Right out the damn window.
“Who is she?” Ty asks as our server turns away to put in the drink order.
“You don’t have the best memory from high school, do you?”
“Dude,” he scoffs. “You know that was my party phase.”
I chuckle, but I can’t take my eyes off her.
Faith Easton.
She’s wearing loose jeans and a chambray shirt, same as the other servers, but somehow it all fits her different. Like her body didn’t get the memo she was supposed to fade into the background. And yeah, I notice her ass. I’m a man, not a monk.
But that’s not why I remember her.
Okay—maybe it’s part of it. Shedidhave a great one back in high school too. But what Ireallyremember is that question she asked at Bible camp. She must’ve been fourteen, braces and all, still tripping over her words around guys. But when she raised her hand and asked our counselor, point blank,Why would God let bad things happen to innocent people?—everything stopped.
It wasn’t rebellious. It wasn’t performative.
It was real.
And I remember thinking:Who is this girl?
Back then, I was fifteen, at Bible camp because my mom insisted. But that question stuck with me—and so did Faith.
Despite my jock status—the whole town’s football prodigy—I never quite had the guts to talk to her. She was in honors classes, head always buried in a book. I was barely passing the basic curriculum and trying to act like I didn’t care.
She intimidated the hell out of me.
Still does, apparently.
Because when she came over just now, I was so dumbstruck I couldn’t even say a word.
I’d rather let her think I’m the strong, silent type than confirm I’m still the dumb jock with a one-track mind.
She moves through the restaurant like she’s on autopilot, but I see it—that tension in her shoulders, the way she keeps biting the inside of her cheek. Something’s off. She’s unraveling a little, and I don’t know why, but I feel it in my chest like a warning bell.
Her blonde ponytail bounces as she turns the corner, a few strands slipping free to frame her face. Those eyes—bright, cerulean blue—have no business being trapped in a town like Vansborough. She's ocean-wild. Bigger than this place.
And here I am, sitting here like some idiot quarterback, pretending I don’t care.
“To you? She’s no one,” I say finally.
Ty snorts. “The fuck you talking about?”
“She’s an Easton.” I flick my fingers toward the kitchen like that explains everything.
Ty’s eyebrows shoot up. “Shit. You serious?”
I sigh. God love him, but Ty can be a little daft sometimes.
And yeah—I’m a dumb jock who uses the worddaft. I even did some of the reading in college. Sue me. I liked the ones with a little philosophy. Something about the way questions pull things apart before they put them back together.
If I ever did speak to Faith Easton—reallyspeak to her—I’d want her to know I’m more than just a spiral and a stat sheet.
But knowing that, and actually doing something about it?
Two very different things.
