Page 59 of No Good Fight

“Yes.”

“And oat milk.”

“You drink it even if I think it’s disgusting,” he replies, glancing at me and then back at the bag in his hands. “At coffee shops. At Josh’s when his woman buys it by mistake. You act like it’s no big deal, then finish the carton before anyone else decides whether they like it.”

“That is a lot of attention paid to milk.”

“It’s not the milk I’m paying attention to.”

I shut the refrigerator. The answer is too plain for me to push against, so I move to the pantry because apparently tonight I’m determined to find every emotional landmine in Ryder’s kitchen.

Sea salt kettle chips. Cinnamon cereal. Granola bars I only buy on sale. Sour gummy worms near the front, bright and obnoxious.

I lift the bag. “You hate candy.”

Ryder finally looks at me for more than a second. “You eat them when you’re on deadline.”

“I complain the whole time.”

“You still finish the bag.”

My laugh comes out thin, but it’s real. I put the candy back and close the pantry door with my palm, staying turned away for a moment while my pulse taps hard in my throat. “Preston remembered things too.”

The McDonald’s bag crinkles behind me where Ryder’s hand tightens around the folded paper.

“He remembered my coffee, my favorite restaurants, the earrings I wore on our third date,” I say, keeping my eyes on the pantry door because his face might make me stop. “It felt romantic until it didn’t. Then all those details turned into proof. Proof I changed. Proof I lied. Proof I owed him for caring enough to notice.”

Ryder’s boots shift against the kitchen floor, one step closer before he stops himself. “I’m not him.”

“I know that.” I turn around, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “I do know that, Ryder. But my body is not having a great night with the finer details. I want it, but I’m so fucking scared that it’s the same, deep down.”

His gaze lowers to my wrist, then comes back to my face. “I can take you somewhere else. Somewhere that won’t trigger you.”

The offer is perfect and immediate and he didn’t even have to think about it before he makes it. He doesn’t look wounded or angry. He looks ready to grab the keys and drive me wherever I decide to go, even if the decision hurts him.

That steadies me more than a defense of his actions would have.

“I don’t want to leave,” I tell him, gripping the end of my sleeve. “I just need you to understand why this scares me. Why you scare me.”

10

ALEX

“I understand enough to know that I should have told you sooner.” Ryder clears his throat. “But you’re not the only one who’s scared right now.”

I swallow, then nod because I don’t trust my voice. The kitchen feels too intimate suddenly, with my food on his counter and my favorite creamer in his refrigerator, so I drift into the living room while Ryder stays near the island and lets me move.

The room is familiar and new and strange all at once. The dark couch his parents bought him when he moved in. Heavy coffee table with the dent Josh put in it during a football game. Firehouse plaque on the shelf. A photo of Ryder’s parents sitting on the porch, his mother laughing while his father looks at her instead of the camera. Then I see the Fourth of July picture, and my feet stop.

I remember the day in almost painfully clear detail. Josh at the grill with tongs in one hand and a drink in the other, Remy pointing across the yard while the kids were screaming, Parker laughing in a patio chair, and me on the porch step near the edge of the frame with a paper plate balanced on my knees. I’m not centered in the image. I’m not posed or even looking at the camera. My head is tipped back, and I’m laughing at somebody outside the shot.

The frame is nicer than the others and it sits angled toward the couch like Ryder wanted it in sight, not hidden among old group photos.

I touch the edge of the frame with one finger. “Why this one?”

Ryder followed me to the doorway, and is leaning against the frame when we lock eyes.

“You were laughing,” he says. “I wanted to keep that memory close. It was so rare to see you smile.”