Page 140 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

But I’m not such a prick I’d say it.

“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

She kisses my cheek.

Light.

Quick.

Impersonal.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then she’s walking back toward Kelly’s car.

And something inside me twists.

I try to tell myself I’m being dramatic.

She’s just being a good friend.

Not every night has to end tangled in my sheets.

But the anxiety doesn’t settle.

It hums.

Low.

Persistent.

Which is how I end up outside Thatcher’s place two hours later.

The yard lights glow softly against the dusk. The willow tree sways gently.

The swing Thatcher built for Willow creaks as she rocks back and forth, a book open in her lap.

Thatcher stands by the grill, turning corn, beer balanced on the railing beside him.

This feels like a confessional.

“Greyson!” Willow calls, looking up. “What brings you here?”

“Hey, want a beer?” Thatcher asks at the same time, already tossing one my way before I answer.

I catch it automatically.

Fuck it.

I crack it open and take a long pull.

Cold.

Bitter.

Necessary.

I don’t sit.