When I woke, she was gone.
The room was bright with morning sun and too quiet without her breathing beside me.
I reached across the bed.
Cold sheets.
My stomach tightened before I could tell it not to.
Downstairs, faint voices drifted through the house. Coffee. Dishes. Christmas music low in the background.
I pulled on sweats and a shirt, ran a hand over my hair, and went looking for her.
I found her before I reached the kitchen.
Or heard her, anyway.
The patio doors were cracked open, and Isa’s mother’s voice floated in on the cool morning air, light and pleased.
Too pleased.
I stopped just inside the hallway.
I shouldn’t have.
I knew I shouldn’t have.
But then I heard my name.
Not Drew.
Montgomery.
“Well, baby,” Mrs. Calloway said, “I have to admit, I was worried.”
Isa said something too low for me to catch.
Her mother laughed softly.
“Don’t make that face. I’m your mother. I’m allowed to be honest.”
I moved closer without meaning to.
Through the gap near the patio curtains, I could see them outside at the table. Isa in leggings and a sweater, hair loose, hands wrapped around a coffee mug. Her mother in a silk robe, pouring more coffee from a silver carafe like this conversation wasn’t about to cut my chest open.
“I thought you embarrassed yourself with Tristan Vale,” Mrs. Calloway said.
My body went still.
Isa looked down at her mug.
Her mother kept going.
“All that pining. All that waiting around for some basketball boy who clearly had his eyes elsewhere. I hated seeing you look like second place.”
Isa’s mouth tightened.
Say something.
