“Alright.” A pause. “Just be safe out there, okay?”
Perfect. Throw me a bone, why don’t you—for being such a good little circus poodle.
“Yeah,” I say. “See you soon.”
I hang up and thunk my head against the headrest. “You absolute doormat,” I mutter. “You spineless, lovesick little simp.”
***
The roads get progressively worse as I make my way toward Route 59. The main streets have been plowed at least once, but they’re already coated in a fresh layer of snow. The side roads are worse—slick, uneven, with ice hiding beneath the packed slush. My little sedan wasn’t built for this. Honestly, neither was I.
But here I am, crawling along at fifteen miles per hour, trying not to end up in a ditch…all because Thomas called.
Logan would lose it if he saw me right now—especially after I spent the entire day insisting I was over it, that I didn’t care, that Thomas meant nothing to me anymore. And Logan definitely knows I’m full of shit. He knew it when I sobbed on his shoulder last year, swearing I’d never fall for Thomas again. He knows it now, even if he’s too kind to say it out loud.
Logan’s not judgmental—he’s always been casual about romance—but still. After everything Thomas put me through, I can’t bring myself to admit I still want him. Not to Logan. Not even to myself.
I turn onto the long stretch of Route 59 that leads out of town. The buildings thin out fast, replaced by open fields that do nothing to block the wind. Snow blows across the road in ghost-like waves, and visibility drops to almost nothing. I tighten my grip on the wheel and slow down even more.
Shit. I really don’t want to die out here.
And seriously—why is Thomas even out this way? He lives downtown, in one of those overpriced factory lofts that look amazing on Instagram. Jason’s birthday dinner is atMezzanotte, smack in the middle of the shopping district. There’s no reason for him to be all the way out here—unless…
Unless he was staying over somewhere.
The thought makes my insides twist. Maybe Carol isn’t as out of the picture as he claimed.
The thought settles in my stomach like a cold stone, which is ridiculous because (a) Thomas can do whatever he wants with whoever he wants, and (b) I have zero claim on him. But still, the idea that he might’ve been with her last night—that he might’ve leftherbed to come to this birthday dinner where he knew I’d be—makes me feel slightly sick.
Except…Carol was his neighbor. She wouldn’t be living out here.
Unless she moved. I guess that’s possible.
Or—worse—what if they moved in together? What if they got a place in that new apartment complex?
No, that can’t be it. He said they broke up. But what if he’s seeing someone new and just didn’t tell me?
God. I think I seriously might get sick from all this guessing.
I spot the old farm supply store up ahead, then the new apartment complex, barely visible through the snow. According to the pin Thomas sent, he should be in the parking lot behind it.
I circle the building and slow to a crawl, scanning the nearly empty lot until I catch the dark shape of a familiar car, hazard lights blinking faintly through the swirling white.
I pull in front of it, my headlights casting a glow over Thomas’s sleek black Audi—the one he’s had for the past couple years. Stylish, expensive, and completely useless in a Midwestern blizzard.
I grab my phone and shoot him a text, just in case he doesn’t recognize my car.
Me:I'm here
I see movement inside the Audi—he’s probably gathering his stuff. I leave the engine running, the heater on full blast even though it’s still blowing mostly lukewarm air.
It’s 6:25. Jason’s dinner reservation is at 7:00, but we were supposed to get there early to check the decorations. If we head out now—and if Jason and his coworkers are also crawling through traffic—we might still have time to make sure everything’s in place before he shows up.
Finally, Thomas emerges from his car, hunched against the wind, a dark shape in that charcoal parka I remember buying with him three years ago. He hurries to my passenger side and yanks open the door, bringing a swirl of snowflakes and freezing air with him.
“Jesus, it’s cold,” he says, sliding into the seat and slamming the door shut. He shakes snow from his dark hair, and I’m instantly hit with the scent of his cologne—that same Japanese yuzu one he’s worn since college.
Then he looks at me for the first time in a year—hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, locking onto mine—and just like that,I’m twelve again, an awkward boy with braces and a hopeless crush.
