Page 183 of Well That Happened

Grayson’s sprawled across the couch with a notepad, pretending this is some sort of tactical mission and not a last-ditch effort to get the girl we all love back before she slips out of our lives forever. Caleb’s pacing the room like he’s waiting for a bomb to detonate.

“I’m just saying,” Gray starts, tapping the pen against his knee, “we could show up unannounced. Big dramatic gesture. ThinkLove ActuallymeetsOcean’s Eleven.”

“Okay, first of all,” I say, sitting up straighter, “no kidnapping. No breaking and entering. And definitely no standing outside her apartment window with a boombox.”

Caleb grins. “You’re right. That’s more of a ‘me’ move.”

I glare. “She left for a reason. Whatever we do—it has to be onherterms.”

Grayson frowns. “But what if her terms are shitty?”

“Then we ask,” I say, my voice rough. “We ask her if there’s still a place for us in her life. No games. No pressure. We just show up… and tell her how we feel.”

They both fall silent.

It’s a rare thing—Caleb not making a joke, and Grayson not coming up with a half-baked plan that involves kicking down her door and just taking her back.

Finally, Caleb exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “I hate that you’re right.”

Grayson flips the notepad closed and tosses it aside. “So… flight to San Diego?”

Caleb already has his phone out. “Booking it now.”

California didn’t get the memo about my heartbreak. The weather is relentlessly perfect—palm trees dancing in a warm breeze, the sky a stretch of endless blue like it’s mocking me.

It’s late afternoon, everything bathed in honeyed light. The kind that makes the world look soft and cinematic.

My palms are sweating. My heart’s a mess.

We navigate to her apartment, on a mission. The building is low-slung, painted concrete, nothing fancy. And now that we’re actually here, my heart’s in my throat.

Grayson knocks. Once. Twice. Then backs up.

Caleb mutters, “What if she’s not home?”

“She is,” I say. I don’t know how—but Iknow. Just like I know when to hit a one-timer or a wrist shot depending on the wobble of the puck gliding over the ice. The feeling in my gut doesn’t lie.

The door opens a crack. Then wider.

And there she is. Wearing scrubs. Her hair tied back loosely. Her eyes wide. Blinking like she can’t believe we’re real.

“Hey,” I say, the word barely scraping past my throat.

She blinks. Her lips part, but nothing comes out.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Caleb says.

She doesn’t speak. Just stares. Like she’s afraid to move. Like if she blinks, we’ll disappear.

“What… what are you guys doing here?”

“We need to talk,” I say, heart thudding.

Grayson steps forward, not too close. “Can we come in?”

She doesn’t move for a second. Then—slowly—she nods and steps back.

The apartment smells like lavender and leftover takeout. It’s small, clean, lived-in. A narrow table by the wall. A pair of sneakers kicked off by the door. A blanket draped over the back of the couch like someone tried to make it feel like home.

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