This was one of Josh’s friends, wasn’t it?
twenty-eight
I rememberedher vaguely from before. It looked like I wasn’t the only one getting back in touch with past significant others, was I?
But now she was here. In his space. With him.
As she should be. I mean, I didn’t have any right to him. I’d told him we couldn’t be anything, and now I …
A sharp, slow ache built behind my ribs, something vulnerable cracking inside of me. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected when I walked toward him. Resolution? Reassurance? Another near kiss we’d pretend never happened?
He glanced up, mid-laugh, catching my gaze. His smile faltered—not disappeared, just softened. Like he didn’t know whether to hold on to it or let it go.
“Hey,” he said, voice quiet despite the laughter around him. His eyes held mine with that frustrating depth that always made it feel like he could read me too easily.
The girl next to him looked between us, a small, polite smile forming as she stepped half a breath away, her hand sliding from his arm. “I’m going to grab another drink,” she murmured, her voice kind and casual, but tinged with curiosity.
His focus was still entirely on me.
I took a step forward, still unsure what I was even doing, and offered a thin smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he echoed, his tone gentle now, edged with something quieter. A hesitation. “You okay?”
I nodded quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. I just needed to see you for a second.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly, and something flickered in his expression—hope maybe or surprise. “You found me.”
“Yeah.” My voice almost broke. “I found you.”
And for a moment, we stood there, the air between us heavy. The girl hadn’t gone far. She was just behind the punch table now, glancing over occasionally, and Mrs. Hutton, standing in the archway near the hallway, sipped her wine, but didn’t look away.
I realized, all too suddenly, she was watching. Not just me. Us. Watching Josh. Watching me. Watching something.
Maybe she knew. Maybe she’d known all along.
Josh tilted his head, the noise of the party dimming around us.
“Do you want to talk?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah. I really do.”
He took a slow step toward me, his fingers brushing mine in that quiet, unspoken way he always had—like he was asking permission without saying a word. And despite everything—his friend, the noise, the fear—I didn’t pull away.
Not this time.
“Let’s go talk,” he said.
I nodded.
He took me down the hall toward his childhood bedroom. Growing up, I’d felt like it was ado not enterzone, both because of the fact that it was an extra turn down the hallway from the bathroom and also because of the sign he used to have postedthere when he was in middle and high school. Now it was gone, and he led me right inside.
He shut the door behind us, the volume from downstairs decreasing dramatically.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
He stared at me. “’Cause you don’t look okay, Brielle. And honestly, you are driving me crazy here.”
