And I don’t know how to build a life on only half of that.
The snow keeps falling outside.
Quiet.
Endless.
Like it’s trying to cover everything we broke.
I know it’s a mistake the second the door swings open.
Heat rushes out. Noise. A wall of sound that hits too fast after the quiet of the house. Wet jackets, beer, wood smoke. The place is packed with ski boots and red faces, people shaking snow out of their hair like dogs.
A band’s already playing. Loud. Sloppy. Familiar.
Sage slips out of her coat, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes bright in a way that makes me feel worse instead of better.
“You okay?” she asks, smiling.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just… loud.”
She laughs and threads her way toward the bar. I follow, already wishing I’d stayed home.
Then I hear my name.
Not shouted.
Recognizing.
“Ethan?”
My stomach drops before I turn.
Emily.
Boston-Emily. The girl who came to watch me play every secret set last summer. She flirted. Asked me to play songs for her. I told her I wasn’t available and yet—our eyes would still lock as the notes carried in the late summer air. Suspended. It’s like when she looked at me she saw all my secrets. But still—I never cheated.
She’s standing near the edge of the crowd, ski jacket half unzipped, hair tucked into a knit hat. Same face. Same mouth. Same look of surprise that turns into a grin like this is the best coincidence of her week.
“No way,” she says. “What are you doing up here?”
Sage stops beside me.
Her hand rests lightly against my arm. Casual. Possessive without squeezing.
“Hey,” I say, forcing a smile. “Didn’t know you skied.”
Emily laughs. “I don’t. Friend dragged me. I’m terrible.”
She looks past me, then back. “Holy shit — I didn’t even know you sang in Vermont. Our you going up to the stage soon?. Last time I saw you, you were?—”
She pauses, searching her memory.
“—what, playing Sundays at O’Malley’s? And that dive near Fenway on weeknights?”
There it is.
I feel Sage’s hand still.
