Lucas nods. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
He’s not wrong.
My room isdark and quiet. Through the wall, I can hear Lucas still moving around. Probably organizing something. He does that when he can’t sleep.
On my other side, Nate’s room is silent. But I’d bet money he’s awake too.
I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.
We built this house together. Nate and I started it those first few years after she left, when we needed something to do with our hands besides check our phones. Lucas joined us when hecame back from residency two years ago, slotting into the room we’d left empty for him like no time had passed.
Four bedrooms total. One for each of us.
And one sitting empty at the end of the hall.
Cozy room. Big windows, but with blackout curtains so she could make it dark whenever she needed. Window seat for reading. Soft lamps, because omegas need that for nesting. Built-in shelves along one wall for blankets and pillows. A bed big enough for four.
We built it to be her nest. Nate researched what omegas need — spent weeks on it, wouldn’t let us help until he had it perfect. He designed the whole layout. Lucas picked out the lighting, the soft colors. And I planted a garden outside that window. Roses and lavender and all the flowers I knew she loved, so she’d wake up to color every morning.
We never talk about it. The door’s been closed for years. Sometimes I walk past and my hand reaches for the knob before I catch myself. Old habits. Muscle memory from a future that never happened.
Nine years since we finished that room. It was the first thing we built, that first year after she left. We were so sure she was coming back. So certain that any day now, she’d need a nest. Needus.
The roses are still there, blooming every summer for no one.
I wonder what she’d think if she saw it. If she’d understand what it meant. That we built her a room in a house she’d never seen, in a future she’d already walked away from.
That window seat. Nate was so sure about it.
And suddenly I’m back there.
Sophomore year. Spring. I’m sixteen and completely, hopelessly gone for Cara Donovan.
She’s on the porch swing with that romance novel she’s read a hundred times. Dog-eared pages, cracked spine, quotes she’sunderlined in pencil. I don’t understand how she can read the same book over and over.
“Because I already know it ends happy,” she told me once. “Sometimes you need to know it ends happy.”
I’m supposed to be planting roses along the back fence. Grandma Eileen hired me for the summer. Ten bucks an hour, lemonade breaks, and unlimited access to her granddaughter. Best job I’ve ever had.
But I keep getting distracted. Cara in her sundress, bare feet tucked under her, afternoon light catching the honey tones in her hair. Her scent drifting across the yard every time the breeze shifts. Sweet citrus and something warm underneath that makes my chest tight.
I’m so far gone it’s embarrassing.
I force myself to focus on the roses. Dig the hole. Place the roots. Fill it in. Don’t look at her. Don’t think about how she laughs. Don’t think about the way she says your name.
“You’re staring at that rose like it owes you money.”
I look up. She’s standing right there, holding a glass of lemonade, condensation dripping down her fingers. When did she get so close?
“Brought you a drink,” she says. “You’ve been out here for hours.”
I stand up, brushing dirt off my jeans. I’ve grown over the winter, finally taller than her, which she pretends to be annoyed about. From up here, I can see the freckles across her nose. The way her lips curve when she’s trying not to smile.
“Thanks.” I take the glass. Our fingers brush. I try very hard to be cool about it.
“You have dirt on your nose,” she says.
“I always have dirt on my nose.”
