It wouldn't.
Because even now—even knowing it was over, knowing it had to be—I was still waiting.
Still hoping he'd call back sober and tell me everything his drunk voice couldn't.
I want you. I'm sorry. This matters.
But the phone stayed silent.
And I lay back down, staring at that crack in the ceiling, wondering how much longer I could hold myself together before I split clean through.
The honk cut through the quiet like a gunshot.
Once. Sharp. Impatient.
I knew that sound. Knew the rhythm of it—entitled and expecting compliance.
Nate.
I stayed where I was, curled on my side, blanket pulled to my chin. Maybe if I didn't move, he'd assume I wasn't here. That I'd gone to practice early or grabbed breakfast or literally anywhere but this room where I could hear him waiting.
Another honk. Longer this time.
My jaw clenched.
He wasn't going away. That was the thing about Nate—he didn't take silence as an answer. He took it as a challenge.
I threw the blanket off and grabbed yesterday's hoodie from the floor. Didn't bother with real clothes. Pulled on sneakers with mismatched socks and shoved my phone in my pocket.
The cold hit me the second I stepped outside. November in Michigan didn't care if you were dressed for it or falling apart. It bit down hard either way.
Nate's car idled at the curb, sleek and black and polished to a shine. The window rolled down halfway, his face visible through the gap—clean-shaven, sharp-eyed, that same smile he wore for cameras.
I walked over slowly. Opened the passenger door. Slid inside without a word.
The heat was on full blast. Pop music played low through the speakers. He smelled like cologne and coffee and something faintly sweet I couldn't place.
"Morning," he said, like this was normal. Like he hadn't kissed me in front of cameras yesterday for leverage.
I pulled the seatbelt across my chest. Clicked it into place. Stared straight ahead.
He didn't drive. Just sat there, hands loose on the wheel, eyes forward.
The silence stretched. Thick and uncomfortable. I counted my breaths—one, two, three—waiting for him to say whatever he came here to say.
Finally, he spoke.
"Saw you at practice yesterday." His voice was casual. Too casual. "He looks at you a lot."
My stomach tightened.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You do." He turned then, eyes sharp and knowing. "What's going on between you and my dad?"
The world tilted.
My pulse hammered in my ears. Blood rushed hot and cold at the same time.
