“Oh, I don’t know.” I waved her off.
“No one would judge you if you did, El.”
Her soft words of encouragement inspired me, but it wasn’t her judgment I was afraid of—it was everyone else’s. No one could prove that I’d be able to date Miles in peace.
If I were truly looking to reclaim my life for myself, I had to do things regardless of what others would say, and getting to know the chef from the city was a good place to start.
9
LOGAN
“Look!” Ellie squealed the second I stepped into her room, waving a picture in the air like a sign of victory. She sat cross-legged in the center of her bedroom floor, excitement practically bouncing off the walls.
A soft breeze floated in through the open window, carrying the scent of summer and sending her sheer white curtains moving with the wind. Her room hadn’t changed much since we were kids. It still held that same softness, timeless and comforting. The walls were painted a pale cream, and neutral accents filled the space, anchored by her gingham-patterned bedding and the steady flicker of a candle glowing in the far corner—jasmine.
My socked feet muffled each step as I moved deeper into the room. I took the photo from her, holding it up to get a closer look.
A grin tugged at my lips.
It was all of us—Boone, Mac, Rhodes, Ellie, and me—smiling wide, holding up watermelon slices like trophies. We were perched on the big tractor out at Cassidy Ranch, our hair wet and swimsuits still dripping from the hours we’d spent at theswimming hole. Boone’s mom practically used to drag us out once the sun began to set.
We’d spent so many summer days that way—laughing, splashing, running wild without a care in the world.
Of course, I was sitting next to Ellie in the picture, my arm slung casually over her shoulders, her head tilted against mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My heart stuttered just a beat. There had been so many moments like that and so many that I’d pushed down, convinced they were innocent. But now, I knew I’ve always felt this draw to her.
“Mac looks exactly the same,” I chuckled, pointing at the photo. That ridiculous mop of hair used to hang so far over his eyes he couldn’t see a damn thing.
Ellie laughed, reaching into the box in front of her. “Look at this one!”
She handed me another picture, and I moved to sit on the edge of her bed. This one was of the two of us as kids, seated at the tiny picnic table in the backyard. Paintbrushes in hand, we were lost in concentration, our tongues poking out slightly the way kids do when they’re focused.
We both still do that.
“I can’t even tell what we were painting,” I said, squinting at the photo and bringing it closer.
“This!” she said triumphantly, pulling two old papers from the box like buried treasure.
One was a painting of a cow wearing a party hat. The other was a bouquet of brightly colored flowers, painted with more control. The cow had wild colors spilling well outside the lines, a crayon-scrawled “Logan” in the corner. The flowers had “Ellie” written in careful, uneven letters.
“You kept them?” I asked, stunned. “Seriously?”
“Of course I did, all in my memory box,” she replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s a work of art. Well,minewas at least.”
She grinned, tucking the paintings back into the box, her wink full of mischief.
“You’re always so competitive,” I said with a soft laugh.
Ellie grinned as she placed the lid back on the box and lifted it with ease, propping it against her hip like it weighed nothing.
“Growing up with an older brother will do that to a girl,” she replied over her shoulder, disappearing into the closet to tuck it away.
While she was gone, I let myself take in her room again. Photos framed the pale walls. Ellie and her family at different ages and seasons, the girls all together in a new one that looked like it had been taken just a few weeks ago at the birthday party they’d thrown for her.
Ellie was the kind of person who kept everything: movie tickets, scribbled notes, dried flowers. She archived her life with a sort of tenderness, with sentiment and passion.
My gaze drifted to her white desk, where a small silver frame caught the light. I tilted my head, squinting until I realized what it was. A picture of her and me. High school graduation. Both of us in Faircloud High’s deep navy caps and gowns, arms around each other, cheeks pressed close, eyes bright with the kind of hope only eighteen-year-olds know.