Page 27

27

WARREN

I wake up early, tangled in my sheets, sunlight slipping through the blinds and cutting into the hardwood floor. And for a while, that’s all there is. Me, alone, staring at the ceiling, half-convinced I dreamed the whole thing.

But then I turn my head, and I see her hair tie on my nightstand. It’s black and stretched out, the elastic fraying at the edges. Hers. Definitely hers.

I took it off after I came home last night. Set it carefully beside my bed in the little tray I keep for my antidepressants, like I needed proof our time together wasn’t just some fever dream. Like holding on to that worn-out scrap of elastic might somehow anchor me to the truth of it.

And now, I’m fucking grinning again.

I drag a hand down my face, catch my reflection in the mirror across the room, and that ridiculous smile is still there. I wipe it off with the back of my hand like that’s enough to erase whatever this feeling is.

But it’s not.

It lingers—warm and impossible to shake—the kind of feeling that settles somewhere deep in your chest and refuses to budge. Like something cracked open inside me last night, and no matter how hard I try to patch it up, I know there’s no going back.

I get up, pull on a pair of sweats, and head for my dresser. The top drawer sticks like always, and I have to jerk it twice before it gives.

I know exactly what I’m looking for.

The chain. Thin, silver curb links. Quinn gave it to me our first week at Dayton. She’d told me it was sexy. That I should wear it whenever I’m not swimming. So, I did—for months. Slipped it on after practice like I was putting on armor, like it meant something.

After the breakup, I shoved it in this drawer, buried it under socks and T-shirts and all the other things I didn’t know what to do with anymore. Out of sight, out of mind.

Now, I’m holding it again. The metal’s cool against my palm, and I rub my thumb absently over the chain links. I contemplate putting it back. Forgetting her hands around me, hooking it there the first time. But then I fasten the clasp and let it rest against my skin.

Feels good. Feels right.

I get dressed—jeans, an old Dayton soccer hoodie—and head out to the kitchen. It’s quiet still. The cereal box is still half-open from yesterday, and I pour myself a bowl, the faint crackle of milk on raisin bran the only sound in the room.

It’s a normal day. Nothing special. But everything feels different. Like something’s shifted, like something huge happened, and the world just hasn’t caught on yet. A cataclysmic ripple in the ordinary.

I sit at the table, spoon in hand, and stare down at the cereal like it’s gonna offer some kind of answer.

Quinn and I didn’t talk much after. Just lay there in the field, tangled up in each other until the sky started to darken. There’s still so much to say—so much to figure out—but for now? I think we’re ... enough.

We’ve done enough, said enough, in order to move forward. To start again and trust the rest will come.

Footsteps thud down the hall, and a second later, Liam appears in the doorway, hair still damp from a shower, earbuds dangling from his collar.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, reaching into the fridge for a protein shake. “You look like you’ve seen God.”

I snort. “Something like that.”

He cracks the cap off his shake and leans against the counter. “Special night?”

I raise an eyebrow. “It was fine. Where’s Birdie?”

“She has a big showcase coming up. Wanted to rest.”

“No wonder I slept like a baby,” I add. “House was weirdly quiet.”

Liam grins, all sharp and easy. “Yeah, bud, must’ve been real quiet.” He takes a swig of his shake, then tilts his head like he’s noticing something for the first time. “Are you wearing a necklace?”

“It’s a chain ,” I mutter, fingers curling around the thin silver links as I tuck it back under my shirt.

“Right,” Liam deadpans. “So ... a necklace, then?”

I shoot him a look, but he’s still smiling all big like he knows something. Like he knows it means more than I’m letting on.

I focus back on my cereal, shoveling another spoonful into my mouth.

“You’re not gonna explain that one?” he presses.

I chew. Swallow. Sigh. “It was a gift from my ex. We ... recently reconnected.”

He blinks. “ You had a girlfriend?”

“Once upon a time.”

“Wow.” He taps his chin, mock thinks. Smirks. “And in this magical fairy-tale land, did you smile more?”

I laugh despite myself. “I think so. Probably, yeah.”

“You were all smiles when I walked in here, just so you know.”

“I was?”

I shouldn’t be surprised because I feel ... good. Lighter, somehow. Which doesn’t make sense because none of this is simple.

Quinn and I are still a mess. Too much history, too many questions left hanging. We didn’t fix anything last night. Barely even got started. And still, I woke up calm. Steady in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

But smiling to myself? That’s some far-gone shit.

“Yeah.” He sips his shake, eyeing me. “So ... you two are back together, then?”

I shake my head slowly. “We’re figuring things out.”

“But you are sleeping together?”

I choke on my cereal, coughing hard enough that Liam has to smack my back.

“Annnd,” I croak, “that’s enough of that.”

He sighs. “But we were just getting to the good part. No one ever wants to talk about the good part.”

That’s the thing about Liam. He’s always throwing out a litany of oddly specific questions, even though we both hate small talk. It’s like he gets a kick out of testing limits, seeing how far he can push before I react.

Maybe that’s why he does it. For fun. For curiosity.

The strange thing is, I don’t really mind.

Liam isn’t easy to get close to. Letting people in doesn’t come naturally to him. But when he does, he’s loyal. The kind of person who’d drive two hours to pick you up off the side of the road or sit beside you in silence for as long as it takes.

When I agreed to move in, I didn’t expect we’d get along like this. But we do. There’s no pressure. No pretending or posturing. Just Liam being exactly who he is. He’s blunt, with no filter to speak of, but there’s no guesswork, either. You always know where you stand.

I don’t think many people really get him. Except Birdie. She sees him in a way most people don’t. The sharp edges, the quiet spells, the way he sometimes says too much or not enough. She just rolls with it, like it’s second nature.

And I get why he holds on to her the way he does.

“Except for Birdie, right?”

He scoffs, like I’m a dipshit for even questioning it. “Well, that goes without saying.”

I glance back at my cereal, stirring the spoon in slow circles. I should probably tell Liam about my plans for later. Make a bit more of an effort. We’re family, even if it doesn’t always feel that way.

And since we’re living together, it makes sense to at least try.

“I was gonna watch the Bobcats game later.”

“Okay,” Liam says, cracking his knuckles like I’d just informed him of the weather. “Cool.”

I wait a beat. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “So . . . I was thinking maybe you’d wanna watch it with me.”

He frowns. “Why?”

I blink at him. “Because . . . I don’t know, man. Thought you might be interested.”

“In football? No, thanks. I’m not really a fan of sports.”

My brows shoot up. “You’re the captain of a D1 soccer team. You’ve been playing since you were two.”

“Right,” he says simply. “I like to play sports. Particularly ones where you run fast. But I don’t like to watch them.”

I let out a breathless chuckle. “Alright. Whatever, man.”

He shrugs and takes another swig of his shake.

I go back to my cereal, vaguely annoyed that I even asked.

It’s not a big deal—just a game—but for some reason, the idea of sitting here alone in front of the TV doesn’t sit right. Maybe I should just text Quinn, see if she wants to come over later. Or maybe that’s too much, too soon.

“Ah shit,” Liam mutters. “You were trying to hang out with me just now.”

My ears heat. “I mean . . . I just thought I’d offer.”

He’s quiet for a second, tilting his head like he’s sizing me up. “I’ll order us some wings.”

“So, you do want to watch it?”

He shrugs again. “Eh, why not? One of my friends plays for the team.”

I rear back. “For the Bobcats?”

“Well . . . more of a friend of a friend. My buddy’s girlfriend is best friends with his girlfriend. You know what, that’s actually a hard train to follow.” He waves a hand like he’s clearing the air. “Just . . . yeah, he’s an acquaintance. Though I did go bowling with him not too long ago.”

I snort. “Who?”

“Westman-Cooke.”

I sit back in my chair. Theodore Westman-Cooke is in his second season with the Bobcats—a solid running back who put up some impressive yardage last season. Fast as hell, always dodging defenders like he’s playing tag.

“He’s a beast.”

“Yeah,” Liam says, “I beat him in bowling.”

I stare at him, deadpan. “Well, shit. Someone call ESPN.”

A couple of hours later, the game’s on, and we’re parked on the couch with a box of wings between us. The place smells like buffalo sauce and grease, and Liam’s sitting half sideways with one knee tucked under him.

I think he might be getting ready for a nap, actually.

He’s not really watching the game—not the way I am, anyway. Between bouts of nodding off, he’s also reading player bios out loud like he’s narrating a documentary.

“Did you know the quarterback has a pet tortoise that’s thirty-six years old?” he says around a mouthful of fries. “Pretty tough.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, eyes still on the screen. “That’s wild.”

“I have a little turtle, too. His name is Otis.”

I pause mid-bite. “I’ve never seen him.”

“No, you wouldn’t. He lives in the fountain between the engineering buildings.”

“And he’s yours ?”

“Mine and Birdie’s. We claimed him.”

I laugh, squint, then blink at him like that’ll somehow make it make more sense. “Alright, man.”

By halftime, the Bobcats are down by ten. Their defense can’t seem to stop a run play to save their lives, and the offense keeps choking on third down. It’s legitimately painful to watch, but I’ve sat through worse.

“Gonna call Birdie,” Liam says, standing and disappearing down the hall.

I sit there absently for a while, nursing a lukewarm beer and picking at the bones in the wing box. My phone’s face down on the armrest, screen dark. I flip it over, thumb hovering over Quinn’s name before I finally type out a text.

Warren

you wanna come over tonight? after the game?

I stare at the message for a second, debating whether to hit Send. Things felt ... right between us last night. Easy. Like maybe we were still us underneath all the wreckage. But maybe it was just that—one night. One good thing before she panics and runs again.

I send it anyway, and my phone buzzes less than a minute later.

Quinn

Busy, sorry! Talk later.

I frown. The message feels off—too neat, too automatic. Like one of those programmed responses you hit when you’re driving or stuck in a meeting. What a fucking cop-out.

I toss my phone back onto the armrest and lean back against the couch, tension crawling under my skin.

Is she gonna do what she always does? Pull away, build her walls back up, decide that whatever this thing is between us isn’t worth the mess?

Maybe I should’ve kept my distance. Maybe I’m a fool for thinking we could patch this up so easily. I take another swig of beer, barely tasting it.

A few minutes later, Liam comes back, still grinning like Birdie just told him the meaning of life.

“She good?” I ask gruffly.

“Yeah. I told her about your little chain.” He flops back onto the couch, grabs a wing, and waggles his eyebrows. “She thinks it’s cute.”

“Glad my love life’s keeping you both entertained.”

The rest of the game blurs by, the tension coiling tight in my chest. I can’t focus. Not on the game, not on the wings, not on the occasional joke Liam throws out about the commentators. All I can think about is Quinn and that forced, too-perfect brush-off.

Busy, sorry! Talk later.

Like she’s already halfway out the door. Like I should’ve known better than to believe things could be simple.

I sink deeper into the couch, jaw tight, stomach sour.

Yeah. I should’ve fucking known better.