“You know what? I actually thought we were having a genuine conversation for once. That you were showing me the real Brooks Kingston.” She shakes her head, disgust evident in her expression. “But this is the real you, isn’t it? The guy who builds connections just to burn them down.”
Her words hit with surgical precision, cutting straight to the heart of what I’m doing right now. For a second, I consider backing down, telling her the truth.
Instead, I double down.
“We’re fake dating, Sydney. Don’t confuse the act with reality.”
She flinches like I’ve slapped her. “Message received. Loud and clear.” Her voice is ice now, brittle and cold. “Don’t worry, I won’t make that mistake again.”
She turns, skating with surprising speed toward the shore where we left our shoes. I watch her go, a hollowness expanding in my chest.
“Sydney, wait—” But I don’t even knowwhat I’d say if she did wait. I don’t know how to fix what I just deliberately broke.
She doesn’t look back, already unlacing her skates with quick, angry movements.
I follow slowly, the distance between us growing in more ways than one. By the time I reach the shore, she’s already pulled on her boots and is marching up the path toward Meema’s house.
“Don’t bother coming after me,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Fine,” I shout back, frustration and self-loathing making my voice harsh. “I wasn’t planning to come back tonight anyway.”
That makes her pause, turning slightly though not fully facing me. “What?”
“I’m going to the cabin,” I say, referring to the old hunting cabin up on the ridge that belonged to my grandfather. “Need some space to think. Tell Meema not to wait up.”
Sydney stands there for a moment, silhouetted against the last light of day. I can’t read her expression from this distance, can’t tell if she’s hurt or relieved or just done with me.
“Fine,” she says finally. “Run away. It’s what you do best.”
Ouch.
Then she’s gone, heading around to the other side of the house and leaving me alone with the cooling air and my churning thoughts.
I take my time changing back into my boots, prolonging the moment before I have to face the consequences of what I’ve just done.
The hike to the cabin is familiar enough that I can do it on autopilot, my mind replaying our conversation in an endless, torturous loop. The genuine connection we shared. The vulnerabilities I revealed. The deliberate way I torpedoed it all when it got too real.
Kings don’t show weakness, son.
But that’s exactly what I just did.
The cabin is cold and dark when I arrive, exactly like the hollow feeling in my chest. I fumble for the generator switch, the ancient machine grumbling to life and casting a harsh light over the dusty interior. I stop, finally allowing myself to feel the full weight of what I’ve done.
I hurt Sydney. Deliberately. To create distance. Because for a few minutes on that ice, with the sunset painting her face in gold and her hand warm in mine, I forgot all the reasons we can’t be real. I forgot how fucked I am. I forgot my promise to Jonah.
I forgot everything except how much I wanted to kiss her.
And that’s exactly why I had to push her away. Because Sydney Holt deserves better than a man whose whole life is set to implode.
She deserves better than me.
18
Soup for the Soul
SYDNEY
Isit out on Maisie’s back porch; the cold air burns my lungs, but it’s nothing compared to the ice forming around my heart. Did that really just happen? One minute, Brooks and I are sharing an actual human connection on the frozen lake, and the next he’s deliberately torpedoing it by bringing up the second-worst memory from our shared history. It’s like he’s desperate to make me hate him again. Mission accomplished, Kingston. Gold star.
