Yet again, I’m grateful to Emma for giving me the clarity to pull my head out of my ass and make the deal to get Squid out of this house.
“I hate this place. Can we just go?” Squid says, snapping me back to the present. The living room is a mess, but Squid’s room is exactly how I remember it from the last time I was here. Small and cramped with a broken lock on the door. I hate how his whole life is crammed into one space like he never belonged in the rest of the house.
We don’t talk much as we start packing. Squid moves methodically, like he’s afraid if he hesitates, our father might change his mind, or the deal will fall over. I don’t rush him, even though every second in this house makes my skin crawl. I shove clothes into a duffel, grab the old PlayStation from the corner, and carefully peel posters from the walls.
An hour later, we stand in the driveway, the back of my SUV packed full. Fucking Fleski doesn’t even come outside to say goodbye to his youngest son. When did he check out? Before or after our mother died?
Squid looks at the house for a long moment before turning to me. “Wait? That’s it? We’re just … done?” His voice cracks. “I just leave?”
I squeeze his shoulder. “Yeah, kid. You leave.”
His eyes are glassy, but he nods. “Good.”
When we get to my penthouse, I take him through to his bedroom and he stands in the doorway as if he’s never seen it before. More than twice the size of his old room, it has a double bed, music corner complete with guitar, brand new laptop on his desk, and a curved gaming monitor. Squid drops his duffel, eyes wide. “This is really mine? Like,permanentlymine?”
I clap a hand on his back. “It’s ours, Squid. Yours and mine. This is your home, but you’ve gotta share it with me.”
I don’t expect him to almost knock me over in a hug. And I don’t expect his full-body tears of relief and grief.
But when Squid has cried himself out and demands pizza and board games, I have hope for my little family of two.
The missing piece is Emma.
The coffee shop is half-full when I walk in the day after Squid moved in. After beating him at a pirate board game, hechallenged me to his latest online gaming binge, until I called time at almost two am.
I still hit the gym at daybreak, before cramming for today’s economics exam, and still made it to the coffee shop by three o’clock. Again.
I take my usual seat in the corner, my back to the wall, giving me a clear view of the entrance. The last three days have been the same—I order a coffee, sit here, and wait. It’s a new form of torture, not being able to exchange origami notes. One thousand times a day, I open up my notes app and draft something that will fit on a note, only to realize that by the time we can exchange them again, the moment will have passed.
I can’t accidentally run into Emma or any of the other cheerleaders.
I can’t text her.
I can’t tell her how much I want us to fake date for real, and that we can trust Kenzie to set it up in a way that protects Emma.
With no way to contact her, there’s been no way to fix this thing between us, and no way for her to tell me if she wants Plan Z.
Now that Squid is safe, I should be focused on my career, my team, and the next game. But I don’t give a shit about any of that. Not when the only thing I want is Emma. Will I turn up here every day at three for the rest of the season, hoping she will read my mind? Probably. But more likely, I’ll give her another couple of days before asking Squid to pass a note to Sage like we’re the ones who are twelve.
The bell above the door chimes, and my body reacts before my brain does. My pulse kicks up, my hands clench, my eyes lock onto her the second she steps inside.
She hesitates, scanning the room like she’s debating whether to turn around and leave.No, no no. Please look at me. Please come to me.
Then her gaze lands on me.
I stand, but she beats me to it, quickly crossing the room before she loses her nerve.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she says, her voice low, her eyes darting to the barista, to the people at the next table.
“You did.”
She swallows hard and sits. “This is a mistake.”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. “Then why are you here?”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t have an answer.
I reach into my pocket and slide a folded paper swan across the table. Of the ten handwritten swans on my dresser, this is the one most likely to get her to open up and consider me worth the risk. Her fingers hesitate before picking it up, unfolding it carefully.
