She pauses when she sees me, silhouetted against the porch light.
“You know,” she says lightly, “it’s illegal in some states to drink alone and brood like that.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Good thing we’re not in those states.”
She hesitates, then steps forward, setting the plate on the small table near the door. I pat the step beside me.
“Sit,” I say. “Have one with me.”
She arches a brow. “Can you still not drink alone?”
I grin around the mouth of the bottle. “Apparently not.”
She shakes her head, but there’s fondness in it. She crosses the porch and sits opposite me, folding her legs beneath her instead of taking the spot beside me. The distance is deliberate. I respect it.
I take another sip, then lower the bottle and look at her properly.
She looks… tired.
Not the surface-level exhaustion I’ve seen all week, that comes from long days and short nights, but something deeper. Her shoulders are slightly slumped, her mouth set in a way that doesn’t quite hide the downturn at the corners. Her eyes, usuallyso bright they seem to catch the light, look dimmer tonight. Like she’s been holding something heavy in her heart.
Brandon.
The thought surfaces.
I won’t lie to myself: since the moment I came back and found out she was dating someone, some small, shameful part of me has been praying for it to end. Not because I think I deserve another chance, but because the idea of someone else having her, building a life with her I once thought would be mine, felt unbearable.
But now, seeing her like this, after the breakup, the guilt hits hard.
Whatever happened today didn’t end cleanly. It never does.
I don’t ask. I don’t need to; I had seen enough the previous day. The quiet between us feels calm.
We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes. The bottle sweats in my hand. The night presses close.
“You, okay?” I ask finally.
She considers the question, eyes unfocused on the dark yard. “I will be.”
I nod. It’s a Claire answer. Honest without being revealing.
She glances at the bear beside me and smiles faintly. “You stole her bedtime buddy.”
“She left him downstairs,” I say. “I was going to bring him back up.”
“She’ll forgive you.” A beat. “Eventually.”
We both smile at that.
The moment stretches. The crickets sing in the background.
I want to tell her everything.
I want to tell her that I’ve thought about her every day since I left. That I replay the moment she had walked out of that house in my nightmares, the sound of the door closing echoing over and over again. That I’ve carried the weight of what I did like a stone in my chest for a decade.
I want to tell her that seeing her again. Even more graceful and so achingly beautiful, feels like being punched and seized at the same time.
But my feelings don’t matter.
