CHAPTER 1. Carter #2
“Hey stranger, long time no see!” (Too chipper.)
“Thomas.” (Too cold.)
“How’s life been treating you?” (Too generic.)
“So how’s life after the breakup?” (Too petty.)
“You look good.” (He doesn’t deserve this.)
I finally settled on a casual nod and a “Hey” that I practiced in the mirror until I looked appropriately disinterested. Like seeing him is just a minor blip in my otherwise fascinating life. Like I haven’t spent the whole year walking around with a Thomas-shaped hole in my chest.
The problem is, over the past three weeks of texting, I’ve been a little too nice to him.
He reappeared out of nowhere, and I just jumped back in—chatting like nothing happened, like he hadn’t spent a year pretending I didn’t exist. I didn't ask any questions. Didn't acknowledge the fact that he hurt me. Just went right back to being all warm and friendly, same as always.
And of course, he was fine with that. He was fine skipping over the part where we went twelve months without seeing each other and only managed thirty minutes’ worth of texts the entire time.
Now, with the actual reunion minutes away, I regret it.
Because by pretending everything was fine from the start, it's like I gave up the right to be upset. So if I try to act hurt now—or worse, confront him—it’ll seem out of nowhere.
Like I suddenly decided to care about something I’d already let go.
But pretending nothing happened to his face feels like I’m betraying myself all over again.
And the worst part is, I have no idea how I’ll act when I see him. I genuinely don’t know.
This is a fucking mess.
A semi-truck ahead of me slides slightly, its back end drifting toward the center line. I ease off the gas even more. We’re barely moving now.
The snow is coming down in thick, wet clumps that splat against my windshield faster than the wipers can clear them. The sky has that peculiar yellowish-gray cast that means we’re in for several more inches before this is over.
My phone starts to vibrate in the cupholder. I glance down, expecting a text from Logan—probably something café-related or another joke about Thomas and me.
But it’s not Logan.
It’s a name I haven’t seen pop up on my caller ID in over a year.
Thomas.
My stomach drops straight to my ankles. I stare at the screen long enough to drift toward the shoulder and have to jerk the wheel back into my lane, heart pounding.
Why is he calling me? Sure, we’ve been texting about the party. But we haven’t spoken on the phone since before the Carol situation. And I wasn’t ready for this.
The phone keeps vibrating. Four rings. Five.
I should let it go to voicemail. I’m driving—in a blizzard, no less. What if I crash because I got distracted?
And we’re supposed to see each other in ten minutes. If he’s running late or whatever, he can just text me. It’s not like this is life or death.
I pick up on the sixth ring.
“Hello?”
My voice comes out higher than usual, as if I’m doing a last-minute audition for a cartoon chipmunk.
“Hey, it's me.”
Hearing his voice hits like a punch to the gut. Deep, slightly raspy—so familiar it makes my chest ache.
“Yeah, hey,” I say, casually. Great. Nailing it so far.
There’s a pause. Then, a little hesitant, he asks, “Are you driving?”
“Yeah,” I say, as if I’m not white-knuckling through a blizzard while having heart palpitations because of this call. “I’m on my way to the restaurant. Where are you?”
“Uh,” Thomas says, and I can hear the tension creeping in. “That’s actually why I’m calling. My car broke down.”
My heart skips a beat.
“What? Where are you?”
“I'm in a parking lot by the new apartment complex off Route 59. You know, near that old farm supply store?”
I do know the place—though I have no idea what Thomas would be doing out there. It’s on the complete opposite side of town from where he lives.
“My engine just died,” he goes on. “I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes trying to get it to start, but nothing’s happening. I called for a tow, but they said it’ll be at least an hour, maybe more—there’ve been a ton of accidents—so I figured asking you might be faster.”
I can feel the unspoken favor hanging between us. And despite everything—despite a year of silence, despite the hurt, despite all my promises to stop being so available—I already know what I’m going to do.
“Send me your location,” I say, fully resigned to my own predictability. “I'll come get you.”
The relief in his voice twists something sharp in my chest. “You're the best, Carter Hayes. I’ll send the pin now.”
“Might take me thirty minutes,” I warn, as if sounding mildly inconvenienced might earn me back a shred of dignity. “The roads are crap.”
“Alright.” A pause. “Just be safe out there, okay?”
Perfect. Throw me a bone, why don’t you—for being such a good little circus poodle.
“Yeah,” I say. “See you soon.”
I hang up and thunk my head against the headrest. “You absolute doormat,” I mutter. “You spineless, lovesick little simp.”
***
The roads get progressively worse as I make my way toward Route 59.
The main streets have been plowed at least once, but they’re already coated in a fresh layer of snow.
The side roads are worse—slick, uneven, with ice hiding beneath the packed slush.
My little sedan wasn’t built for this. Honestly, neither was I.
But here I am, crawling along at fifteen miles per hour, trying not to end up in a ditch…all because Thomas called.
Logan would lose it if he saw me right now—especially after I spent the entire day insisting I was over it, that I didn’t care, that Thomas meant nothing to me anymore.
And Logan definitely knows I’m full of shit.
He knew it when I sobbed on his shoulder last year, swearing I’d never fall for Thomas again.
He knows it now, even if he’s too kind to say it out loud.
Logan’s not judgmental—he’s always been casual about romance—but still. After everything Thomas put me through, I can’t bring myself to admit I still want him. Not to Logan. Not even to myself.
I turn onto the long stretch of Route 59 that leads out of town. The buildings thin out fast, replaced by open fields that do nothing to block the wind. Snow blows across the road in ghost-like waves, and visibility drops to almost nothing. I tighten my grip on the wheel and slow down even more.
Shit. I really don’t want to die out here.
And seriously—why is Thomas even out this way? He lives downtown, in one of those overpriced factory lofts that look amazing on Instagram. Jason’s birthday dinner is at Mezzanotte, smack in the middle of the shopping district. There’s no reason for him to be all the way out here—unless…
Unless he was staying over somewhere.
The thought makes my insides twist. Maybe Carol isn’t as out of the picture as he claimed.
The thought settles in my stomach like a cold stone, which is ridiculous because (a) Thomas can do whatever he wants with whoever he wants, and (b) I have zero claim on him.
But still, the idea that he might’ve been with her last night—that he might’ve left her bed to come to this birthday dinner where he knew I’d be—makes me feel slightly sick.
Except…Carol was his neighbor. She wouldn’t be living out here.
Unless she moved. I guess that’s possible.
Or—worse—what if they moved in together? What if they got a place in that new apartment complex?
No, that can’t be it. He said they broke up. But what if he’s seeing someone new and just didn’t tell me?
God. I think I seriously might get sick from all this guessing.
I spot the old farm supply store up ahead, then the new apartment complex, barely visible through the snow. According to the pin Thomas sent, he should be in the parking lot behind it.
I circle the building and slow to a crawl, scanning the nearly empty lot until I catch the dark shape of a familiar car, hazard lights blinking faintly through the swirling white.
I pull in front of it, my headlights casting a glow over Thomas’s sleek black Audi—the one he’s had for the past couple years. Stylish, expensive, and completely useless in a Midwestern blizzard.
I grab my phone and shoot him a text, just in case he doesn’t recognize my car.
Me: I'm here
I see movement inside the Audi—he’s probably gathering his stuff. I leave the engine running, the heater on full blast even though it’s still blowing mostly lukewarm air.
It’s 6:25. Jason’s dinner reservation is at 7:00, but we were supposed to get there early to check the decorations. If we head out now—and if Jason and his coworkers are also crawling through traffic—we might still have time to make sure everything’s in place before he shows up.
Finally, Thomas emerges from his car, hunched against the wind, a dark shape in that charcoal parka I remember buying with him three years ago. He hurries to my passenger side and yanks open the door, bringing a swirl of snowflakes and freezing air with him.
“Jesus, it’s cold,” he says, sliding into the seat and slamming the door shut. He shakes snow from his dark hair, and I’m instantly hit with the scent of his cologne—that same Japanese yuzu one he’s worn since college.
Then he looks at me for the first time in a year—hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, locking onto mine—and just like that, I’m twelve again, an awkward boy with braces and a hopeless crush.
“Hey,” he says, mouth tugging into that crooked smile probably responsible for at least seventy percent of my worst decisions in life, including the Radiohead tattoo on my shoulder—his favorite band, which I pretended to like.
“Hey yourself,” I say, somehow keeping my voice steady. “Car trouble?”
Thomas nods, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, it just died on me. One minute I was turning the engine, the next—nothing. All the dash lights came on, then everything went dark.”
“Sounds like it could be the alternator,” I say, easing back onto the road. “Or maybe the battery.”
Look at me. I know car stuff. I’m a grown-up now.