Chapter Twelve Nate
Nate Brennan had never hated a spreadsheet more in his life.
That included the one his nutrition coach made him fill out freshman year, the one Coach Doyle used to track missed lifts, and the one Tyler had once created to rank campus dining hall chicken tenders by emotional support value.
This spreadsheet was worse.
Because Tyler had named it:
SUMMER BET INCIDENT LOG
And the first entry read:
SATURDAY BONFIRE: Ava Lane voluntarily held Nate Brennan’s hand for longer than required by social warfare. Status: suspicious.
Nate stared at the phone screen while standing twenty feet from the bonfire, Ava’s hand still in his, the lake dark behind them, and Tyler waiting in front of them like a golden retriever who had just discovered tax fraud.
“Delete that,” Nate said.
Tyler clutched the phone to his chest. “This is documentation. History needs witnesses.”
“History needs better boundaries.”
“Boundaries are in column F.”
Ava leaned slightly around Nate to look at Tyler. “What is in column G?”
Tyler brightened. “Romantic liability.”
Nate closed his eyes. “There should not be columns.”
“There have to be columns. That’s how spreadsheets work.”
“You are not allowed to say that like you’re the responsible one.”
Beckett appeared beside Tyler with a marshmallow skewer and the expression of a man arriving at a crime scene he had personally prayed for. “I would like to be listed as a character witness.”
Ava looked at him. “For who?”
“The vibe.”
“The vibe is not on trial.”
“Not yet.”
Griffin stepped behind both of them. “No spreadsheets. No character witnesses. No vibe trial.”
Tyler looked wounded. “You don’t know that the vibe is innocent.”
“I know you are guilty,” Griffin said.
Soren, who had been standing near the fire with a paper cup of water and the calm dead eyes of a man who had accepted the absurdity of existence, said, “The spreadsheet is inefficient.”
Tyler gasped. “How dare you.”
“If you’re tracking the bet, you need fewer subjective categories.”
Ava turned to Soren. “Do not help him.”
Soren took a sip of water. “I was criticizing him.”
“Goalies criticize like accountants flirt,” Beckett said.
“Precisely,” Soren replied.
Nate should have laughed.
Any other day, he would have.
But Ava’s fingers were still wrapped around his, and Trevor Hale was still somewhere behind them under a sponsor tent or beside a picnic table or lurking near a conversation he did not deserve to enter.
Nate could feel the shape of him at the edge of the night, not because Trevor mattered, but because Ava had gone still every time that man’s voice touched her.
She had handled him.
God, she had handled him.
You always liked attention until someone expected you to be honest.
Nate had watched the words hit Trevor and felt something fierce and proud move through him.
Not because Ava had needed help. She had not.
That was the entire point. She had stood there with Nate’s hand in hers and used his presence as exactly what she wanted it to be: cover, backup, proof that Trevor did not get to control the scene anymore.
Nate had been useful.
Temporarily.
Which should not have felt as good as it did.
Ava tugged lightly on his hand.
He looked down.
She looked back up at him, then very pointedly at their hands.
Right.
Still holding.
He released her immediately.
Too fast, maybe.
Her fingers slipped away, and the absence was worse than the contact had been.
Tyler made a tragic sound. “And there goes column H.”
Ava turned on him. “There is a column H?”
“Handholding duration.”
“Delete it before I delete you.”
“Noted under threats.”
“Tyler,” Griffin said.
Tyler held up the phone. “Deleting. Mostly.”
“Entirely.”
“Emotionally deleting.”
Griffin took the phone from his hand.
Tyler looked at Ava. “For the record, I support whatever this is.”
“This is me reconsidering violence,” Ava said.
“Strong couple identity.”
Nate stepped forward. “Walk away.”
Tyler looked between them, then saluted. “Respecting the process.”
Griffin dragged him toward the food table.
Beckett followed, saying, “I still think the vibe deserves representation.”
Soren stayed long enough to look at Ava. “Good relay.”
Ava blinked, then nodded. “Good plaque awareness.”
Soren’s mouth almost curved. “Thank you.”
Then he left too.
Which left Nate and Ava standing in the loudest quiet Nate had ever heard.
The bonfire cracked behind them. Ridgeview players laughed near the drink coolers.
Kids chased glow sticks along the grass.
Parents lingered under strings of lights, pretending not to watch the college students create romantic rumors in real time.
Somewhere near the sponsor tents, a speaker played a summer song with too much bass.
Ava folded her arms.
The motion put space back between them.
Nate let it.
“For the record,” she said, staring at the fire, “I did not mean to create a spreadsheet event.”
“No one means to create a spreadsheet event. That’s why Tyler is dangerous.”
Her mouth twitched.
Small.
Enough.
Nate shoved his hands into his pockets because they were starting to remember the shape of hers, and that was unacceptable.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Ava’s eyes shifted to him. “That is a terrible question.”
“Usually.”
“It invites feelings.”
“I know. Brave of me.”
“Reckless.”
“Also accurate.”
She looked back at the fire. “I’m fine.”
He waited.
Ava sighed. “You are supposed to accept that.”
“I am.”
“Silently.”
“I’m silently accepting.”
“Your silence has judgment.”
“My silence has questions.”
“Worse.”
Nate nodded once. “Then I won’t ask them.”
That made her look at him again.
He held her gaze. “Not tonight. Not unless you want me to.”
Ava’s expression did the thing again. The tiny fracture in the sharpness. The part of her that looked startled by decency and furious about being startled.
“You are very annoying,” she said.
“I’ve been told.”
“By me.”
“Your review carries weight.”
“It should. I am objective.”
“You voted against me in a feelings poll.”
“That was also objective.”
He smiled.
She did not.
But she did not look away either.
Progress, maybe.
Or danger.
With Ava, Nate was starting to understand those were often the same thing.
A group of campers ran past with marshmallow sticks raised like swords. Paulson hurried after them, yelling, “Point them down, please. Down means the ground.” Denise watched from a folding chair and looked like she was adding danger pay to everyone’s imaginary salaries.
Ava’s shoulders loosened a little.
“This place is chaos,” she said.
“Charitable chaos.”
“That does not make me feel better.”
“Tax-deductible chaos?”
“Worse.”
Nate laughed.
Ava’s phone buzzed.
The sound was small.
His reaction was not.
He hated that he stiffened.
Ava noticed.
Of course she did.
She pulled the phone from her back pocket and glanced down. Her face did not drain this time, but it changed. Tightened. Closed.
Nate looked away immediately.
He did not deserve the message.
He did not deserve the story.
He had to remind himself of that with actual words inside his head, because the part of him that had spent years reading plays before they happened wanted to look, categorize, act.
Not his business.
Not unless she made it his business.
Ava locked the phone without replying.
“Your jaw is doing something,” she said.
Nate looked back. “My jaw has had a difficult weekend.”
“It is being dramatic.”
“It has concerns.”
“Your jaw can mind its business.”
“I’m trying to teach it.”
Her eyes held his for a second.
Then she surprised him.
“It was Trevor,” she said.
Nate went very still.
Ava looked at the fire, not him. “The texts. Before. Tonight. It was him.”
Nate kept his voice careful. “Okay.”
“Do not say okay like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re being emotionally responsible.”
“Would you prefer recklessness?”
She glanced over. “Historically, no.”
“Then emotionally responsible it is.”
Her mouth twitched again, but it faded fast.
She rubbed one hand along her opposite arm, even though the night was warm.
“We dated freshman year,” she said. “Not seriously, according to him. Very seriously, according to how much I cried in a Wendy’s parking lot afterward.”
Nate felt every muscle in his body lock.
Ava saw it. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought something violent.”
“I thought Wendy’s was a terrible place to cry.”
“It was open late.”
“Still.”
She looked at him for one beat, then laughed.
Not big.
But real.
Nate’s chest eased slightly.
“He wasn’t evil,” she said.
Nate strongly disagreed, but chose survival.
Ava continued. “That’s the annoying part. He was nice in public. Helpful. Funny enough. Ambitious. My mom loved him because he had a five-year plan and wore shirts with collars.”
“Terrible signs.”
“Now you understand.”
“Deeply.”
She stared at the fire. “He liked me when I was easy. When I was fun. When I didn’t ask what we were. When I acted like I didn’t care that he flirted with other girls because I was cool and cool girls don’t need anything.”
Nate swallowed hard.
Ava’s voice stayed steady, which somehow made it worse.
“Then I needed things. Clarity. Respect. A little honesty. And suddenly I was dramatic. Too much. Making things bigger than they were.”
Her fingers curled into the hem of her Team One shirt.
Nate wanted to take her hand again.
He did not.
“So when he texts,” she said, “it’s not because he wants me. It’s because he wants to know he still can.”
Nate stared at the fire until the flames blurred at the edges.
He had heard enough to hate Trevor.
He had not heard enough to act.
That was a brutal distinction.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Ava’s face softened for half a second, then reset. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”
“Things can be old and still be real.”
She looked at him.
Too quickly.
Like the sentence had reached somewhere it should not have.
“You say things like that and then expect me to believe you’re just a hockey player with intermittent smugness,” she said.
“I contain multitudes.”
“Do not quote poetry at me near a bonfire.”
“That was barely poetry.”
“Still risky.”
Nate smiled, then let it fade.