Chapter 3
Jake was halfway through a story about Mexico when I realized he was telling it for me. He leaned forward as he talked, elbows on his knees, hands moving wider than necessary. His eyes kept finding me.
“God, remember that trip?” Jake said, grinning at Ricky and Noah. “Spring break. All-inclusive. Unlimited tequila. Absolute chaos.”
Ricky laughed. “You nearly got us kicked out of the resort.”
“Worth it.” Jake beamed.
Everyone nodded, like it was a shared victory. Like we’d all been there in the same way and the memory belonged to all of us equally.
I remembered that trip too. Just not like they did.
I remembered one afternoon when the beach was almost empty, the sun too hot for anyone sensible to be out there.
Jake had dragged a towel into the shade and pulled me down beside him, his arm heavy and familiar around my shoulders.
He’d pointed out shapes in the clouds, made me laugh when I didn’t want to, kissed the salt off my temple like it was something precious.
For a while, it felt easy—like this was the version of us that counted.
That was the part everyone saw.
But I also remembered Jake getting so drunk the first night that he vomited into a decorative planter in the lobby and blamed the bartender.
I remembered dragging him back to the room while he laughed and slurred and told me to relax.
I remembered sitting alone in the mornings, staring out at the ocean and thinking, This should feel better than it does.
Jake launched into another memory before I could disappear too far into my own.
“And then that cabin up north sophomore year,” he said. “When the heat went out? We were all freezing our asses off, drinking straight from the bottle.”
Noah laughed. Maddie smiled.
I remembered crying in the bathroom that night because Jake had told me I was being dramatic when I asked him to stop picking on me.
It was a joke. Lighten up. Why do you always make things so serious?
I remembered realizing that wanting comfort from the person who said they loved me felt like asking for too much.
These were the stories he kept. His versions were the ones that made him feel good.
Ricky sprawled in an armchair with a beer balanced on his knee like a magic trick, one wrong move away from disaster.
Noah sat on the rug, back against the couch, with that loose, unfocused smile of someone drunk enough to feel relaxed but sober enough to keep track.
Maddie sat behind him with her feet tucked under her, one hand resting on his shoulder.
She didn’t look at me, and I couldn’t help but think it was intentional.
The fire popped, sparks snapping as heat rolled into the room. It reached my legs but not my chest. I felt oddly untouched by it, like I was sitting just outside a circle of warmth everyone else shared.
“Kinda sucks, though,” Jake said. “After this weekend, there won’t be any new memories with the five of us.” A small, sad smile tugged at his mouth. His eyes met mine for a second, warm and steady, before drifting away. Just like we had.
Something twisted in my chest. He wasn’t blaming me. He was letting go, and that made the guilt worse.
Noah, Ricky, and Maddie nodded, sipping their drinks.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Did you hear that?” Jake snapped his head toward the front door.
Ricky squinted. “The knocking?”
Jake laughed too hard. “Yeah. Yeah, that.”
I watched him for a beat longer than necessary.
His smile didn’t quite land. One corner of his mouth twitched, undecided.
His hand rose to his temple, fingers digging in.
He was hammered—past fun, past sloppy, into that wired version of drunk where everything was hilarious, but only to him, and every slight felt personal.
I wondered, not for the first time, what it felt like inside his head right now. Then I hated myself for wondering at all.
“I’ll get it,” Jake said.
Noah stood too. “No, I got it.”
But Jake reached the door first. He paused with his palm on the knob, head tilted. Three knocks sounded again.
“Jake?” Maddie said, caution threading her voice.
He shook his head once and opened the door. Cold air rushed in, and snow swirled under the porch light. An older man stood there, bundled in a heavy canvas coat and knit cap, his face red from the wind. His gaze swept the room, taking everything in, including us.
“Evenin’,” he said, tipping his head.
Jake leaned against the doorframe. “Can we help you?” The words came out slurred and challenging.
“Name’s Bill. I own this place.”
Noah stepped forward, edging Jake aside. “Oh—yeah, sorry. We just got in.”
Bill waved him off without looking at him. His gaze lingered instead on me, then Maddie—just long enough to register. Maddie shifted, unsure where to put her hands.
“Road gets slick once you’re off the main highway,” Bill said. “Storm’s rolling in faster than they forecast.”
“Looks like we got here just in time then,” Jake said, lifting his beer.
Bill’s gaze stayed on Maddie this time. I hated that my body reacted before my thoughts did, skin tightening like it recognized a threat I hadn’t named yet.
“You planning on leaving again tonight?” Bill asked.
Noah frowned. “Uhh . . . no. Why?”
Bill nodded, like that was the answer he wanted. “Good.”
He pulled a small metal key ring from his coat. “There’s a gate at the end of the access road. County put it in last year after some accidents. I lock it whenever a storm’s coming.”
Ricky laughed. “You’re kidding.”
Bill didn’t smile. “Afraid not. It’s already locked,” he said. “Wouldn’t want anyone getting turned around out here after dark. If they get stuck on the road, then we’re all blocked in.”
My stomach tightened. “What if there’s an emergency?”
Bill looked at me, really looked at me.
“Then you’ll want to stay put,” he said. “Trust me. Out here, help doesn’t come fast. Sometimes not at all.”
Noah gestured to the fire. “We’ve got food and heat.”
Bill nodded. “Good. Keep the fire going. Don’t let it die.”
“Is that a rule?” Jake asked, smirking.
“Call it a strong recommendation,” Bill said.
“And if we don’t?” Noah asked.
The man’s mouth twitched. “Then things get harder than they need to.”
Behind me, the fire popped again.
“I’ll check on you in the morning,” Bill said. “If the storm lets me.”
The porch light cast deep shadows into the lines of his face, making him look carved and hollowed out.
“That’s really not necessary,” Jake said.
“Necessary’s got nothing to do with it. This is my property.” He turned to leave, then paused. “And don’t wander outside. Especially not at night.”
“Why?” Ricky asked.
Bill didn’t answer. He stepped off the porch, and the snow swallowed him almost immediately. Noah shut the door a little too hard, and for a moment, no one spoke.
Maddie exhaled first. “That was weird.”
“Guy’s just territorial,” Ricky said.
“Terrible trait for an Airbnb host.” Noah shook his head.
I watched the door, listening to the wind scratch at the cabin like fingernails. Headlights flashed across the window as Bill backed his truck up and disappeared. The storm was already thickening, just like he said it would.
“Let’s play a drinking game,” Jake said suddenly.
I looked at him. “You’re already drunk enough.”
He grinned. “Impossible.”
“What game?” Maddie asked.
“Truth,” Jake said. “No dares.”
That alone made me uneasy.
Ricky snorted. “Since when are there no dares?”
“Since now.” Jake poured tequila. “Truth or drink.”
“That feels like a bad idea,” Noah said.
Jake shrugged. “Then drink.”
Maddie looked between them. “Okay. One round.”
Ricky went first. His question was harmless. Noah was second, and his truth was also an easy one to reveal, something we all already knew. Then Jake turned to me.
“Your turn, Blair.”
When he said my name, it felt like a verdict.
I didn’t miss the awkward shifts around the room.
Ricky’s eyes dropped. Maddie busied her hands.
Noah cleared his throat. They weren’t choosing Jake.
They were choosing comfort and continuity.
A version of the night that didn’t require anyone to feel bad.
“Truth or drink,” Jake said. He didn’t fidget or joke this time. He just watched me, like he’d already decided how this would go.
“Truth.”
“Just tell us what your part was,” he said.
The room went silent, and something inside me went very still.
“Excuse me?”
“The breakup,” Jake said. “What was your part in it?”
Maddie shifted. “Jake . . .”
“It’s just truth,” he said. “Right? A simple question that only she knows the answer to. So the truth will be whatever she tells us it is.”
“I’m not doing this,” I said.
Jake lifted his glass. “Then drink.”
I shook my head. “This is fucked up.”
“So was leaving. You don’t get to pretend that didn’t matter.”
I wasn’t angry or sad, I was just tired. Tired in a way that went right to my core. Because I’d answered that question a hundred times already in conversations he’d forgotten and in apologies he’d accepted and then used against me later.
“Fine,” I said, surprising myself with how steady my voice was.
“I stayed longer than I should have. I made myself smaller so you wouldn’t feel threatened. I apologized for things I didn’t do. I stayed quiet when I should have spoken up. And I left before I woke up and hated you for all of it.”
No one spoke.
Jake swallowed. “That’s your truth?”
“That’s the truth.”
“You really don’t regret it?”
I met his eyes. “No.”
Something ugly darkened his face.
“Prove it,” he said.
Before I could think better of it, I crossed the room and kissed him—hard. Not tender, not hopeful. There was no softness in it because it wasn’t for him. It was a goodbye. He froze, and then his grip tightened on my hip before he seemed to realize he was holding on at all. His teeth caught my lip.
“Ow—what the fuck?” I shoved him back, pain flaring as blood bloomed warm against my mouth.
Maddie stood. “Blair, are you okay?”
I wiped my lip, smearing blood. “I am now.”
No one said a word. Maddie hovered nearby, guilt written all over her face.
Ricky stared into the fire as if it might absolve him.
Noah looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right place to start.
Jake opened his mouth, then shut it. His hand went back to his temple, like the thought physically hurt.
I stepped back, creating space I hadn’t realized I’d been giving away all night.
“I didn’t come here to be tested,” I said. “Or judged. Or corrected.”
I turned toward the hall.
“And whatever happens this weekend,” I added, “don’t pretend you didn’t help push it there.”
I left the room, heart pounding, lip throbbing. But no one followed.
Laughter broke out minutes later. It was the same easy laughter from the car earlier. The kind that comes after tension dissolves, after a problem removes itself. It followed me down the hall, under the door, and into my room, soft and careless.
I still had three more nights here. Three more nights trapped in a cabin with people who had already decided I was the problem they didn’t want to deal with.