Years earlier
It was a blur of humid air and tangled hair in my face as we cruised down the lakeside road, windows down, music thumping low through the speakers. I was sunburned andbarefoot, curled up in Jeremy’s passenger seat with sand still stuck between my toes and my hoodie draped over my lap. Dirks was stretched out in the back, half asleep and pink from the sun, his hand lazily tracing patterns on my shoulder.
We pulled up to this roadside shack—barely more than a trailer with a sign that read FRIED EVERYTHING in chipped, hand-painted letters.
I wrinkled my nose the second I read the menu.
Jeremy didn’t miss a beat. “She doesn’t like fried fish,” he told the girl behind the counter, already stepping up. “You still got those grilled shrimp tacos from last week?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Great. We’ll take three. No slaw on hers, extra lime.” He glanced back once. “Dirks, you still want that nasty-ass root beer float?”
Dirks grinned sleepily and nodded. “Please.”
Jeremy snorted but added it to the order anyway and tossed cash on the counter.
Dirks leaned into my side, pressing a kiss to the curve of my shoulder. “You okay with tacos?”
I smiled. “Yeah.”
He took the drinks when they were handed over and let Jeremy carry the tray of food, moving through the crowd as if the whole place belonged to him.
We ate on the hood of the car, the three of us tangled in that kind of sun-soaked closeness that made the rest of the world feel far away. My feet rested in Dirks’s lap, his fingers soft and aimless on my ankle. Jeremy sat next to me, thigh against mine. With one hand, he held his taco, and the other movedanimatedly as he launched into stories about busted noses, locker room brawls, and suspension-worthy hits.
Jeremy always led. Dirks always soothed. I sat in the middle, feeling full, not from the tacos, but from them.
From being chosen. From being seen. From being theirs.
The memories faded as I reached Will’s front door. My palms were sweaty. My stomach twisted into knots. I already knew he didn’t deserve this kind of ending, quiet and unceremonious, but I couldn’t lie anymore. Not to him. Not to myself.
I raised my hand and knocked.
Once. Then again, softer.
The door opened, and there he was.
“You don’t have to knock,” Will said with a smile, stepping aside.
He was wearing a navy polo and khakis, clean-shaven, hair still damp like he’d just showered.
“You changed after practice?”
“Yeah,” he murmured, pulling me into a kiss before I could say anything else.
It was soft, familiar, practiced.
I leaned into it for a second, then slipped past him, stepping inside.
The house was as grand as ever—elegant in a way that didn’t quite feel lived in. Ornate wallpaper, gold accents, spotless surfaces. His mum had helped decorate it; he told me once she’d picked out every detail.
I’d miss this house.
“Come in,” he called out warmly behind me. “I made your favorite.”
I blinked. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
He smiled, proud of himself. “Remember that place we went in the spring with Ollie and Nova? That little fish place by the lake? I got the recipe for the fried perch from there.”
