Page 32

Story: The Feud

32

FAITH

“J ust a casual summer fling. So I guess that’s what it is.”

The words drift through the kitchen like smoke. I stop in my tracks for half a second—just long enough to feel them land in the center of my chest.

I step into the room, smile stitched on like armor.

“Oh. Hey there.”

I manage it, somehow.

“Hey,” I say, too breezy, too light. “Is there a cheese slice? Not in a toppings mood.”

Margot, bless her, doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course, honey. Help yourself.”

I sit down next to Daphne, grab a plate, and take a bite, even though I can’t taste anything. My heart is hammering. My head’s starting to spin.

Just a fling?

Is that what I’ve been to him this whole time?

We slept together in my bed. In my shower. He held my hand while I told him things I haven’t even said out loud to April.

He looks at me now—like he’s trying to read me. But I don’t give him anything. I keep chewing, nodding at something Daphne says, keeping my eyes on my slice.

But I can feel it—Margot watching me, Daphne’s subtle glance, Hunter’s gaze like it’s burning.

“Faith?” Margot finally asks. “You okay?”

I glance up, swallow hard. Smile.

“Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”

Daphne shifts in her seat. “Yeah, yesterday kind of wiped me too. You sure you’re good?”

I nod again. “Yup. Just thinking.”

Hunter’s quiet now too.

But I’m not thinking.

I’m spiraling.

Because I didn’t think this was forever. I didn’t even think this was love. But I thought it meant something.

And now?

Now I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing anymore.

“So…there’s that hiking trail I’ve been meaning to try out. Did you see they actually made a bridge to the island in the middle of the lake? Looks pretty cool,” Margot says. “Faith, you up for that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, for sure.”

* * *

We head toward the trail, the late afternoon sun bleeding gold through the trees.

Margot and Daphne walk a few paces behind, laughing about some story I’m barely hearing. My heart’s pounding too loud to catch the details.

Hunter walks beside me, close but not touching. His arms swing casually at his sides like he hasn’t said something that’s been ricocheting around my chest since I overheard it.

It’s just a casual summer fling. So I guess that’s what it is.

God, it burns. I feel tricked.

When we reach the bridge, it’s prettier than I expected—slatted wood, simple rails, a gentle arch that leads over glittering water to a patch of green in the middle of the lake. It should feel romantic.

Instead, it feels like walking into a trap.

“Faith,” Hunter says, as we step onto the island’s soft trail. He slows. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Totally. This is what I wanted, right? Something casual?” I give a short, bitter laugh. “You’re just honoring my wishes.”

He stops walking. “Okay, what’s going on?”

I cross my arms. “You said that to your mom.”

“What?”

“That it was just a casual fling. That’s what this is to you?”

Hunter’s jaw tightens. “I said that because I didn’t know you were behind me. And maybe I was trying to protect myself a little too.”

“From what?” I snap. “From actually feeling something real?”

He steps forward, heat in his eyes. “You’re the one who said no strings, Faith.”

“Because I didn’t know if I could trust you! And then I start to. I let myself—just a little—and I hear that. ”

His hands drop to his sides. “So what, I’m supposed to just read your mind? You tell me one thing but want another—how am I supposed to keep up?”

“Maybe you’re not supposed to,” I bite, my voice wobbling. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

He flinches like I slapped him.

Silence pulses between us. Only the rustling of leaves, the soft lap of the lake on the shore.

Then he says, low and rough, “If it was a mistake, it’s the best damn one I’ve ever made.”

That almost breaks me.

But I shake my head. “I need to think.”

He nods once, jaw working, then turns and walks back down the trail.

And I’m left standing on this little island, heart pounding, eyes stinging, not sure whether to scream, sob, or dive into the lake and swim to the other side.

Because the truth is, I’m falling for him.

And it terrifies me more than anything ever has.

The walk back is silent.

Daphne and Margot keep chatting like nothing happened, but I know Hunter can feel it—this tense little gap between us like a fault line waiting to crack wide open.

When we get back to the house, I head straight inside.

“Everything okay, hon?” Margot asks, a little frown in her voice.

“I think I just need to lie down,” I murmur. “A little too much sun, maybe.”

Hunter’s standing behind her, silent, eyes locked on me.

I don’t look back.

Upstairs, I close the door to the guest room and press my back to it. My breath comes too fast, like my ribs can’t quite catch the rhythm.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Keith again.

Keith: Still nothing? Just radio silence now? Okay, got it. Hope it was worth it.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and stare at the message, and suddenly, I’m not angry. I’m just… tired. Tired of running from the girl I used to be. Tired of pretending I’m not falling for someone I swore I wouldn’t.

And before I can talk myself out of it, I Google the next bus out of here.

There’s one that leaves from the nearby town in an hour.

I book a ticket.

Ten minutes later, I’m stuffing my things into my bag, moving on autopilot.

I leave a short note for Margot on the kitchen counter:

“Thank you for the hospitality. I just need to clear my head for a bit. Tell Daphne I’ll text her. – Faith”

I step out the back door and down the gravel driveway.

And I don’t look back.

* * *

The bus is half-empty, save for a few locals and a couple kids with headphones in. I sit near the back, press my forehead against the glass, and try not to cry.

Try—and fail.

I’m not sure what I expected. A grand gesture? For Hunter to chase me down the driveway and beg me to stay?

That’s not how real life works.

And I’m starting to think maybe I’m not cut out for love at all.

Who am I to think I deserve something like this? The lake house. The butterflies. The sex so good it cracks open my chest.

Who am I to think I can have a life that feels like more?

I grip the fabric of my tote bag until my knuckles ache.

“That window’s not gonna hug you back, sweetheart.”

I blink and turn. The voice comes from across the aisle—a woman, maybe in her seventies, wearing coral lipstick and a soft denim jacket. She’s crocheting something in her lap and smiling like she knows exactly what kind of day I’ve had.

“Sorry,” I sniff. “Didn’t mean to make it everyone’s problem.”

“Oh, honey. You’re on a Greyhound bus on a Saturday. We’re all each other’s problems now.”

That gets a laugh out of me, somehow. A small one, but real.

“Bad day?” she asks, looping her yarn around her hook.

“Bad summer,” I mutter.

She hums thoughtfully, eyes on her stitching. “Boy trouble?”

I nod. “And family. And… me, mostly.”

She glances up. “You running from something?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not someone who gets the kind of life I want.”

She stops crocheting.

“Honey, who told you that lie?”

My throat tightens. “It just… never felt like it was meant for me, you know? The kind of love that doesn’t ask you to shrink. The kind that makes you feel… seen. Like you matter.”

She gives me a look so full of warmth it nearly guts me. “Well, I don’t know who taught you that you’re not allowed to want everything, but I’d like to have a word with them. Maybe even a slap.”

I laugh again. It comes out choked.

“Listen,” she says, leaning in a little, voice low and steady. “There are two kinds of people in this world: the ones who think they have to earn love by being perfect, and the ones who know love isn’t a prize, it’s a birthright. Guess which ones are happier?”

I blink fast. “The second?”

“Damn straight.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a tissue, handing it to me. “Now you can sit here and keep punishing yourself for not being perfect. Or you can get off this bus, go tell that man what you actually feel, and live the kind of life that scares you a little. That’s usually how you know it’s the good kind.”

I sit there, holding the tissue like it’s holy, heart thudding so hard I feel it in my teeth.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

She winks. “You’ll figure it out. And if you don’t, come back and ride the bus again. We’re full of wisdom and bad snacks.”

I smile—and for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like a mask.