Page 32 of The Hearts We Fumble
I shrug, keeping my tone light as if saying the words will make them feel true. “I'm okay. Can't complain, I guess.”
It’s a lie, of course.
I’m questioning everything—my future, my happiness, the suffocating weight of being back in this house. And I sure as hell won’t admit how living next door to his best friend makes me feel like I’m walking through a minefield of memories—memories of a night he doesn’t know about.
Colter takes another slow drink of water, his eyes steady as he leans against the counter, crossing one leg over the other.
“You sure?”
I narrow my gaze, sensing something more beneath his words. “Why?”
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s already got a read on the truth. “Zane mentioned you were in a mood at his birthday party the other night. Something about running into you in Keaton… and giving you a ride home.”
It’s like he just took my last two nerves, ground them together, and lit a match.
Heat prickles up my spine, but I fight to keep my expression neutral.
“He told you about that?” My voice is flat, but Colter still catches the shift.
His brows pinch, picking up on something I don’t want him to. “Why does that surprise you?”
I work to smooth my features, to hide the irritation clawing at my chest.
Zane ran his damn mouth. And now Colter is looking at me like I should explain myself, like I owe him an answer for why I was in Keaton at all.
I grit my teeth, pressing my lips together, swallowing the retort sitting on my tongue.
Because losing it on my brother won’t do anything.
Not when my anger is meant for someone else entirely.
Thankfully, he lets it drop.
Colter shifts the conversation back to the dishwasher, explaining how he got it running, but some part needs replacing. “I’ll grab it in a couple of days and come fix it,” he adds, scribbling a note for Mom before heading for the door.
Relief seeps into my shoulders when he finally leaves.
I exhale, stretching my arms over my head as I head upstairs, fully prepared to crawl into bed and let this night disappear.
But then my eyes catch on the glow of a light from next door.
Zane’s place.
Something in me flickers, a pull I don’t want to acknowledge.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m already moving. I spin on my heel, marching back down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time.
Shoving my feet into a pair of fleece boots, I push out the back door and head straight across the yard toward him.
The glow of the porch light spills onto the front steps, but his car in the driveway confirms he’s home.
For half a second, doubt creeps in. What if he’s not alone? What if I just stormed over here, ready for a fight, only to interrupt something I have no desire to see?
But the thought comes a second too late—because my fist is already slamming against the door.
“Open the hell up, Zane. I know you’re here.”
My voice carries into the night, loud enough that I pray Myla and his parents aren’t home.
