Ozzy watches me, then leans closer, voice quiet enough that no one else can hear. “You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to,” he says.
My heart stutters, and I glance at him. “What?”
Ozzy’s gaze locks on mine, steady and unwavering. “When this is over, you get to choose. Not your mom. Not Carl. Not anyone who ever treated you like you were optional.”
My breath catches.
Ozzy’s voice drops even lower. “You.”
I stare at him, stunned. The brewery lights flicker softly over his face. His mohawk sharp. His eyes steady. He looks like a man who has already decided something. And the realization is both comforting and terrifying.
Because if Ozzy is offering me a choice… it means he’s imagining a future where I’m still in it.
I blink hard, trying not to fall apart in front of Paxton Atwood and his aggressively good pretzels. I clear my throat, forcing a smile. “Okay.”
Ozzy’s mouth softens again. Then he nudges my cider gently with his glass. “To today.”
I clink my drink against his. “To today,” I echo.
And for now, I let myself have it. The normalcy of it all. The feeling of being a person in a town that doesn’t know my history. Because tomorrow can be heavy.
Tomorrow can bring answers I’m not ready for.
But today?
Today I’m sitting at a bar with Ozzy Oliver, and my chest feels full for reasons that have nothing to do with food.
And even if I’m scared of what happens next— I’m more afraid of going back to a life where I never got to feel this at all.
TWELVE
OZZY
Cornhole is not a sport. It’s a psychological test designed to expose how quickly a person can go from “I’m having fun” to “I will end you” over a beanbag.
Salem thinks this is hilarious. I’m… adjusting.
We’re out on Atta Boy’s patio where the string lights come on early and the air smells like hops and smoke from the little firepit tables. The brewery crowd has spilled outside—laughter, clinking glasses, someone’s dog weaving between legs like it owns the place.
Salem’s cheeks are flushed from cider and sunshine, her hair half-loose from the ponytail, and she’s smiling like the world didn’t try to bury her last week.
I’d pay a lot of money to keep that smile right where it is.
Across from us, Brock Atwood stands with his arms crossed, grinning like a man who’s never lost in his life. Beside him is Shepherd Atwood—taller, calmer, with the kind of relaxedconfidence that makes you trust him instantly… until he nails a perfect shot and ruins your day.
Brock tosses the beanbag with a lazy flick. It arcs. And it lands with a loud thump.Dead center. He throws his hands up. “Money.”
Salem groans dramatically. “He’s insufferable.”
Shepherd’s mouth twitches. “He’s worse at home.”
Brock points at us. “You two wanna forfeit now or keep getting humbled?”
I square up like I’m preparing for combat. “We’re not forfeiting.”
Salem grabs a red beanbag and squints at the board like she’s trying to calculate wind resistance with pure rage. “I will not be emotionally bullied by a man named Brock.”
Brock gasps. “My name is powerful.”