Page 21 of Until Forever Falls

Brooks:Just checking if ur ok

I bite my lip, feeling my ears redden, and despite myself, I bounce slightly on the edge of my bed, the thought of him having my number making me a little too happy.

Dylan:I’m good. Thx tho.

I know better than to admit how I really feel. Letting someone in means giving them the power to hurt you. I learned that lesson young, and I’m not about to forget it now.

Brooks:Cool. Wanna hang tmr after practice?

Dylan:Idk…where?

Brooks:Surprise lol

My fingers hover over the keyboard. A simple yes would be easy, but easy doesn’t mean safe. Not after what he saw today. It’s probably just pity. A check-in disguised as an invitation. I shouldn’t fall for it.

Dylan:ummm, why tho?

Brooks:Why not?

Dylan:cuz u just witnessed my origin story as a future therapy patient…

Brooks:And???

Dylan:AND?

Brooks:All I saw was how tough u r tbh

I shift, trying to ignore the heat blooming across my face, a flush spreading steadily from my neck up.

Dylan:U don’t even rlly know me

Brooks:Not yet. I wanna fix that.

My brain short circuits for a second, then immediately kicks into overdrive. A thousand interpretations all elbowing for attention. I read it again, hoping for clarity. All I get is more confusion and a racing heart.

Brooks:Just say yes Dylan ;)

Dylan:Fiiiiine

Dylan:Yes (:

I shouldn’t let this mean anything, but it does—because people usually leave, and the fact that Brooks still wants to spend time with me after today feels significant.

Brooks:Let’s goooo!! see u tmr

As soon as I set my phone down, my stomach gives an obnoxious growl, like it’s reminding me I’ve ignored it for way too long. I’m barely halfway into the kitchen when the air shifts—thick with syrupy laughter that’s too loud, too sweet, like it’s trying to cover something up. Mom’s pressed against the counter, Greg’s hands tracing lazy paths along her back. I freeze just inside the doorway, my stomach twisting, hunger draining out of me like water down a sink.

Mom turns to me, flinching for a fraction of a second before turning it into a grin that feels as fake as a store mannequin. “Hi, baby! How was school?”

“Good,” I reply, the word feeling clunky in my mouth as I try to match her fake cheerfulness.

“That’s great! I’m making dinner if you’re hungry. Mac and cheese with hot dogs—your favorite.” She’s still performing, putting on a show for Greg, as if that’ll somehow smooth over everything. I haven’t liked mac and cheese with hot dogs since I was eight, but I nod anyway.

“Thanks, Mom.” My smile feels as artificial as the powdered cheese.

Beckett slides into the room, one hand drumming absently on the counter. His raised brow is subtle, but I catch it. I nod once, a barely-there movement, trusting him to get it.

“Dylan, sweetie, could you set the table for us?” Mom asks, her voice honeyed with too much charm. I can’t remember the last time we did this—played pretend. But pushing back now would only make things worse.

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