Page 31

Present

I leave Philadelphia the following afternoon, my body still humming from the adrenaline. The drive to the airport is quiet, my mind already moving forward. Miami is the endgame, but first, I need something else. Someone else.

Atlanta.

When I land, I don’t call him. I don’t warn him. I just go to his house. But when I step onto the porch, something feels off. No lights. No car in the driveway. I knock once, then again. Nothing.

I lean against the door frame and pull out my phone. The moment he picks up, I hear the hum of a restaurant in the background.

“Where are you?” I ask, keeping my voice light, controlled.

“Out,” he says, and I hear the smile in his voice. “Why? You miss me already?”

I ignore the teasing. “With who?”

There’s a pause, like he hears the edge beneath my words. “Eli.”

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. “Eli?” I repeat, a strange weight settling in my chest. I didn’t know they were still friends.

“Yeah. You should meet us.”

I hesitate, but the jealousy gnaws at me—relentless. “Where?”

He gives me the name of the restaurant, and a twenty minute uber ride later, I step inside. It’s cozy, warm, the kind of place Truman has always liked. I spot them instantly—Truman relaxed, a drink in hand, and Eli laughing at something he just said.

When Eli sees me, his expression shifts from amusement to shock. “Holy shit. Kid.”

I smirk as I slide into the seat across from him. “Nice to see you too.”

Eli shakes his head, still staring. “Didn’t think you two were still… in touch.” He glances at Truman, then back at me. “Especially after the way he” he jabs a thumb at Truman, “was so wrecked after you left.”

Guilt, sharp and sudden, twists in my stomach. I push it down. When I left, I left. I tried not think about Truman, or Eli, or Tasha. I couldn’t. I couldn’t walk into the Testa household, the Testa life, and carry them with me.

It was a year before I reached out to Truman. Before I could no longer handle not having the comfort of him.

“Well, I didn’t know you two were still friends either.”

Eli snorts. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

I shrug.

Truman watches me, quiet, his eyes saying things I don’t want to read into.

The conversation shifts, the past creeping in between bites of food and sips of beer.

I think about Tasha. About what she’s doing now.

About how, in another life, we could have all been friends if I hadn’t left.

If I had let myself be soft. If I had been someone else entirely.

It’s loud in the restaurant, but not loud enough to drown out years of regret. Stories spill out: bad tattoos and old flames, epic stunts and almost-arrests. The new ones leave me cold, like I’m just a ghost floating through them.

After dinner, Truman and I leave together.

“It was good seeing you,” I say.

“Yeah you too,” Eli says as he wobbles off into the night.

The moment we step into Truman’s car, the easy facade drops.

“It’s only been two weeks,” he says. “What’s going on, Kid?”

I don’t answer right away. He winds through the traffic efficiently. Taking us toward his home.

“You only show up like this when something’s wrong.” His voice is low, steady. “What have you done?”

The weight of it all presses against my ribs. I tilt my head back against the headrest and close my eyes. “I’m close, Tru.”

“To what?”

“The end of this.”

He pulls into his driveway, kills the engine, but doesn’t move to get out.

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “You say that every time.”

I open my eyes, turn to him. “And every time, it’s true.”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You can still walk away.”

I reach for him, my fingers brushing his wrist. He goes still, watching me. The tension is thick, charged, tangled in something neither of us have ever fully faced.

“You see me,” I murmur. “The real me.”

His breath hitches, just slightly. “Yeah. And I hate what this life is doing to you.”

I don’t answer. I just lean in, pressing my lips against his, desperate to hold onto the last sliver of myself that only he still recognizes.

He kisses me back with a vehemence that almost hurts, like he’s trying to erase the world beyond us. For a moment, everything fades—there’s no threat twisting its way toward us, no shadows licking at my heels. No distance or time or regret between us.

I pull away first, because I have to. “One more job,” I say, my voice barely more than a breath. “I promise.”

His response is sharp and biting: “Your promises mean nothing.” Yet, his eyes tell a different story, filled with a deep worry and an emotion that tightens its grip on my heart like a vice.

“I mean it.” I cradle his face in my hands. His fingers tighten against my neck, his thumb sweeping gently across my jaw.

“Fuck, Kid. How long am I supposed to…” his voice trails off.

My phone buzzes in my pocket—a reminder, a summons—and I close my eyes for a moment, trying to block out the wave of guilt that crashes over me.

“Go,” he whispers, the word hanging heavily in the air. I take a moment to etch his face into my memory—the curve of his dimple, the depth of his eyes, the very essence of him.

With a heavy heart, I nod.

I open the car door, stepping into the night air that feels as sharp and unforgiving as shattered glass against my skin.

I slide into the driver’s seat of my rental car and reluctantly answer the buzzing phone.

“Where the fuck are you?” Uncle Leo’s voice hisses through the line, dripping with venom and impatience.