What did I do?
It’s then I conclude there has to be more to Amy’s side of the story I don’t know about.
I pace the living room, wishing with every fiber in me that I could throw on a pair of skates and exercise this restless energy out of me. I feel hemmed in by the safety of the walls, the comfort of the space.
I recall something Amy told me about Willow Creek from when we were dating.
“Willow Creek isn’t loud.”
I smooth a hand through her long hair. “No?”
Her head shakes back and forth, tangling her hair around my fingers. Perfect. “It doesn’t overwhelm you with noise or distraction. It just…exists. That’s what makes it so wonderful to return home.”
I stop pacing and lean my hands against the kitchen counter, head bowed. Anger simmers beneath my skin at myself. Because if I’m honest, I don’t just hate that Amy moved on with someone else.
I hate that we never found our way back to one another.
Eventually, my feet carry me down the hallway toward the spare bedroom. I pull down a box labeled “College.” Still taped shut. Like some part of me knew that once I cracked it open,there’d be no going back. Crouching down, I tear through the tape.
Photos spill out first, sliding across the floor in a careless cascade even as heartache blooms. Amy was my person.
I twist, so I’m no longer crouched down but instead resting against the bed as I sort through memory after memory. I dig my hand into the photos and feel my throat constrict.
This one was taken the night we went to the Delta Phi party. It was after she’d had a drink spilled down the front of her dress. I was too late to stop the carnage but I remember every minute before Amy headed to the bathroom to repair what she could.
Delta Phi throws the kind of party you can hear three buildings away—bass thudding like a second heartbeat, people shouting over music that’s already too loud, laughter sharp with alcohol and bad decisions. The whole house smells like alcohol, sweat, and red jungle juice they serve out of a plastic trash can like it’s a sacred tradition.
I don’t want to be here. Not because I don’t like parties. I do. But tonight I’m hyperaware of one thing and one thing only:
Amy.
She’s standing beside me in a white toga that shouldn’t look as good as it does. Most people treat the theme like an excuse to wear bedsheets and call it a night. Amy somehow makes it look intentional—pinned at one shoulder, falling just above her knees, her hair loose like she didn’t try but absolutely did. She keeps tugging at the hem like she’s worried it’s too short, which only makes me more aware of exactly how much leg it shows.
“You’re glaring,” she says, leaning closer so I can hear her.
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
I drag my gaze away from a group of guys across the room who’ve looked at her one too many times. “Just making sure no one bumps into you.”
Her mouth curves. “Brennan, you don’t need to be playing defense.”
“Someone’s gotta.”
Before she can retort, Brielle’s voice cuts through the noise. “Brennan!”
I close my eyes for half a second in agony even as Amy giggles.
Brielle materializes in front of us wearing a red toga and gold heels. She reeks of expensive perfume as she reaches out to touch my arm. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Found me,” I say flatly, jerking my arm away.
Brielle ignores Amy entirely. “You disappeared after the game last week. I thought maybe you’d want to celebrate.”
Not subtle. Not even a little.
Amy starts to shift, like she’s about to cause a scene. I catch her wrist gently before she can move.
