“It’s a long story, Ol.Not mine to tell.”I rake a hand through my hair and cast a glance out the window, watching the morning mist cling to the trees.
“Did it have anything to do with why you and Rickie ended?”
“Marcos had nothing to do with the breakup.But he knows the details, and because he’s pissed I left the team, he’s taunting me with it.”
“And this is something you wouldn’t want Grace to find out, right?”He’s fishing.
I don’t miss the disappointment in his gaze at hearing Marcos knows more than he does about the end of my relationship with the woman who was supposed to be my forever.I can’t blame him.We’re best friends.
If I needed to bleed out to someone, Oliver would be the one.But I’m not sure where I’d start or how much I could say without spilling every gory, fentanyl-laced detail.
A corner of his mouth lifts, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.He’s letting me off the hook.“Heard the team pulled out a solid win last night.”
Thank fuck for the change of subject.
A reluctant warmth crawls up my chest.“They played hard.”
“Heard about the bus trouble, too.”His brow ticks up.
I take a long pull of coffee, letting the bitterness settle my nerves.Of course, the news has already hit the town grapevine.Not wanting to talk about it, I erect a wall, and always aware, he gives me another out.“Wren wishes she’d been there for the win.For all of it.”
Wren would’ve known who to call without blinking.
A low, wired awareness climbs through me, and I redirect before Oliver can read anything else off my face.“How’d the trip to Helena go?”
He brightens, that signature Winslow spark firing to life.“Huge success.The city’s backing another Bright Horizons branch.They’re rolling out funding next quarter.”
“That’s incredible.”I offer a genuine nod.Wren lives for this—giving foster kids a shot at a future.
His smile broadens.“You should’ve seen her.She had the room eating out of her hand.”
The image comes too easily—the fire in her eyes when she believes in something.I force my gaze away, toward the table and the general mess of my life.
“Where’s your mom?”
“Prospect.She’s visiting Ruby.”Prospect is about forty minutes from here and Ruby’s a friend who owns and runs her own bar.
Kellen strides in, boots muddy and hair damp.He’s wearing the same crooked grin he’s had since high school—the one that got him labeled the town’s bad boy long before he earned the reputation.
The three of us were thick as thieves in elementary school, but high school changed the math.Oliver had his reasons for the distance, but for me, it was simpler: Kellen chased trouble, while I was chased by responsibility.
Things have been different since I’ve been back.Kellen’s a father now, trying to navigate what that looks like without being with the mother.He’s more present, more willing to help, and that counts for something.
“Boys.”He drops a toolbox by the door with a heavy clatter.“Gotta hit the head.”He disappears down the hall, whistling a low, tuneless melody.
Oliver leans against the counter.“Hey, Mads.Do you still talk to Rickie?”
I stiffen.“I haven’t talked to her in months.”
“When was the last time?”
“Shortly after my retirement, about a year now.”
The thought loosens something in my chest.If someone had told me ten years ago I’d be relieved to go a year without hearing from Erica, I’d have called them a liar.But I am.We’re finally, mercifully, done.
“How’s she doing?”He won’t let it go.
I shrug, the movement stiff.“Fine, I guess.”