Chapter 28
Greyson
Something is wrong.
I know it.
I just can’t put my finger on it.
She’s still beautiful.
Still smells faintly like wildflowers and clean soap.
Still fits against me like she belongs there when I take her hand and we walk toward the picnic tables after the game.
She doesn’t pull away.
That’s good.
Right?
But there’s something else.
A distance.
Subtle.
Like a drawbridge lowering between us—quietly, efficiently—without warning.
She smiles. She cheers for Evan. She laughs at something Willow says.
But it feels measured.
Like she’s withdrawing from me. Holding back.
And I hate it.
I don’t know what I did wrong. But it’s my fault.
I’m self-aware enough to be sure of that much.
After the game—ended in a tie, which Thatcher pretends not to care about but absolutely does—we grab hot dogs and sodas with the rest of the team.
I ruffle Evan’s hair when he trots past, sweaty and proud.
Kelly looks exhausted but grateful.
Clara stays close to her. Arm brushing. Quiet support.
I watch her from a few feet away and feel something warm and tight in my chest.
She’s good.
Too good.
When the crowd thins and it’s time for Kelly to take Evan home, I lean closer to Clara.
“Wanna grab dinner?” I ask quietly. “Just us.”
Her eyes flicker.
“Um… maybe tomorrow?” she says. “I think I’m going to hang with Kelly tonight. She’s had a day.”
That’s reasonable.
That’s kind.
That’s exactly who she is.
And, asshole that I am, I hate it.
Hate that she’s choosing a friend over me.
But I’m not such a prick I’d say it.
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”
She kisses my cheek.
Light.
Quick.
Impersonal.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And then she’s walking back toward Kelly’s car.
And something inside me twists.
I try to tell myself I’m being dramatic.
She’s just being a good friend.
Not every night has to end tangled in my sheets.
But the anxiety doesn’t settle.
It hums.
Low.
Persistent.
Which is how I end up outside Thatcher’s place two hours later.
The yard lights glow softly against the dusk. The willow tree sways gently.
The swing Thatcher built for Willow creaks as she rocks back and forth, a book open in her lap.
Thatcher stands by the grill, turning corn, beer balanced on the railing beside him.
This feels like a confessional.
“Greyson!” Willow calls, looking up. “What brings you here?”
“Hey, want a beer?” Thatcher asks at the same time, already tossing one my way before I answer.
I catch it automatically.
Fuck it.
I crack it open and take a long pull.
Cold.
Bitter.
Necessary.
I don’t sit.
I don’t make small talk.
“So,” I say, staring out toward the tree line. “Did Clara say anything to you today?”
Why beat around the bush?
Willow and Thatcher exchange a look.
The kind that makes my stomach drop.
“Define ‘anything,’” Willow says carefully.
I scrub a hand through my hair.
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “When she left, it just felt off.”
Thatcher snorts lightly. “That’s helpful, Grey.”
“I’m serious,” I snap, more sharply than I mean to.
I take another drink to cool it.
“She didn’t seem herself,” I continue. “It was like…” I struggle for the word. “Like she was somewhere else.”
Willow closes her book.
“Well, she seemed concerned when Kelly talked about selling the house,” she says slowly.
“Yeah. She told me that Kelly put it on the market.”
“And?” Willow presses.
“And what?” I shoot back.
“And how did you react?” Willow asks, eyebrows raised expectantly and looking at me like I’m a fucking idiot.
“I just said ‘what?’” I reply defensively.
Thatcher huffs a quiet laugh.
“That’s not what she’s asking,” he says.
I grind my teeth.
“I didn’t react,” I admit. “I just processed it.”
Willow tilts her head.
“Greyson,” she says gently, “you don’t exactly have the most reassuring face when you’re processing things.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
“Meaning you look like you’re calculating escape routes.”
That hits.
Harder than I expect.
Thatcher flips a piece of corn and leans against the grill.
“You thinking about what happens if Kelly sells?” he asks.
I hesitate.
Because yes. Yeah. I am.
“Clara’s been staying with her. Temporarily. I mean, she doesn’t fucking live here, does she? Shit,” I say finally. “She lives in Manhattan.”
“And?” Thatcher prompts.
“And what if she goes back?” I snap. “What if this place—me—what if I’m just a chapter for her?”
The word tastes bitter.
Willow’s expression softens.
“Did you tell her you don’t want it to be?” she asks.
Silence.
Because I haven’t.
I’ve told her I’m choosing her right now.
I’ve told her I don’t want to run.
But I haven’t told her I want her longer than now.
I haven’t told her I don’t want her to leave.
Thatcher shakes his head slowly.
“You’re not scared she’s pulling away,” he says. “You’re scared she has. That she’s leaving.”
“That’s not—” I start.
He raises a brow.
I exhale hard.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Maybe.”
Willow stands from the swing and walks closer.
“She’s not a mind reader, Greyson,” she says gently. “If you’re building futures in your head, and she’s trying not to assume anything, you’re going to miss each other in the middle.”
That lands too.
“Did she say something specific?” I ask.
Willow hesitates.
“She’s trying not to get ahead of herself,” she says carefully. “She doesn’t want to assume she belongs here if you don’t see it that way.”
My chest tightens.
Belongs.
Jesus.
Thatcher hands me a piece of corn on the cob without looking at me.
It’s fucking hot. I toss it between my hands.
“You want my advice?” he says.
“Not really,” I mutter.
“Too bad.”
He takes a swig of his beer.
“If you want her here, say it. If you don’t, don’t string her along. But don’t expect her to gamble her whole life on an implied maybe.”
The words sit heavy.
I stare at the ground for a long moment.
Because I do want her here.
The thought doesn’t scare me the way it did this morning.
It steadies me.
“Grey,” Willow says softly. “Maybe she’s not pulling away. Maybe she’s just protecting herself.”
That hits somewhere deep.
Because I know what that looks like.
I invented it.
I drain the rest of my beer and set the empty bottle on the railing. But I’m taking the corn.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Thatcher grins faintly. “You gonna go talk to her?”
“Yeah,” I say.
I look toward the dark stretch of road that leads back to Kelly’s.
“I am.”