Chapter 38
thirty-eight
. . .
CONNOR
I keep my eyes on the road, but part of me is still back there—Whitney holding that receipt like it weighed more than paper should.
I told her about my mom last night. More than I’ve let anyone see in a long time, and she didn’t make it weird. No jokes, no deflection, no trying to fix it. She just listened.
I risk a glance at her.
She’s turned toward the window, sunglasses on even though the sky’s still gray, her foot bouncing like she’s trying to outrun whatever’s happening in her head.
She’s not calm, but she’s trying to look like she is.
“Okay,” she says suddenly, like she’s closing a tab in her brain. “New topic.”
I don’t argue. I let her have the out.
She reaches forward and turns the volume up, filling the car with something slow and moody—lyrics layered over a melody that sounds like it was written at two in the morning by someone who’s had too much time to think.
“Tell me you understand why this is good,” she says, turning slightly toward me.
I recognize it before the chorus hits. “Hozier.”
Her mouth curves, just a little. “Yes. And not just good. This is literature.”
I huff out a laugh. “It’s a song.”
“It’s a poem that chose to become a song because it had range,” she argues, already gesturing like she’s mid-presentation. “Listen to the metaphors.”
I glance over. “You’re one of those people.”
“One of what people?”
“The ones who say ‘metaphors’ like it’s foreplay.”
Her laugh slips out before she can stop it—bright, unguarded, the kind she doesn’t filter or hold back.
It hits me harder than it should.
Because that’s her.
Whitney, stripped of all the noise around her. The Olympian. Rory’s sister. The version of her that’s been keeping me at arm’s length.
This is the part underneath all of that—warm, sharp, a little chaotic in a way that makes everything around her feel lighter.
She points out the windshield like she’s making a case. “He says one thing and it means twelve things. That’s talent.”
“Or it’s confusing.”
“It’s layered,” she corrects. “Like Hummingbird cake.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “Baklava is just sugar and regret.”
“And yet people still want it,” she shoots back, smug.
Something in my chest shifts at that—quiet, but impactful. Because it’s not just the way she argues or the way she lights up over something as simple as a song.
It’s the way she lets herself be like this, even now. Even with me.
She leans back, satisfied, already tapping her phone. “Okay, but listen to this line—”
She starts quoting lyrics with full commitment, like this is a performance and I’m her very captive audience.
I should be listening, but I’m not.
I’m watching her instead—thinking about the way she listened to me last night, the way she didn’t flinch or fill the silence, the way she’s pretending this is easy now when I know it isn’t.
And it hits me, slow and certain, settling somewhere I can’t ignore.
I don’t just want moments like this with her.
I want the parts she doesn’t hand out easily.
The parts she guards. The ones she’s still holding back from me, and I plan on earning every single one.
We hit Myrtle Beach not long after—palm trees and beach signage and that salty, humid air that seeps through the vents even with the windows up.
Whitney sits up straighter, like her body can sense the ocean.
“Okay, we need snacks.”
I blink. “We have snacks.”
“We have protein,” she corrects. “I need morale snacks. Also, sunscreen. Also, electrolytes. Also, gum. Also—” She looks at me over her sunglasses, “—don’t argue with me,” she finishes.
I exhale. “Yes, ma’am.”
She grins like she’s won something.
I’d tell her it’s my heart, but I’m not certain she wants that prize. At least not yet.
We pull into a grocery store near the hotel. I’m barely parked before she’s unbuckling, already halfway out the door like the snacks are calling her name.
“Five minutes,” she says. “In and out.”
I give her a look. “You said that in Savannah about ‘just dipping our feet in.’”
Whitney pauses, then flashes me an angelic smile that has never belonged to an innocent person in her life.
“Different situation,” she says, and heads inside.
Whitney grabs a basket and immediately starts speed-walking like she’s got a lane assignment while I trail behind her.
She reaches for a bag of chips, considers it, puts it back, grabs a different flavor, then grabs the original, too, like she’s decided restraint is for other people.
I catch her throwing a box of granola bars into the basket—her favorite brand. The one I’ve seen her stash in her backpack. The one she always pretends she doesn’t like that much.
I quietly grab a second box when she isn’t looking.
Then I spot the ridiculous gummy candy she likes—the kind shaped like aquatic animals, which feels on-brand for a swimmer who lives for chaos.
I toss it in.
Then electrolyte packets. Then sunscreen. Then the bubble gum she chews like she’s trying to chew through stress.
I’m stacking items like I’m building a care package for someone I’m trying not to fall in love with. Too late.
Halfway down the aisle, I look up and realize Whitney is gone. There’s just an old couple arguing about cereal with fiber and a kid begging for something filled with neon goo.
I move down the next aisle, then the next.
Nothing. So I check my phone.
No texts. No “help I got trapped by kombucha options.”
I head toward the front, weaving around carts and endcaps. And then I see her at the checkout. Standing there with her sunglasses still on, holding a box nearly the size of a toaster oven.
I slow like I’ve hit a wall, because printed on the front in dramatic, challenging letters is: CONDOMS.
Whitney turns her head and spots me.
Her smile is immediate—bright, delighted, feral.
Like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.
The clerk—a teenage girl with a messy bun and a name tag that says JENNA—is laughing, scanning the box like she’s trying to keep a straight face and failing.
Whitney leans her elbows on the counter, casual as hell.
“Hey,” she says, like she’s holding a loaf of bread and not a lifetime supply of rubbers. “There you are.”
My voice comes out lower than I intend. “What is that?”
Whitney’s eyes sparkle. “Preparation.” She tips her chin toward the box like it’s obvious. “For your logistical concerns.”
While heat climbs up my neck, Whitney’s smile widens like she just got exactly the reaction she wanted.
“Whitney,” I say carefully, because my entire life has become me saying her name like it’s both a warning and a prayer. “That’s a lot of condoms.”
She shrugs, far too pleased with herself. “Bulk discount.”
“Bulk discount,” I repeat.
“Mmm-hmm.” She taps the box. “Safe sex and I’m fiscally responsible.”
I stare at Whitney, and she stares back like she’s daring me to blink first.
I swallow hard, because she’s looking at me like she’s teasing, but there’s something else threaded through it. A question she isn’t asking out loud.
Am I different? Or am I just another girl you’re careful with because you have to be?
My gaze drops to the label.
MAGNUM XL.
Whitney follows it and smiles wider. “What?” she says, all innocence. “A girl can dream.”
The clerk’s scanner pauses mid-beep, her eyes sliding to me like she’s trying to decide whether I deserve congratulations or concern.
I clear my throat. “We’re done here.”
Whitney hums under her breath. “He says that now.”
I manage a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t strangled by the fact that I’m half in love with her and she’s standing in public holding a giant condom box like a trophy.
“Whitney,” I say again, quieter this time.
Her grin softens just a fraction.
“Relax,” she murmurs. “It’s a joke.”
I nod once, but it doesn’t settle anything because I know her jokes. I know what she uses them for. And I know what she’s not asking out loud.
As Whitney moves aside with her purchase, I step up and set my basket on the counter. Snacks, sunscreen, gum, the extra box of her favorite granola bars. The items I thought we were here for.
Whitney’s gaze drops to the basket, then lifts to me.
Something shifts in her expression, like she didn’t expect me to pay attention like this. Like she didn’t expect me to care in the small ways.
And standing here, between the gum and the condoms, I feel the ground shifting under both of us.
It’s not in a way that feels unstable, but in a way that feels inevitable. Like this is moving somewhere neither of us is ready for, but neither of us is stopping.
Jenna rings up my items and puts them in a bag before handing them across the counter. She’s smiling like this story is going to live rent-free in her head forever.
Whitney tucks the giant box under one arm like it’s nothing, then looks at me over her sunglasses.
“Ready?” she asks sweetly.
I take my bag from the counter, my voice low.
“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it.
Just not in the way she thinks.
At the hotel, Whitney walks up to the counter like she didn’t just buy a box of condoms big enough to qualify as a carry-on.
The front desk clerk smiles. “Checking in?”
Whitney nods, bright and composed. “Yes.”
“I’ve got two rooms. King beds. Same floor.”
Whitney glances at me—quick, assessing—then back to the clerk.
“Is there a rate difference if we only take one?” she asks, like it just occurred to her.
I turn my head slowly. “Whitney.”
The clerk clicks a few keys. “It would be significantly less, yes.”
Whitney hums, like she’s weighing something very serious and not at all making a chaotic decision in real time.
“Okay,” she says lightly. “Let’s just do one room.”
My brows lift. “What?”
She finally looks at me, lips pressing together to hide a smile. “We’re on a budget,” she says. “For the foundation.”
I blink. “How very budget conscious of you.”
She nods, completely straight-faced. “I’m thinking long-term impact.”
The clerk’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of understanding there—like she’s seen this exact version of budgeting before.
I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. “If this is about saving money, you can tell Venita you were very brave and still get your own room.”
Whitney tilts her head. “Or,” she says, just as quietly, “we can be normal adults and share.”
“Normal,” I echo.
“Normal-ish,” she amends, her mouth curving. “It’s two nights.”
It’s not a request, but not quite a dare. Something in between.
“So this is happening.”
I glance at her, catching the way her mouth presses together, like she’s trying not to smile.
“Just so we’re clear, I don’t sleep well next to distractions.”
Whitney’s mouth curves. “Who said you’d be sleeping?”
My grip tightens on the counter just enough to feel it.
Fuck.
I glance at her, really look this time—the challenge in her eyes, the way she says things like that and then pretends she didn’t mean anything by it.
“That’s not helping your case,” I say quietly.
For a second, she just looks at me.
And it would be so easy to lean in and close the space. Find out if she’d meet me halfway or pretend it’s all a game.
Instead, I step back.
Just enough to put air between us. Just enough to remind myself why I have to.
“Two keys?” the clerk asks.
Whitney turns first, like nothing happened. “Yes, please.”
I take the cards when she hands them over, because if I don’t move, I might make a decision I can’t take back.
Whitney brushes past me on the way to the elevators, her shoulder grazing mine like it’s accidental, but it’s not.
I follow, already knowing this is a mistake.
The room I can handle. Sharing a bed, maybe.
Losing control around her before we even get there is the part that should scare me.