“You’re a student athlete,” I said cheerfully. “Work on your flexibility.”
He fiddled with the vent like he could command the air to cool faster. “She has the suspension of a shopping cart.”
“Say that again and I’ll strand you on 316 with your thumb out.”
He snorted. “Joke’s on you—this face stops traffic.” It was a joke he had made a million times, and each time the fucker thought it was as funny as the last.
Sally answered for me, the engine dropping into that low, smug purr that made the road behave. Athens peeled off behind us in brick and azalea and leftover exam panic. Wind shoved our hair everywhere. My playlist thumped the kind of songs that made summer feel possible.
“First order of business,” Dalton declared, digging through my tote even though I smacked his hand, “is me sleeping sixteen hours and then letting Mom feed me until I cry. If your mom’s on dinner, I’m fleeing to Waffle House.”
“Rude,” I said, laughing. “Mom can cook.”
“Yeah,” he said, “Dry chicken and unseasoned green beans that taste like a torture device.”
His words were without heat and I shook my head. “Pretty sure Hannah’s running the kitchen tonight. Last year, she did steaks to celebrate another year of surviving finals, remember?”
“Then I live,” he said, satisfied.
We rolled past the farm stands on the edge of town—strawberries piled like jewels, teenagers waving crooked signs, a puppy loafed in the shade with its tongue out like a greeting. Dalton tried to barter my last granola bar. I kept it and offered him gum. He looked personally betrayed.
“Psych prof posted grades already,” he said, scrolling. “You’re a monster.”
“That’s one way to pronounce ‘A-minus.’”
“I got a C.” He kicked the glovebox like it had done it to him. “Con Law ate me alive.”
“You chose Criminal Justice and Con Law because your advisor said ‘try General Studies’ and you wanted to be difficult.”
“Correction: I wanted to be right.” He tucked his phone away. “They see ‘football’ and think ‘dummy.’ So I picked the thing with court opinions and footnotes. Turns out I like reading why power gets away with things. Don’t tell anyone—I have a brand.”
“Your brand is ‘golden retriever who sues the county.’”
He pointed. “Put that on a shirt.”
He went quiet for a mile, then: “You good?”
I shrugged and gave him the easy truth. “Tired. Excited. Harbor’s going to eat me alive this summer. Can’t wait for Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Jackson’s coming home on leave then, right? Or supposed to?”
I nodded and urged Sally down the road, going a little faster than I should in my eagerness to be home.
I honked the horn as I drove past my house, heading straight for the clubhouse. By the time the Saints’ gates rose, my shoulders had loosened without asking. Home wasn’t just a place—it was a noise: gravel under Sally’s tires, the soft clank of the chain as the gate swings back, two bikers laughing at each other as the leaned against the side of the building.
Except…it was quiet. Not dead. Just…neat. No radio. No Mac cussing at a carburetor. The air sat too politely on my skin.
August stood on the porch like a statue deciding whether to fall. He didn’t say hi. He hooked two fingers in Dalton’s hoodie and nudged him sideways. No words. Dalton went without a wisecrack, which was how you know something was off.
I tried to laugh it into normal. “What’d you do? Steal his tape measure again?”
Dalton didn’t look back.
Inside, the kitchen was wrong. The kitchen here hummed; even silence usually clinked. This one held its breath.
Mom and Hannah sat at the table like the beginning of a conspiracy. My brain filed it underWillow’s Harbor meeting. They were probably ready to bully me about line items and “deliverables,” and to pretend they didn’t like my latest overly-bossy memo. Hannah had a folder. Mom had a cup of tea that wasn’t steaming anymore.
“Ok,” I said brightly, sliding my tote onto the chair before heading for the fridge. “If this is about the intake draft, I can explain my notes on trauma-informed language, but I’m not apologizing—”
