“Right.” He starts playing a bassline, something jazzy and knowing. “That’s why you’ve been moping around since she started avoiding you.”
My fingers slip on a chord. “She’s not avoiding me.”
“Bro. She literally hid behind a tent yesterday afternoon when you walked by.” He’s laughing now, the sound bouncing off the basement walls.
Yeah. She did. I’d pretended not to notice, but I saw the flash of burgundy, the way she ducked behind the white canvas.
“I posted about her on Reddit,” I admit, the confession scraping out.
Mason stops playing. The sudden silence is deafening. “You what?”
“I asked Reddit if I was an asshole for wanting her gone.” It was days ago, in my defense. Before I knew what she’d become to me.
“Are you freaking serious?” His voice climbs an octave.
I frown and fiddle with the tuning pegs, not meeting his eyes. “She found out.”
“No shit she’s avoiding you!” He sets the bass down with more force than necessary.
“I apologized.”
“How?” He crosses his arms, waiting.
“We, uh, kissed.” The memory floods back—her hands in my shirt, the desperate sound she made, how right it felt.
Mason drops his pick. It hits the concrete floor with a tiny plastic tap. “What?”
“In my kitchen. After she yelled at me.” I can still taste her—vanilla and fury and something sweet.
“And?” He’s leaning forward now, invested.
The memory of her on my couch hits like a sucker punch. Curled up in that green dress, looking wrecked and perfect and so vulnerable it made my chest crack open. She’d hummed off-key Motown to my neighbor’s neurotic dog like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she belonged there. Like she belonged with me. And when I found them both asleep—Poppy with her hand tucked under her cheek, Muffin pressed against her stomach—something fundamental shifted. The kind of shift that makes you realize you’ve been living your life wrong. That maybe all those walls you built weren’t protecting you from pain, just preventing you from this. From her. From the terrifying possibility that someone could matter this much.
“And now I’m pretty sure she’s avoiding me.” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
“Because you kissed?” Mason picks up his bass again, fingers finding the strings.
I shrug, the motion feeling heavy. “Because she’s leaving tomorrow, and we both know this is complicated and—”
“And you’re an idiot.” He says it gently, but it still lands like a punch.
“Thanks. Super helpful.” I adjust my grip on the guitar neck, focusing on the wood grain.
He picks up the bass again. “Play the processional again. And maybe think about why you’re doing this.”
“For the wedding—”
“Dean.” Just my name, but it carries weight.
I shut up and play.
The day’s already trying to kill me, and it’s only noon.
I’m in the kitchen, third coffee burning my tongue, pretending to read emails when my phone buzzes with a call from an unknown number. The screen glows accusingly on the marble counter.
“Dean Whitaker,” I answer, expecting it to be a work call. Another fire to put out.
“Mr. Whitaker? This is Tom from Harvest Table Catering. We’ve had an accident.”
