"We should probably head out before it gets too hot," Jasper says, glancing up at the sky, his tone casual. "You know Brooks doesn't like to sweat."
I let out a laugh. "Such an odd man, that friend of yours."
"Are you two gossiping about me?" Brooks' voice cuts in from behind us.
Jasper winks at me before turning to face his best friend, who's leaning against the door frame in shorts and a white T-shirt. "We were just talking about your aversion to heat," Jasper replies, his grin widening.
Brooks steps down onto the porch, his expression mock serious. "I don't hate the heat," he says, crossing his arms. "I just don't like the way clothes stick to me when I get sweaty. It's disgusting."
"Right," I say, raising an eyebrow as I stand, coffee cup still in hand. "Let's make sure we tailor today's activities to keep you nice and dry. Wouldn't want you to feelgross."
Brooks tilts his head, giving me a look that's equal parts amused and annoyed. "Appreciate the thoughtfulness,Elowen. Truly."
I roll my eyes and start toward the porch steps, slipping into my old sneakers on the way. "So, are we going foraging, or are we going to stand here discussing Brooks' delicate relationship with perspiration all morning?"
Brooks follows, muttering under his breath, "It's not delicate. It's called having standards."
Jasper laughs as he grabs his gear, shaking his head. "You two are exhausting."
Maybe we are. Maybe we should work on that.
I trail behind Jasper and Brooks, letting them fall into their familiar rhythm. They don't need words to communicate; they've always had this unspoken language. Jasper picks through the underbrush, plucking up rocks and twigs, while Brooks carefully arranges them in a scuffed five-gallon bucket he carries like it's the most natural thing in the world.
The air is cooler here, fresher. The kind of air that makes your lungs feel clean with every breath. The ground beneath my feet feels sturdy, too. Solid in a way that LA never does. I let the moment wash over me—the sun filtering through the trees, the rustling leaves, the faint sound of birds in the distance. For the first time in years, I stop thinking about curating videos, crafting captions, or selling a story.
I justam.
When we reach the top of the hill, Jasper veers toward a patch of moss, distracted by something that's caught his eye. I glance down and notice a small blue feather lying among the leaves, delicate and bright against the earthy tones around it. I pick it up, turning it over in my fingers before walking it over to Brooks.
"Here," I say softly, holding it out to him.
He glances at me, then at the feather, and reaches out to take it. For a moment, our fingers graze, and something warm—electric, almost—shoots up my arm. My breath catches, andwhen I look up, I find him staring at me, his brows slightly furrowed as if he's trying to figure out if I felt it, too.
The air between us feels charged, dense somehow. And the memory of him chasing me through the woods when we were younger fills my head as his eyes hold mine. The weight of everything we are—his quiet strength, the years I spent away, the guilt gnawing at me—is overwhelming and grounding all at the same time.
But then I pull my hand back, breaking the connection, and take a step away, the feather now safely in his hand.
"It's pretty," I mumble.
He nods, slipping the feather into the bucket. "Yeah, it is."
Jasper calls out to Brooks, holding up a handful of moss. Brooks heads toward him without a second glance, leaving me standing there, my heart thudding in my chest for reasons I don't fully understand.
As I follow them back down the hill, the guilt doesn't ease. It settles deeper, mingling with something else I can't quite name. Something that lingers in the space between me and Brooks, unspoken but impossible to ignore.
Which makes me wonder if the sparks I felt were real, or if I’m just reaching for someone steady in a world that keeps shifting beneath my feet.
CHAPTER NINE
Bluebird of Happiness
I have about a million crises crashing in at once. Drafts to schedule, a collab I should care about, and a digital audience slipping through my fingers faster than I can pretend everything’s fine.
And a brother who, out of nowhere, asked me to help him create a naturescape.
Which, if I had to guess, wasdefinitelyBrooks’ idea. Jasper never asks for anything.
I rub my tired eyes and scroll through Big Belle’s pitch again, my vision blurring from equal parts exhaustion and frustration.Southern roots. Family. Friendship. Fried foods.She wants us to lean into nostalgia, tell stories about growing up in the heart of the country.
