Chapter 7
Seven
Instead of riding out a hangover in a bed I can’t seem to catch sleep in, I’m trying something new. Searching for a healthier outlet.
Somewhere between yesterday’s comedown and today’s headache, it hit me: this hard-and-fast pace I’m chasing isn’t built to last the whole summer. I need to carve out some breathers before I burn out completely.
So far, not so great. This is supposed to be sunrise yoga, but the sun’s already crested and I’m still here, stiff-limbed and waiting to feel the bliss people always rave about.
I guess I should’ve known better. Yoga thrives on stillness, and stillness is a language I’ve forgotten how to speak. The quiet doesn’t settle me anymore, it only gives every thought I’ve tried to bury a chance to claw its way back up.
I’m halfway through one of the beginner poses when a cough breaks behind me.
I crane my neck, nearly losing balance. Aspen.
“Hi.” She wears sunglasses perched over a faint smile. “I thought that was you.”
“Hey.” I straighten. “And I’m surprised you’re up. Figured you’d be in bed, cursing my name by now.”
“Still a possibility,” she tries to joke, but it doesn’t quite stick. Her smile flickers and fades, and she shifts from foot to foot like she’s not sure what to do with herself.
I take the cue, offering her an easier lane.
“Sorry you had to see that sorry excuse for a pose. I’m still learning.”
But when her hand drifts to her stomach, something in me knots. Yeah. Something’s off.
“Aspen?”
She blurts it, “Did I do something. Last night?”
“What?” I blink. “No. Of course not. Why are you asking?”
She nudges the sand with her foot. “You left so suddenly. Didn’t say goodbye. I thought maybe I… messed up.”
I’m on my feet before I know it. “You didn’t.” My hand on her arm is meant to punctuate it. “I swear. Something came up and I had to go, but I told Carson to let you know.”
“He did… but I don’t know.” She lets out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh. “Sorry. I probably sound stupid. I just, I had a really good time with you, and I really didn’t want to mess it up.”
“I did too,” I rush out. “It was fun. I’d hang out again, anytime.”
Carson might have his opinions, but mine are louder right now.
“Yeah?” Relief slips out as eagerness. “Are you any good at cooking?”
“Great,” I answer without hesitation. It’s not bragging; it’s fact. Culinary craft was my world for a while. Hours poured into testing, tasting, perfecting. The only reason I drifted from it was because something else made me feel more alive.
I swallow.
Not anymore.
“Really? How about now? I’m only up this early because I’m making breakfast for the guys, and I could seriously use the help.”
God, it’s tempting. Only with the offer in front of me do I realise how long it’s been since I felt that easy dance of the kitchen. I almost say yes. Almost.
But my non-answer stretches and she misreads it.
“Oh, it’s okay if you’re not up for it. I didn’t mean to mess with your morning flow or whatever.”
“No, no. That’s not it.”
How do I explain this weird invisible line I feel like I’m toeing?
“I just think maybe I shouldn’t. I don’t want to overstep.”
“What? You won’t be.”
I say nothing.
She studies me, and I can almost hear the gears turning.
“Wait, did something happen? With Carson? I mean, beyond the whole cold-shoulder intro?”
My eyes betray me, skipping to the ocean. Sunlight scatters across its surface like it’s holding secrets for me. Every wave feels like punctuation. A line in the story I’m not ready to tell.
And Carson’s the only one who’s read the first page.
I dont tell her that. “It’s not that. Honest.”
She’s not buying it.
“I’ve got no issue with him,” I add. “But… I think he thinks I was hitting on him.” My hands fly up in protest. “I wasn’t. Just to be clear.”
Her laugh breaks across the morning air, equal parts surprise and disbelief.
“What? No. Trust me, Carson gets plenty of attention, and he’s never been a douche about it. You must’ve caught him on a bad day.” She shrugs, her tone softening. “Please, come over. I really doubt he cares. Pretty please? I need all the help I can get.”
With that kind of coaxing, am I surprised to find myself in the kitchen a few minutes later? Not really.
What does catch me off guard is the state of it.
Flour dusts every possible surface, and eggshells scatter the counter. There’s a streak of batter smearing the fridge handle, and a muffin tin sits half-filled with sunken, sad lumps.
“Wow.” I peer into one of the bamboo mixing bowls. “You weren’t lying.” Tilting it, I let the gloopy mess slide a little. “You overmixed.”
She groans. “That’s a thing? How are you supposed to know when to stop?”
“When the dry ingredients are just moistened. No more, no less.”
“So… no saving the muffins?”
“Afraid not.”
She slumps against the counter. “I really thought I had it this time.”
That’s when I spot a box of store-bought croissants. My gaze flicks across the rest of the ingredients. A smile tugs at my mouth.
“I think I’ve found a replacement dish for you.”
An hour later, the kitchen hums with warmth and sugar, and everything in between is glowing and golden.
The croissant berry bake steams fresh from the oven and bacon gives its last hiss in the pan. Smoothies chill in tall glasses lined up like a promise.
Then—thump, thump, thump.
Dylan.
His eyes go first to the food, second to Aspen at the stove, then to me stirring oats at the counter. Back to her.
“Am I dreaming?” he asks, dead serious.
“Don’t act cute, Dylan.”
But the smile she hides behind her teeth gives her away.
In two strides, he’s got an arm slung over her shoulders.
“I am cute, Ace Card.” His chin tips toward me in greeting. “Brielle.”
“Hi, Dylan.”
Aspen pokes his chest. “You better be hungry. I know you guys aren’t breakfast people, but it felt like the least complicated option.” She pauses before jerking a thumb in my direction. “Although if it wasn’t for Brielle, you’d be choking on burnt proof of that.”
I’m halfway to the fridge about to argue when another set of footsteps echoes. Then they halt, abrupt.
“What is this?”
Carson. I don’t need to look to know; his voice is just that distinct, surprise layered over the usual grit. I do anyway, peering around the fridge door.
He looks different.
Maybe it’s just the morning light catching on his lashes. Maybe he’s squinting against the glare.
But when his gaze fixes on the table, slow, unmoving, something pulls taut beneath his cheekbones.
Aspen edges closer. “Breakfast?” It’s more question than statement. “I just… wanted to thank you. For everything.”
His eyes lift, and for a second, he’s the man from the ocean again. Where the storm in his face is replaced by something tender.
“So…” she swallows, taking another step. “Is it okay? I mean, do you like it?”
He doesn’t hesitate, swallowing her tall frame with his.
“It’s really good, Aspen. Really fucking good. Thank you.” He pulls back, steadier now, as he holds her shoulders. “But you know you didn’t have to, yeah? You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know,” she admits. “But I wanted to.” A pause. Then her tone lifts. “And I didn’t even do it alone, so it was actually enjoyable.”
“Dylan help you?”
“No.”
That’s my cue. The fridge door clicks shut, and I step into view.
“Brielle did.”
I’m closely watching him, so I see how abrupt the change is. Whatever ease in his shoulders? Gone in a blink.
Surely Aspen feels it—how his touch goes stiff where it was the complete opposite just seconds ago—because I certainly see it.
Then his gaze finds me, and it’s not just a look. It’s a blade.
“Brielle.”
I think it’s the first time he’s said my name, but the way it grates out might as well be a threat.
I’d give Aspen a told-you-so look, but she’s already shooting Carson one of her own looks. In the end, I settle for a tentative, “Hi.” The irony isn’t lost on me. Just yesterday I left on my own terms, and now, not even a full day later, I’m back like some stray.
“I hope everything’s okay.”
Translation: I hope it’s okay that I’m here.
The tick in his jaw is answer enough.
“Something wrong?” Dylan asks. The question hangs half-formed. Is something wrong with her?
We all wait. Aspen, her brows lifted. Me, holding my breath. From the way his mouth clenches and shifts, I know he has something sharp loaded. I can sense it about to spill.
Then his gaze lands on Aspen.
And just like that, he reins it in.
“Nah. It’s all good.”
The strained pause that follows suggests anything but.
Aspen cuts through it anyway, chasing normalcy.
“Can one of you wake Reese?”
Dylan kicks into action, and I follow, turning back to the cutting board. Carson burns holes into the back of my head as I tip sliced strawberries into the bowl. Ten seconds. Twenty. Only when the clatter of cutlery reaches my ears do I know he’s finally let up.
He’s finishing setting the table.
“Looks yummy.” Aspen sidles up beside me, eyeing the lineup. The bowls practically glow, oats swirled with blue and topped with sliced fruit.
To Carson she says, “I’ve only ever seen you eat oats, so we made some just in case. Well, Brielle did. She even made her blueberry sauce that she swears by.”
It’s obvious what she’s trying to do, and even if I know it won’t land, I play along for her sake.
“It’s really good,” I offer. “Plain oats just taste… plain now.”
Nothing.
Aspen rushes to patch the gap. “Seriously, how does it look so Pinterest-worthy? The guys don’t even cut fruit. They just dump oats in and go.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That’s criminal.”
“It’s practical.” His reply lands with a muted thud as he sets a plate down. He’s clearly not expecting me to smile; his eyes narrow like it’s some calculated move. He really doesn’t think much of me, does he?
Good thing I’m done here. I can get out of his hair.
“This was almost as fun as last night. We make a good team.” I bump Aspen’s arm as I go to wash my hands. “Thanks for letting me tag along.”
“You’re thanking me? Please. This only happened because of you.”
“No. You did the legwork. I just helped smooth it out. Now enjoy your hard work.”
“Wait…” Her brows knit. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
I only nod. Anything else might make it sound like it’s because of Carson, but it’s not. There’s a reason I only pulled out four plates to go on the table. The plan was always to get in, help out, leave.
“What? No. You can’t just leave. You made this happen. Stay, please.”
She glances at Carson for backup, but when he stays stone-silent, her face falls.
“Don’t worry. We can do breakfast, or even dinner anytime. I’ll catch you later, okay?”
Before she can verbalise her protest, I move. My tote and yoga mat are awkwardly positioned near Carson, which means I have to pass through the heat of his hawk-eyed stare. As always, not a flicker of warmth crosses his face.
I kneel, tossing spilled items back into my tote all while his shadow keeps me company.
“Stay.”
The sunscreen bottle slips from my hand. I glance up—and Carson’s face is blank, as if nothing was said.
“Did you… say something?”
A sound rumbles out of him, half grunt, half exhale. He extends a hand.
For me?
The answer comes when his fingers flex, impatient. I take it, surprise pulling me forward as he hauls me effortlessly to my feet.
“You should stay.”
It’s only then, hearing it from him, that I realise how much I want to. Just the simple act of sharing a meal with others—people who won’t pry into every crack of my life—sounds so, so tempting.
But surely he’s only offering out of politeness, internally hoping I’ll say no.
Only, when my eyes drift to the table, I notice it.
Five plates set out.