“I do. God, Carter, yes.”
The rush that hits me is instant. I can hear it in her voice, the excitement, the relief. Like maybe I’m her calm in all of this chaos. Then she hesitates. “Is… Tate coming too?”
I tighten my grip on the cup in my hand. “I’ll figure it out.” Translation: I have no idea yet. I’ll deal with it later. Which, yeah, not ideal, but it’s where I’m at.
After our last visit to her, Tate went into shut down mode again, scared he’ll somehow fuck all of this up still.
She hums softly, like she’s processing that. Not upset, just… thinking.
“I’d love to see you both,” she says, voice quieter. “But even just you? That would be more than enough.”
I hope so. I hang up the phone, smiling like an idiot. I glance toward the hallway and sigh, because I know what I need to do.
I find him upstairs, the bass from whatever he’s playing vibrating faintly through the walls. He’s leaned back in his chair, feet up on the desk, a red bull balanced on one thigh and a headset looped around his neck.
“Hey,” I say, knocking once before pushing the door open fully. “You busy?”
He shrugs. “Just wiping the floor with some cocky streamer who thinks strafing counts as skill.”
I raise a brow. “So… not actually busy.”
He sighs dramatically. “What?”
I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I just talked to Haven.”
That gets his attention. His head tips slightly, just enough to show me he’s interested even if he won’t admit it.
“I told her I’d come see her before the tournament starts.”
He nods once, slow and unreadable. “Yeah, makes sense.”
“She asked if you were coming too.”
His eyes shoot to mine, but he doesn’t say anything right away. Just leans forward, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he’s thinking about something way too complicated for how simple the question is. “And?” he finally mutters.
“I said we hadn’t talked about it yet,” I say. “So, now we are.”
Another pause. He spins the Red Bull can slowly between his palms. “What are you asking me Carter?”
I sigh. “Do you want to come with me or not?”
He leans back again, jaw working, like he’s trying to find the line between giving a shit and pretending he doesn’t. “She want me there?”
That’s not really what he’s asking. I mean, it is—but it isn’t. He wants to know where he stands. I get that. I just wish he’d say it straight. “She didn’t say it like that,” I answer. “But yeah. She wants to see you. Us.”
He’s silent for a moment too long, I swear just to be extra dramatic before he mumbles out an “Alright.”
“Alright?”
“I’ll come.”
There’s a note of something in his voice, barely visible beneath all the armor. I nod, push off the doorframe, and turn to go.
“You’re driving,” he calls behind me. “And I’m not listening to any of your stupid-ass road trip playlists.”
I grin. “No promises.”
It’s not the first time we’ve road tripped together. Last time, we fought over the aux for a solid twenty minutes before I just played Lana Del Ray’s entire discography to see how long it would take him to crack.
