Home smells like old coffee grounds and that weird candle Stiles insists makes the place “feel grounded.” It mostly smells like wet dog and accidental arson. But whatever. I’m supposed to say it’s the thought that counts.
Brandt’s humming something under his breath as he dumps our bags by the door. He’s still glowing from the trip. Me? I’m stiff, half-sore, and fully bracing for the emotional crash that always follows doing something brave.
I go into the bedroom to toss my jacket and nearly trip over the stack of crap Brandt left on the dresser.
At the top is an old photo in a bent frame. One of me.Before. Me on skis, goggles pushed up, face flushed from wind and effort and probably tequila. My smile’s too wide, like I didn’t know what was coming yet.
I remember that weekend. Me and Brandt joined some of the other lonely losers in our unit that didn’t have plans for the new year, piled in my Jeep, and drove the handful of hours up to the ski lodge.
I freeze. Every time I see it, it hits the same.
That guy didn’t have to think about balance, or socket sweat, or if some kid was staring too long at the wrong leg.
That guy didn’t think twice about skiing.
That guy?—
“Hey,” Brandt says gently from behind me. “You okay?”
I don’t look at him. “Why’d you leave this out?”
“I didn’t.” His voice is careful. “It must’ve fallen out of my bag. I kept it in my wallet for years.”
That makes my throat go tight. “Why?”
“Because it’s you,” he says simply. “I loved that version of you. I love this version more.”
I set the frame down, not because I want to stop looking at it, but because I want to stopfeelingit.
“I don’t know who that guy is anymore,” I admit, raw around the edges.
“You’re still him,” Brandt says. “You’re just... more.”
I finally meet his eyes, and he’s not smiling, not smirking, just watching me like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
“Still think I looked badass on the slopes?” I ask, trying to defuse the moment before it swallows me whole.
Brandt closes the distance, puts a hand on my neck, and leans in so close I feel the whisper of his breath. “You looked unstoppable.”
And goddammit. That’s almost worse than if he’d lied.
The Pledge Circle
A Trust Exercise
Riggs had the bright idea to make the Bitches pair up this week and write pledges to each other. Something about mutual accountability and healing through structured vulnerability.
In practice, it’s become roast hour with yarn.
Riggs stands in the middle of the room, clipboard in one hand, rainbow-colored yarn unraveling from his wrist like he forgot he was still attached to his project.
“I swear to Christ,” he says, already tired, “if this turns into a trust fall, I’m climbing out the window.”
McCormick, with hisCAMP BALLSt-shirt half untucked. “There’s a perfectly good door right there,” he points out around a mouthful of pork rinds. He wipes his hand on his shorts, of course.
“I call catching you!” Jax pipes up. “And by catching I mean side-stepping and yellingtimber.”
“Y’all are the worst support group I’ve ever been in,” Riggs mutters, but there’s no heat in it.
