"So you two made up?" my dad asks from the living room.
I nod again. "Yes. Everything's okay now."
I take my library books to the couch and settle in with a view of the backyard — the same backyard where I used to read as a kid, where everything felt simple and uncomplicated.
I touch the pendant around my neck.
The one that means something different now than it did when I first wore it. It means I am choosing this.
I smile.
And I start reading.
Chapter 72: Adela
Idrivemyselftothe lake house on Saturday night.
The guys had a game earlier — Seattle against Boston. I watched the game with Cody at his place, and he talked trash the entire time, yelling at the TV like the players could hear him. They lost, but Cody was in good spirits anyway, excited about starting practice again next week. He promised that they would win the next game he played in.
When he asked if I wanted to ride with him to the lake house, I said no.
I wanted to drive myself.
My car. My timeline. My freedom.
When I pull up, all the memories hit at once.
The first time I was here. The blindfold. The candles. Cody's voice asking me to trust him when I had no reason to.
I park and sit for a moment, looking at the house with its lights on inside, warm and inviting against the December dark.
Then I get out of the car, and I go inside.
It's really late.
But I arrived late here on purpose. I wanted them waiting, wanted to walk in on my own terms instead of being brought here.
Cody is in the kitchen, cleaning. Beckett is on the couch with his phone. Theo is by the window with a book — not our book, a different one. Our book is mine now.
I stand in the doorway and look at all three of them in the lamplight of this lake house that's starting to feel less like a place things happened to me and more like a place I chose.
"You're late," Cody says from the kitchen.
"I'm exactly on time."
"You're twelve minutes late."
I look at Beckett.
Beckett shrugs. "We've been waiting for you."
Theo doesn't look up from his book.
I smile and take off my coat.
Cody made dinner.
An actual dinner—not eggs, not bacon, something that took time and thought. Chicken with roasted vegetables. Even the bread is still warm.
