking about how every game—whether it was football, soccer, basketball, or Scrabble—needed a solid strategy. But my mind was outside, where Owen was pacing the backyard.
When he returned a few minutes later, his expression was unreadable. He shut the French doors behind him and walked straight into the kitchen.
“That was Alden, my coach,” he said. His gaze landed on me first before drifting to Walter. “He wants me to come in for checkups, talk about options.”
Come in for checkups.Like it was just a quick drive to the next town. As if it didn’t involve a flight across the Atlantic to another continent, a completely different time zone where his day would be my night.
“So, you’re going back?” Walter asked before I could find words.
I knew this was coming but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to utter a word if I opened my mouth to speak now.
“For checkups and discussions,” Owen repeated.
“They’ll be glad to see your knee is much better,” Walter said. “So how much time do we have before you and your frittatas and that expensive car disappear?”
Owen’s expression faltered, caught off-guard by the jab.
“I don’t know, Walter,” he said, his voice sharper now. “All I know is they want to talk to me. And they own my contract.”
“Sure. Egoville is calling. A full stadium waiting to sing Wonder Boy’s praises,” Walter muttered.
I gasped. The knife was rusty, and he twisted it, no doubt.
