“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Of course. I’ll be home.”
“Good,” he says. “Drive safe.”
He hangs up before I can ask anything else.
I stare at my phone for a second longer than necessary, then lock it and shove it deep into my bag.
Nothing is wrong.
I don’t let my brain think of anything else.
Positive thoughts only. A new mantra that I’m trying, and failing miserably, to uphold in this season of my life.
The drive home is automatic. Same route. Same playlist. Same mental checklist—assignments due, film to review, groceries we need because Pops always forgets oat milk and insists regular is “basically the same.”
When I pull into the cul-de-sac, there’s a truck I know all too well parked in our driveway.
I brake harder than I mean to.
What the hell?
I cut the engine and grab my bag, slamming the door harder than necessary.
The front door opens before I reach it, and looking past Pops, I see the owner of said truck.
Logan Brooks sits at our kitchen table like he never left.
He’s in sweats and a worn PCU football hoodie, leg stretched out, with a massive black brace strapped from thigh to shin. Crutches leaning up against the wall. His dark brown hair is a little longer now, curling at the edges. He looks bigger inside the small kitchen, like he’s taking up air he doesn’t deserve. His piercing blue eyes drag over me once, slowly working their way from my toes to my face, and my skin goes tight, like my body remembers something my brain has been ordered to forget.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“Great,” I mutter. “The infestation’s back.”
His mouth curves, slow and sharp. “Aww, you missed me. That’s sweet, Rhodes.”
Pops sighs like a man who regrets every life choice that led to this moment. “Children…”
“We’re not children,” we say at the same time.
We both scowl.
Logan leans back in the chair, arms crossing over his chest, biceps straining the sleeves. “Relax, Sunshine. I’m just eating your dad’s world-famous chili.”
“My chili,” I correct. “I made it this morning before practice. He just finished it for me.”
“Oh.” He lifts his spoon, chewing slowly. “You might wanna work on your seasoning then.”
I glare. “You’re welcome for the free food and lodging.”
“Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve slept in worse places,” he says. “At least here the roof doesn’t leak.”
Pops pinches the bridge of his nose. “I swear to God, you two are taking ten years off my life.”
I move my gaze away from Logan, making sure I don’t hold his gaze for too long. If I do, I’ll remember things I don’t have time for.
Like the way Logan used to sprawl across our couch after practice, stealing my snacks and arguing with Cameron about stupid shit, like which sport was harder. The way he used to help Pops carry groceries without being asked. The way he used to look at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention—like we had a secret that neither one of us knew how to keep.
That was before the party. Before he decided that he knew exactly who I was.
