Page 17 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

Ella reaches over and takes my hand. “It won’t. Because the people who love you will make sure it doesn’t.”

Mady hums. “And let’s be real. You and Rhys have been orbiting each other since, like, week one. If this crashes and burns, the rest of us will just pretend not to notice and make you alternate catch-up nights.”

I laugh at that, the knot in my chest loosening just a little more.

“Okay, but also,” Yasmin says, tilting her head, “if you don’t at least try with him, you’ll regret it forever. And then you’ll become the drunk aunt who shows up to every event with a new mysterious ‘friend’ and cries during Hallmark movies.”

Mady raises her hand. “Honestly, sounds iconic.”

We burst into giggles.

“What if I’m not enough?” I ask, quieter now.

Ella’s smile softens. “You are. You always have been. Rhys doesn’t want perfect. He wantsyou. The messy, overthinking, sarcastic you.”

Yasmin nods. “Besides, the way he looks at you. Like you invented gravity? That boy’s not going anywhere.”

We fall into a comfortable silence after that. The kind that wraps around you like a warm blanket. I lose myself in my thoughts. Could this really work between Rhys and me?

Yasmin eventually starts giggling about a TikTok she saw, and Mady attempts to do a British accent so bad it makes Ella snort cocktail out her nose.

I feel lighter. Like maybe I don’t need to have it all figured out right now. Maybe it’s okay to let things unfold.

Eventually, we all end up in a tangled heap on the living room floor, heads resting on pillows and legs draped over couch cushions. The brownies have fully kicked in, and we’re too far gone to pretend otherwise.

“Do you think Rhys is good in bed?” Mady whispers like we’re in a church.

“Absolutely,” Yasmin says.

“One hundred percent,” Ella adds.

I groan. “I’m literally right here.”

“We’re just manifesting for you.” Yasmin grins.

“I feel like I should be offended… but I’m weirdly flattered,” I admit.

“Youshouldbe flattered,” Mady says, stretching like a cat. “You’re the chosen one. You hold the power of the group’s collective thirst.”

Ella laughs so hard she hiccups. “Okay, new rule. No more brownies for Mady.”

“But they’re delicious,” Mady whines.

“And they’ve made you poetic,” Yasmin adds. “I’m concerned.”

“Oh! Speaking of poetic,” Mady says suddenly, propping herself up on her elbows. “You guys, Lochlan, tried to write me a poem.” Mady shudders. “He rhymed ‘panties’ with ‘daffodandies.’ I still haven’t recovered.”

Ella clutches her stomach, laughing. “Why did he write you a poem?”

Mady grins. “He was trying to be romantic or some shit.”

We laugh until our stomachs hurt, the kind of laughter that folds you in and lifts you at the same time. And even as the night winds down, the air is thick with the buzz of too many emotions—joy, nostalgia, hope, and whatever the hell is in those brownies.

Eventually, everyone else drifts off to sleep, leaving just Ella and me on the floor, the fairy lights twinkling overhead. The others are scattered—Yasmin half-asleep on the couch, Mady curled into a pile of pillows like she’s hibernating.

Ella nudges my shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”

I nod. “Yeah. Actually, yeah.”

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