And that’s what raises the stakes, because loving Logan means risking not just my heart, but Harper’s too. It’s about Sunday mornings and cereal bowls and country music in the living room. It’s about stepping into something that already exists.
“I can’t be reckless,” I say quietly.
“You’re not reckless,” Cami replies. “You’re careful, to a fault.”
Instead of arguing, I stuff fries in my mouth, grateful for the distraction, desperate to bury the gnawing unease in something tangible.
“You do this thing,” she continues, gentler now. “Where you convince yourself that wanting something is irresponsible.”
I reach to dismiss a calendar notification on my phone, thumb hovering for a beat. My finger finds the snooze button, and I watch the invite vanish from the screen, replaced by my endless task list. I try to pretend Cami doesn’t notice, but the look in her eyes tells me she does.
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s true, Daniela.”
I look at the calendar notification I ignored this morning. The canceled lunch reminders. The color-coded deadlines, she wasn’t wrong. And she was the one person who truly saw me and cared enough to call me out when I needed it.
“I just don’t want to get it wrong,” I admit.
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re not trying to fix him.”
I look up at her sharply. “I’m not.”
“I know,” she said. “But you think your only options are to fix him or stay away.”
The thought sinks inside my stomach like weighted stones.
“He doesn’t need fixing,” I say.
“No,” Cami agrees. “He needs space to choose.”
I swallow.
“And he chose that night.”
“Yes.”
“And then he pulled back.”
She shrugged lightly. “He’s a Marine. That’s what men like him do.”
I think about the stories he’s let slip— confessions of nights spent wide awake, or old photographs tucked away in his wallet. Whatever he saw or lost out there is something he carries. And I knew it was only amplified when he lost Elena. Sometimes I catch a flicker behind his eyes, a shadow that never quite leaves,and I wonder how many of his walls were built long before I ever met him.
“I don’t want to push,” I say.
“Then don’t.”
I frown, turning that over in my mind.
As she finishes, Cami slides the burger wrapper toward me, the crumpled paper catching the light between us. She nudges it in front of me, insistently, like it’s some kind of offering or dare. My fingers brush over the slick paper, and for a moment, all my nervous energy settles into the simple act of holding it. The weight of her words feels more real when I can feel something in my hands.
But as soon as she says it, my mind kicks up that stubborn resistance. Her words clang around in my brain, and my reflex is to fall back into my comfort zone, into spaces I know I’m good at. My instinct is to push back, to argue that wanting is reckless, that patience alone cannot keep hearts from breaking. Still, I pause. I try to let her advice in, even as old patterns try to tug me back.
“You still think he said that because he was drunk?” Cami asked, her voice low and calm.
