My stomach twists because guilt makes everything feel like an accusation.
I keep my eyes on the ice pack like it’s fascinating.
From down the hall, a door clicks.
My pulse jumps before she even appears.
Because the truth is, I can’t afford to lose Cameron.
But I can’t afford to lose Sloane either.
So whatever our kiss was—whatever it becomes—I’m going to have to hold it with both hands and keep it from detonating.
Because grief doesn’t leave space for mistakes.
And I’ve already made one.
17
SLOANE
If I don’t leave the house, I’m going to start measuring time by counting how many times I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at bay.
In headache rubs. In the way Pops’s eyelids droop heavier some days than others. In the pile of pamphlets that keeps migrating across the counter no matter how many times I straighten it. In the staged equipment sitting off to the side like a quiet reminder that this isn’t temporary—none of it is.
So when Jade texts,
Jade: GET DRESSED. GIRLS DAY. NO ARGUMENTS.
I stare at the screen for a full thirty seconds like I’m deciding whether I’m allowed to breathe.
Then I type back:
I have things to do.
Jade: YES. being a human is a thing. see you in 20
Blakely: please. we’ll keep it low-key.
And because Blakely never says please unless she means it, and because Jade will actually come to my house and drag me out by my ponytail, I do the unthinkable.
I agree.
Which is how I end up standing in front of my mirror ten minutes later, tugging on leggings and a sweatshirt like I’m going into battle.
Because I am.
The enemy is my own brain.
The enemy is the way it keeps trying to replay last night like it’s a new problem to solve.
Logan’s hands on the counter on either side of me.
The heat of him.
The way his eyes dropped to my mouth like he was checking if it was real.
The way my body leaned in before my pride could stop it.
