Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. I glanced up to Drew to see if he’d caught on that we were texting each other, but he was oblivious to anything beyond his own studies.
Ava
We should finish my bucket list. If you’re still interested.
I read the message twice, then a third time, my grip tightening on my phone.
This was what I’d been avoiding. What I’d been running from ever since the library. Because finishing the list meant more time with her. More excuses to touch her. More opportunities to forget that this was supposed to be temporary—a favor for a friend, nothing more.
But it also meant an ending. A finish line.
And I wasn’t sure what kind of man I would be by the time we got to that end.
Across the table, Ava was staring at her textbook like it held the secrets of the universe, but her shoulders were tense and her hand was still beneath the table, likely holding on to her phone waiting for my response.
She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, and it was like a punch to the gut. She was afraid I was going to say no.
I was surprised she hadn’t figured out that when it came to her, Icouldn’tsay no.
Me
I’m still interested.
She read the message and instantly her shoulders relaxed.
Ava
Good. We can figure out the details later.
Me
It’s a plan.
She glanced up, and our eyes met for just a second. Fuck, but she had the most beautiful eyes of any woman in the world. They were their own constellation and I wanted to get lost in them.
Maybe I already was.
Then she looked back down at her notes, and I did the same, and we both pretended we hadn’t just agreed to spend the summer playing with fire.
TWENTY-ONE
Summer in Meadowbrook was predictable in the best and worst ways.
Best because I’d grown up here, knew every shortcut through town, every person in town, and every constellation that lit up the Montana sky after dark. Worst because Meadowbrook was a small town and small towns meant everyone knew everyone’s business—which made sneaking around with Liam infinitely more complicated.
I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead as I finished demonstrating the pirouette sequence to my class of eight-year-olds. The dance studio where I’d taken my first ballet class at age four hadn’t changed much—same wood floors scuffed by decades of dancers, same wall of mirrors that caught every wobble and every perfect move, and unfortunately the same outdated AC unit that barely cut the heat.
“Okay, that’s it for today,” I said, clapping my hands. “Practice your spotting at home, and I’ll see you Thursday.”
A chorus of “Bye, Miss Ava!” erupted as they scattered toward their waiting parents. Miss Ava. God, that made mefeel old. I was only twenty, but to these kids, I might as well be ancient.
I grabbed my water bottle and checked my phone while the studio cleared out. A text from my mom waited on the screen.
Mom
Dad invited Liam for dinner. Hope that’s okay. You know how your father worries about that boy eating enough.
My stomach did a slow flip.
