I don’t answer.
Because if I open my mouth, I’m not sure I’ll be able to lie about that.
Ronnie grins like he’s already won and turns to unload the cart. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine without me. Besides, I’m starting to think she doesn’t need a fake boyfriend — she needs someone to admit he’s not faking.”
The afternoon sun bounces off the truck’s hood as we load the supplies into the bed. Paint first, then the trim boards stacked tight so they won’t shift.
Ronnie slides the last bundle into place and dusts off his hands. “Oh — meant to tell you. Saw your brother down at the marina yesterday.”
I glance up from securing the straps. “Colton?”
“Yeah. He was grabbing lunch with some guy from his team.” Ronnie leans against the tailgate like this is nothing. “Told him I’ve been helping you on the house. Mentioned the kiss thing, and he just said…” Ronnie pauses, then does his best impression of Colton’s easy charm. “‘Looking forward to catching up with my big brother.’”
I freeze, ratchet strap halfway tightened. “He said that?”
Ronnie nods. “Even smiled when he said it.”
My gut goes cold. I know that smile. It’s the same one he used when he was lining up a perfect pass on the field — or setting someone up for a blindside hit they never saw coming.
Ronnie shrugs, oblivious. “Guess word really does get around here.”
Yeah. Too fast.
Chapter Ten
Lyla
Mom’s standing in the kitchen when I walk in, staring into the open fridge like it’s going to hand her the answer to a question she hasn’t asked yet.
“Did you eat breakfast?” I ask, stepping around her to close the door before all the cold leaks out.
She frowns. “I’m waiting for Aaron. He always makes pancakes.”
The air sticks in my throat for a beat before I manage to nod. “Right. Well… I’ll make some now.”
She wanders to the table, flipping through the mail like it’s a catalog of choices she needs to make. I set the pan on the stove and keep my voice light, even though my chest feels heavy.
After she eats, I slip into my closet “studio” to record a segment I’ve been putting off. I hit record, speak the first line, and stop.
My voice sounds thin. Strained. Not the warm, steady tone my listeners expect.
I try again. And again. Each take collapses somewhere between my brain and my mouth, like the words know they’re not going to land right. My thoughts keep circling back to Mom at the fridge, to how much longer I can keep doing this on my own.
By the time I shut down my laptop, my jaw aches from clenching it. I tell myself work at Damien’s will be a good distraction — something physical, something that doesn’t require my voice to sound okay.
But when I step out into the cold air, all I feel is the sting of wind on my cheeks and the simmering frustration I can’t seem to shake.
The Lawson house smells faintly of sawdust and cold paint when I step inside. Damien’s already in the front room with two weathered interior doors propped up on sawhorses.
“Morning,” he says, nodding toward the extra dust mask and sander waiting for me.
“Morning,” I echo, pulling the mask on. The weight of it feels heavier than usual.
The first few passes of the sander are fine, the low hum vibrating up my arms, but I keep missing edges. My grip slips. I take too much off one spot and leave the next patch untouched.
Damien’s voice cuts through the buzz. “You’re holding it too high. Keep it flat or you’ll gouge the wood.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, even though I know I’m not.
