Jules nodded back, then ducked into the convenience store like they had something urgent to buy. Gum. Tea. A new personality. Gas could wait until they didn’t feel like they were being watched.
They made a beeline for the candy aisle, heart pounding like they’d just escaped a heist.
It was immature to avoid Keaton, but they didn’t have an answer for him yet. It was still hard to believe he’d been sincere when he invited Jules to stay in his guestroom. As long as they didn’t talk about it, Jules could keep it as a possibility in case all otheroptions were exhausted. And maybe it’d take long enough to sell the farm that Keaton would have the apartments ready to rent, and there’d be nothing to worry about.
They grabbed the first pack of gum they saw, a bottle of peach tea, then stared at a rack of beef jerky for a full minute. Just long enough to make sure Keaton would be gone by the time they came out.
“He probably irons his socks,” they muttered, barely a whisper.
And just like that, they were talking to themselves in a gas station. Peak stability.
Living with Keaton? That’d be emotional suicide. Jules would last five days, maybe less. They’d knock over one too many spice jars or forget to label leftovers and end up exiled to the small patch of grass behind the building.
Worse, they’d fall harder. And he still wouldn’t notice.
They paid for their things and stepped back outside. No sign of Keaton. His truck was already replaced by a minivan with a cracked bumper and sagging suspension.
Jules climbed into their car, dropped the bag onto the passenger seat, and just sat. Hands on the wheel. Breathing shallow.
It wasn’t just the house. It was the version of the future that had lived there with them—the one where everything stayed mostly the same, just with more art supplies and maybe, eventually, someone who didn’t mind the mess.
Someone like Keaton, without the extreme organization tendencies.
They exhaled slowly. No more spiraling. Not today.
They’d come up with a plan. Fake it if needed.
Because if they didn’t figure something out soon, they’d be couch-hopping with a sketchbook and calling it “an immersive experience in impermanence.”
They pulled out of the lot without putting any gas in the tank, steering toward the park. Pencil. Paper. Something tangible. They needed to create. To forget, just for a little while.
But Keaton’s face lingered.
Jules shook their head.
No.
They weren’t doing this, not over a man who probably alphabetized his spices and canned goods.
Still, their heart fluttered.
And the thought returned, quiet and stubborn.
What if Keatonwasinterested in them?
What if something heldhimback and the offer was his olive branch?
They pressed harder on the gas.
Spoiler alert: speeding down country roads doesn’t help either.
Jules’sgray mood refused to lift, even after a full night of sleep. They’d tried everything, finally resorting to spending as much time away from home as possible. This morning, theywere in the mood for a treat and time with a friend. Sweet & Simple Bakery smelled like comfort—cinnamon and espresso, warm bread, sugar-dusted everything. It should’ve made them feel better. Usually, it did. But today?
Today, even the wall of pastries behind the glass case couldn’t cheer them up.
Ollie looked up from the corner table where he was hunched over a napkin, pencil in one hand and an already half-demolished cinnamon roll in the other.
“There you are,” he said, grinning. His smile fell when he noticed Jules’s slumped shoulders. “Hey, what’s gotten into you? You look like someone told you glitter’s been outlawed.”
