Supermarket Sweepplays on the TV across the room, the theme song and contestants shouting as they sprint down aisles, filling their carts. The noise blurs into the background until my phone rings from somewhere in the mess.
“Shit, where are you?” I mutter, spinning in a circle before tearing at the blankets and shoving the suitcase aside. I pat along the edge of my mattress, then crouch and peer down the narrow gap between the bed and the nightstand. Sure enough, it’s wedged in the dust bunnies, screen glowing.
I grab it just before it flips to voicemail and swipe. “Yellow?”
“Tessa? Are you all right?”
“Hi, Mom. Nice to hear from you again. I’m fine.” I tug at my shirt collar, trying to catch a breath in the oven masquerading as my room.
“You sound out of breath. You’re at your dorm, right? You know Clay will be there soon. Have you even started packing?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Of course that’s why she’s calling—checking in, already assuming I’m behind. And, okay, she’s not wrong. But still. The thought of Clay walking in while I’m knee-deep in laundry makes my stomach twist.
“As a matter of fact,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice, “I was just finishing up when you called.”
“Really?” The doubt in her voice is so sharp I can practically see her eyebrow arched on the other end.
“You should have more faith in me, Ma. I’ve been living on my own for three years now. I think I’m finally getting the hang of this adult thing.”
It’s a stretch. Especially since I called her two days ago to ask whether machine-washing something labeled “dry-clean only” would actually ruin it. (Answer: yes. It will.) But I’ll take whatever win I can get.
She chuckles softly. “Well, good. I’m just relieved that Clay was visiting and it worked out for the two of you to drive together. Sandra said he’ll be there around five.”
Clay must be in town catching up with his old teammates, or maybe he came back to watch their hockey game. Kolmont had a big one last night against Rixton U.
My eyes flick up to the clock above my TV. 4:58. Except I set it fast on purpose—because I know myself too well. I run late to everything. Even with the built-in cushion, panic shoots through me.
“Of course he’ll be early,” I mutter under my breath.
My mother doesn’t catch it—or pretends she doesn’t. “All right, sweetheart. Don’t make him wait too long in the parking lot. You know how Clay is.”
Yes, I knowexactlyhow Clay is. Punctual. Structured. The kind of man who probably irons his socks. And the exact opposite of the mess currently standing in the middle of her dorm room, clutching a half-zipped suitcase and sweating through her shirt.
The glance drags my eyes to the mirror hanging beside the TV. My reflection stares back—flushed cheeks, damp hair clinging to my temples, and mascara smudged faintly under one eye. I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. Not exactly “ready to spend the week with the Barlowes.”
Facing Evan feels like getting dragged into a messy past you want to leave behind. Seeing Clay is different. He’s the storm I can’t prepare for, no matter how hard I try.
Usually, I don’t care much about how I look. Not unless I’m heading to class or out with friends, and even then, I’ve learned to embrace messy buns and mismatched socks as part of my brand. But I haven’t seen Clay since our families spent the holidays together three Christmases ago, and the thought of seeing him again has me picking apart every flaw.
The Barlowes and the St. Jameses have always been wrapped up in each other’s lives. Summers at the lake, Christmas mornings with both families crammed into the same living room, and Fourth of July cookouts that always ran late. We were woven together tighter than friends—not quite family, but close enough to feel like it.
Dating Evan in high school only pulled our families closer. Our parents treated it like fate, certain we’d be the ones to tie everything together. But underneath the pressure, it was clear—we were too much alike, and the spark just wasn’t there. No matter how hard we tried, the pieces never fit.
And in the background, always, was Clay.
He was older. Quieter. Always just out of reach. By the time I was old enough to really notice him, he was already gone—graduated from Kolmont, making a name for himself in the NHL, his path laid out clear in front of him. I was the opposite—chaotic, always late, and full of excuses, with no real clue where I was headed.
Clay barely looked at me most days. When he did, his eyes slid right past me, unreadable, like I wasn’t worth the effort of a full thought. At least, that’s what I told myself. Until that one night.
Sometimes I wonder if I imagined it. If my memory stretched it into something bigger than it was. But then there are nights when I wake up sweating, my chest tight, the dreams like a flashback that feels too real.
His mouth on mine, my back pressed against the wall, his hands gripping my hips like he needed to hold on. And then, just as quickly as it happened, it was gone. He left the following morning without a word, headed back to Minnesota, where he was playing for the Fury. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.
Not once.
And now I’m seconds away from facing him again. I drag a brush through my hair, wincing when it catches on a knot. My blond waves won’t cooperate, so I fluff the roots and pray the mess passes as intentional. The heat has wrecked my makeup, but I dab beneath my eyes and pat on some blush, hoping it’s enough.
Because Clay will be here any minute. And even though I don’t want to care, I do.
