“No. There was always this fear that if I said anything mean, it might be the last thing I ever said. I’d have to live with that forever.”
Tears spring to my eyes, making everything blurry. “Lucas?—”
“I don’t know what I’m saying.” He takes two big bites and stares at his plate for a second before looking up. “Yes, I do. My mom would have wanted to know so she could do something, even if she was sick. Your family loves you, Quinn. I bet they’d hate knowing they’ve chosen Jake over you.”
“They haven’t—” I cut myself off. “They haven’t meant to.”
“That’s my point.”
Lucas shifts, and the easy, steady warmth from his hand moves up my arm, through my chest, and settles in a lump in my throat.
I clear it. “Thanks for?—”
“Wow. Don’t you two look cozy?”
Our hands fly apart beneath the table, yet the accusation hits like a record scratch.
Coop and Logan are standing only a few feet from us, trays in hand.
The guilt that floods my system is immediate.
And totally unfair.
Suddenly I’m eight years old, standing in the kitchen sobbing over a crime I didn’t commit. Mom had baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies for a neighbor, and Jake and my brothers had raided the ones Mom saved for dessert, leaving nothing but crumbs. I was so upset—and jealous—that I ran to the kitchen to see if they’d left anything behind.
They hadn’t.
Just crumbs and a single chocolate chip at the bottom of the cookie jar.
I wiped my finger through the crumbs, eating them and that solo chocolate chip, and that’s when Mom walked in.
She wasn’t furious. Just disappointed.
I immediately blamed the boys. Told her it wasn’t me.
“Sweetie,” she said. “Be honest.”
“I am being honest! It was the boys! Jake started it!”
“Scottie, that’s a big accusation.”
“But it wasn’t me!” I cried.
“Prescott Grace Quinn, I can see the crumbs on your face right now. You’re not in trouble for eating the cookies, but youarein trouble for lying. You tell me what happened this instant.”
The injustice hit me at the same time as the guilt. I did have crumbs on my face, and Ihadwanted a cookie—I just hadn’t gotten one.
So I burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Mom!”
She hugged me and kissed my tears and thanked me for being honest.
Sitting here now, I feel eight years old again—but worse, becauseI’mthe one who made this situation off-limits, and my actions could put other people at risk.
Plus, Logan’s expression is unmistakably disappointed.
Coop’s, though, is thoughtful. Curious. He looks like he’s taking notes and filing them away.
Lucas glances between them and then back at me. “Relax,” he says lightly. “She was thanking me for recommending the omelet.”
