He doesn’t have to.
The night winds down around eleven. Tori and Zayden leave first—Tori hugs Sydney at the door, and I hear her say, “We should do this more often.” Banks and Winnie follow, and Winnie kisses Sydney’s cheek on the way out and whispers something in her ear that makes Sydney blush and shake her head.
Logan is the last to go, because of course he is.
“Sydney, it was an absolute pleasure.” He takes her hand, and for a horrifying second, I think he’s going to kiss it. He doesn’t. He shakes it. With both hands. “We should definitely hang out. I’ll text Archer to get your number.”
“Goodnight, Logan,” I say, and open the door wider.
“Think about the gym thing!” he calls over his shoulder as he walks down the porch steps. “I’m serious about the dance studio.”
I close the door. Sydney is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with an expression that’s half-amused and half-questioning.
“Is he always like that?” she asks.
“Always.”
“He’s, uh—he’s very friendly.”
“He’s a golden retriever in a blazer.”
She laughs. “He’s sweet.”
“He was hitting on you.”
The words come out before I can stop them, and the air in the hallway changes. Sydney’s eyebrows go up.
“He was not hitting on me.”
“He complimented your body, suggested a private workout, and held your hand with both hands on the way out.” I lift one eyebrow. “That’s hitting on you.”
“That’s being nice.”
“That’s Logan being Logan, and he wants your number.” He wants a lot more than that.
She stares at me. I stare back. The hallway is narrow, and we’re standing three feet apart, and I can see the question forming on her face—why do you care?—and I need to leave this conversation before she asks it because I don’t have an answer I’m willing to give.
“I’m going to clean up,” I say, and I walk to the kitchen.
She doesn’t follow me. I hear her footsteps go upstairs, and then the guest room door closes, and I stand at the sink rinsing plates and telling myself that I wasn’t jealous. I was being protective. There’s a difference. She’s my best friend, and Logan is a twenty-three-year-old puppy who falls in love with every woman he meets, and Sydney deserves better than being someone’s weekly crush.
That’s all it was.
I finish the dishes. I wipe the counters. I put the leftover lasagna in the fridge, blow out the candles, and stand in my dining room looking at the table where seven people sat tonight, and the house was loud and full for the first time in months.
Then I go outside.
The back patio has a firepit I’ve used exactly once—the night Bree left. I sat out here with a glass of whiskey, watched the flames, and tried to figure out how my life had gone so sideways so quietly. I didn’t cry. I didn’t call anyone. I just sat there and let the fire burn down, and then I went inside and made the twins’ lunches for the next day because that’s what needed to happen next.
I light it now. I sit in the same chair with a glass of whiskey—but tonight the reason I’m out here has nothing to do with Bree.
The sky is dark above the city, the kind of dark where you can’t see stars, but you know they’re there. The fire pops andsettles, and I lean back, close my eyes, and let myself go to the place I never go.
Back to Sydney at seventeen. The way she asked me and the way I saidnoand the two nights I spent lying awake in my bed thinking about it before I showed up at her house and saidyes. The nervous walk up her porch steps. The look on her face when she opened the door and realized I’d changed my mind.
I remember everything. I’ve told myself for years that I don’t, that it was teenage fumbling. But I remember her hands on my shoulders. I remember the sound she made when I kissed her neck. I remember the way she looked at me after, her hair spread across the pillow, her eyes wide and warm and full, and I remember thinking, clear as anything:don’t mess this up.
I messed it up.
