I should’ve felt good about helping, about seeing things running smoothly. That was the point, right? Get in, drop off the jerseys, make myself useful, and get out. Keep it simple. Keep it clean.
But nothing about it felt clean anymore.
I leaned back against the seat, exhaling hard, watching her in the rearview mirror. She was still there, crouching down to talk to one of the kids, tucking her hair behind her ear. The same motion she’d done a hundred times before, but now it hit like something I shouldn’t want to touch.
This isn’t tension anymore.
The thought came like a truth I’d been avoiding for too long.
It’s gravity.
No matter how far I tried to move, she pulled me back. Every look, every word, every unspoken thing between us—it wasn’t static anymore. It was momentum. A slow, steady fall I couldn’t stop.
I gripped the wheel tighter, jaw locked, trying to convince myself it was still under control. That I could walk away. That what happened didn’t mean anything. But deep down, I already knew better.
Because she’d looked at me today like I still mattered. Like she wanted me there. And the part of me that had been fighting this—fighting her—finally gave up pretending.
I started the engine, forcing my gaze away from the mirror, from her.
Next time she asked for help, I wouldn’t pretend to hesitate.
I was already gone.
Chapter 21
Ellery
By evening, the foundation office looked like a war zone—boxes stacked on every surface, centerpieces half-assembled, ribbons tangled in donation bins. The printer kept jamming, the event schedule was still wrong, and half the volunteers had already slipped out with sympathetic smiles and muttered excuses.
I was still at my desk, hair in a lopsided bun, eyes burning from staring at spreadsheets for too long. The glow of the screen made everything feel harsher—too bright, too sterile. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but I couldn’t remember what I’d been typing.
It was supposed to feel exciting. All this chaos, the rush, the buildup before the biggest night of the year. But it didn’t feel exciting anymore. It felt like survival.
Naomi appeared beside me, balancing another stack of papers that looked suspiciously like defeat. She dropped them on my desk with a sigh. “You need to eat something that isn’t coffee.”
I gave a weak smile without looking up. “After I solve world peace.”
She groaned. “You mean after you print the name tags for the gala.”
That got a laugh out of both of us, though it sounded hollow, scraped thin from exhaustion. She slumped into the chair across from me, propping her chin on her palm. “You realize normal people would’ve gone home by now, right?”
“Normal people don’t run foundations on caffeine and miracles,” I said, tugging at a jammed sheet of cardstock. It tore in half. I swore under my breath.
Naomi reached over and gently pried the rest of the paper loose, her tone softening. “You’re going to burn out before this thing even starts.”
I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that I was fine, that this was just what hard work looked like—but the words wouldn’t come. The truth sat heavy in my chest.
“I can’t stop,” I admitted quietly. “Not when everything depends on this.”
Naomi gave me a look—half worry, half affection. “You’ve already done enough to make this a success, El.”
I shook my head. “Enough isn’t the same as done.”
Silence settled between us, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint whir of the printer restarting.
She sighed and stood, stretching her arms. “Fine. I’m getting us takeout. Don’t move.”
“I’ll just be right here, single-handedly preventing the collapse of civilization,” I said, forcing another grin.
