Page 79 of Rival Summer

He looked at me with those piercing eyes, "Be honest with me, Chandler. Do you still have feelings for him?"

"Boston, I don't know how to answer that.” And I really didn’t. Because when I saw Reese, I still felt a small attachment to him—did that mean I still have feelings? I wasn’t entirely sure.

He nodded and I could see the hurt in his eyes. "That's what I thought."

I stepped closer. "But I know that you two have seemed like maybe you were on the verge of?—"

"Of what?" He cut me off. "Being brothers? That's never going to happen." His hand tightened around the beer bottle. "We're never going to be some happy fucking family."

"Maybe?" I shot back. "Maybe start with actually trying to have a friendship?"

I reached out, my fingers brushing against the warmth of his hand. "He doesn't have to be the enemy anymore," I whispered, my voice barely rising above the sounds from the gambling machines. “He’s not his dad.”

For a moment, Boston's hand lingered in mine. But then, as if burned by the very idea, he pulled back. And that’s when I feltit, and saw it written all over his face. He was pulling away and there was nothing I could do.

"How can you defend him right now? After everything?"

"I'm not trying to defend him," I said, softly. "I'm just trying to understand."

"Understand what?" His tone was sharper now. "Am I some test?" He asked, as he put more space between us. "To see if you like being with me better than him?"

The accusation stung, like a thousand tiny needles shoved right into my heart. It was as if he’d just thrown the thought in my face, the one I had fought so fiercely to keep hidden—even from myself.

"How can you even say that?" I stepped back, shocked in disbelief.

Boston's piercing blue eyes held mine with an intensity that seared. "What are we even doing, Chandler?"

It was the kind of question that demanded honesty, but my emotions were too scattered to be vulnerable. I was hurt by what he’d just said to me. The overthinking portion of my brain took charge, gathering all thoughts into one single, painful realization. Each moment longer I spent with him only tightened the knot in my chest; each laugh, each touch, was only leading me to one place—to him breaking my heart. That thought wasn’t just daunting, but unbearable.

"You're right," I said, finally. "We should probably end whatever this is before it gets too complicated." I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. He didn't respond, but his eyes studied my face intently.

"We were just having fun, anyway." My own voice sounded hollow. But this was what I wanted, wasn’t it? "I never wanted a boyfriend or a relationship, and that's what we did, we had fun." My gaze held his. "Once the summer is over, we can just go back to normal. You focus on baseball, and I'll be fine—like always."

He nodded slowly. "...Okay, but I wasn't just having fun with you," he admitted. "It was more than that to me. But, I agree. That’s probably for the best."

For the best? I thought to myself as I watched him. The look on his face made me think he was carrying more than just the weight of my words—like maybe he had a lot more going on than he was letting on. How had I ended up here again, caught in the gravity of Boston's orbit? So close to him, yet feeling so far apart.

Then, he looked past me over the flashing lights of the gambling machines. "Can we just go back, please? Join the group?"

But the simplicity of his request couldn't erase the complexity of the moment, the depth of emotion that had been stirred up and left unsettled.

"Sure," I responded, more sharp than I intended. I turned on my heel and stomped away from him. I half expected him to reach out, to try and use that pull he so often had on me, but this time he just watched as the space between us grew. There was no gentle tug at my wrist, no whispered apologies against my lips, nothing to soothe the sting of our conversation. Just the sound of my own footsteps echoing my frustration.

I slid back into my seat at the table, still reeling. When I looked up, the sight before me took over. Parker and Willow's faces were contorted into expressions of pure horror, eyes wide, mouths open. Onstage, Crew was belting out a tune that could only be described as torture. It was like witnessing a car crash—you wanted to look away, but you couldn't quite bring yourself to do it.

Parker, ever the comedian even in the face of auditory assault, stood up slowly, his hand theatrically pressed to his chest. "I think I need another shot," he declared, grimacing as if the words pained him as much as Crew's singing.

"Take it easy," I warned, though my attempt at sisterly concern came out more annoyed than intended.

He shot me a mischievous grin and flicked my forehead as he passed by, heading toward the bar. He quickly returned to the table, downing another shot. "Okay, that's better," he sighed, placing the empty glass with a clink on the surface.

"Hey, Hartford!" The DJ approached, slapping Parker on the back with a grin. "You killed it tonight, man."

"Thanks for the assist, J-Bomb," Parker replied, raising an eyebrow at the nickname he'd stowed upon the DJ.

Just then, his gaze shifted to the stage, and he chuckled. "Oh, shit! D-Wagon is about to get on the stage."

Boston appeared behind him, clapping him on the back. "Parker is in the nickname stage of his drinking—that's our fifteen-minute warning before he passes out or pukes. Time to escort this guy home."

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