Allie raised hers last. “And to the possibility that the jackass might actually be a donkey with a good heart.”
I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth tugged up a fraction. “You’re all terrible.”
“You love us,” Allie said.
I looked at the three of them—Pepper with her sharp edges and big heart, Meghan with her steady calm, Allie with her quiet insight—and the thickness in my chest eased half a notch.
“Yeah,” I said. “I really do.”
FIFTEEN
POWELL
The community center always smelled vaguely like floor wax, burnt coffee, and the ghosts of a hundred potlucks. It was a place where people argued about who was bringing deviled eggs instead of anything that really mattered. Under normal circumstances, that mix settled me.
Tonight, the scent made my stomach twist.
We’d spent an hour hashing out final assignments for the Twelve Stops, and I’d caught exactly none of it. My body had been in the room; my mind was still in my kitchen two nights ago, standing in the patch of light between the stove and the island with Jess’s mouth soft against mine and her hand fisted in my shirt like she needed me to stay right there.
And then the moment her whole body had gone rigid. The shock in her eyes before she jerked away so fast, I might as well have been electrified.
Since then, she’d gone back to doing everything possible to avoid me. I’d given her space, mostly because I didn’t know what to say. But I’d been aware I’d see her tonight for this meeting with other local business owners. And yeah, I’d seen her. But she’d barely looked at me. Not during the meeting, not when she’d spoken up about booth spacing, not even when she’dpassed me the volunteer list. Her focus never drifted my way. Not once.
If it had been anyone else, I might’ve assumed I imagined the whole damn thing.
But I hadn’t. Her warmth still vibrated against me.
Mayor Allen dismissed everyone with a clap that echoed, and chairs scraped across the linoleum in a disorganized chorus. People shuffled their notes, bundled up, and drifted toward the exit in little herds, talking about weather patterns and generator placement and whether Mrs. Dillard’s gingerbread had a prayer of surviving humidity this high.
I kept my eyes on the mess of extension cords and maps in front of me, pretending to gather my things slower than normal. I didn’t want to crowd her. Didn’t want to seem like I was pouncing. But I needed to talk to her.
Except Jess didn’t bolt.
She stayed exactly where she was, standing beside the long folding table, her hands clasped together in front of her in a way that immediately warned me something was wrong. Jess Donnegan didn’t clasp her hands. She talked with them. Snapped with them. Directed entire spaces with them. This? This posture screamed nerves.
Nerves about me.
That realization sent a slow breath seeping out of my chest as the last of the committee filed out. The door clicked shut. The buzz of the fluorescent lights intensified in the sudden quiet.
I finally let myself turn toward her fully.
“You’re still here.” It came out softer than I intended, because I’d braced for empty space where she’d been standing.
She lifted her chin a fraction. “Yeah. I—” She swallowed. “We need to talk.”
Every inch of me stilled. I forced a careful nod, trying hard not to telegraph the tightness suddenly gripping my ribs. “If this is the part where you say you regret?—”
“It’s not.”
I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until something in my chest loosened enough that I took a new one. Her voice hadn’t wavered on that. She meant it.
But whatever she’d come to say still had her tied up in knots. That alarmed me more than if she’d stormed in and yelled.
“It’s about senior year.”
Somehow, that stillness magnified with dread. “What about senior year?”
She didn’t glance away. She didn’t soften the words. She went straight for the truth she’d been carrying like shrapnel. “It’s about Trent Mallory.”
