Chapter 32
Flashback
The night air is warm, pressing softly against my skin as I step out onto the porch. Somewhere down the road, an engine idles low, barely there, like it’s trying not to wake anyone. I don’t bother checking the time. I already know.
Ethan’s truck sits at the curb with the headlights off, the dashboard glowing faintly inside.
He’s leaning forward, elbows on the steering wheel, waiting.
When I open the passenger door, the interior light flicks on, illuminating his face for just a second, his lashes, the curve of his smile before he reins it in.
“You were awake?” he whispers, like this is something secret we’re stealing.
“I am now,” I say, grinning as I slide in and pull the door shut.
The truck hums as he pulls away from the curb, careful, slow. The windows are already down, warm air rushing in, carrying the scent of pine and dust and summer. It’s the kind of night that feels suspended, like the world is holding its breath.
He glances at me, that crooked smile tugging at his mouth. The one that always feels like it’s meant just for me.
“Come on,” he says. “I want to show you something.”
The radio plays softly, something familiar, something we both half-know the words to. We don’t sing. We never do. It’s enough just to be here, the hum of the engine beneath us, my knee brushing his every time the road curves.
The town slips away gradually, streetlights thinning out, houses giving way to open stretches of road.
I watch the glow of the dashboard light his hands on the steering wheel.
One hand taps in time with the music. The other rests easy, relaxed, like he’s not carrying the weight of the future the way everyone keeps telling us we should.
“Where are we going?” I ask, even though part of me hopes he won’t say.
He glances at me again. “You’ll see.”
The road narrows. Trees close in. The sky opens up above us, huge and dark and crowded with stars. I tilt my head back against the seat, watching them streak past through the windshield, feeling small in the best way.
Then the lake appears, sudden and quiet, like it’s been waiting.
Ethan pulls over near the grass and kills the engine. The silence settles instantly, deep and complete, broken only by the chirr of insects and the distant lap of water against shore.
He gets out first and circles around, offering me his hand. It’s such a simple thing, but my chest tightens anyway.
I take it.
His palm is warm, rougher than mine, familiar. He helps me down the slight slope toward the water and doesn’t let go right away. I don’t pull my hand back.
“Look,” he says softly.
The lake stretches out before us, perfectly still. The stars scatter across its surface, reflected so clearly it feels like we’re standing between two skies. I inhale, slow and deep, like I might be able to take the moment into my lungs and keep it there.
“Ethan,” I whisper.
He smiles, satisfied but gentle. “Told you.”
We sit at the edge, shoes kicked off, toes brushing the cool grass. Our shoulders touch. Not accidentally. Not quite intentionally either. Just close enough to feel the heat of him, to feel how his breathing changes when mine does.
He picks up stones and skips them across the water. Each one hops and skids like it knows what it’s doing. When I try, mine sinks straight down with a quiet plunk.
He laughs, not loud, not teasing. Just warm. Real.
I bump his shoulder with mine. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not,” he says immediately. “I swear.” Then, after a beat, quieter, “I just… like being out here with you.”
The words settle between us, heavier than they should be for something so simple.
I turn to look at him. He’s already watching me. The stars reflect faintly in his eyes, and for a second, it feels like the rest of the world has stepped back to give us room.
Something opens in my chest, fast and frightening and beautiful.
“I think, I love you,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words surprise me as much as they do him.
His breath catches. I see it happen. His jaw tightens just a little, like he’s bracing himself against something he didn’t expect but doesn’t want to lose.
He leans in, slowly, giving me time to pull away. I don’t.
His forehead rests against mine, his nose brushing my cheek, his voice barely there.
“I know,” he huffs a laugh when I try to punch him.
“I love you too,” he says, serious now.
He closes in.
The kiss is tentative at first, like we’re both afraid of moving too fast and breaking something tender. His lips are warm and soft, he tastes like mint, my lips tremble. We smile into it without meaning to.
Then it deepens, not rushed, just fuller. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together like it’s always been that way. I can feel my heartbeat everywhere, in my throat, in my hands, in the place where our knees press together.
When we pull back, we don’t move far. Just enough to breathe.
He rests his forehead against mine again, smiling like he’s trying not to grin too wide.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hey.”
Neither of us says anything else. We don’t need to.
We sit there until the night cools around us, until the stars shift, until the moment settles into something steady and real. Something that feels like a beginning, even if we don’t know what comes next.
For now, it’s enough.
It’s everything.
◆◆◆
I blinked hard.
The memory dissolved like mist.
I sat parked outside my small house, keys still in the ignition, fingers gripping the steering wheel as if anchoring myself to the present.
I felt guilty. Stupidly, achingly guilty.
For remembering something that no longer belonged to me. For recalling a version of Ethan that didn’t exist anymore.
I shut my eyes tightly, exhaled, and leaned back in my seat.
It was just nostalgia. Just old feelings from a life long gone.
But my heart still felt bruised, even after all this time, the sweet pain of loving someone so much, still felt like an experience I shouldn’t have survived.