Page 70 of Well That Happened

“Classes?”

“Fine.”

“Clinicals?”

“Exhausting. But fine.”

A pause.

“You’re not letting them distract you, right?” he says, voice sharp in that older-brother way he saves for when he’s worried. “You’re almost there. Don’t screw it up now.”

“I’m not distracted,” I lie.

“You’d tell me if you were struggling?”

“Of course.”

Another lie.

He sighs. “Okay. Just—remember why you’re doing this, Riles. You’ve got one shot. Don’t let anyone,especiallyany pretty-faced idiot with a hockey stick, get in your head.”

“I won’t,” I say, voice soft.

“I believe in you. You’re the one good thing I’ve ever done right.”

That one lands hard.

Because it’s true.

Fletcher was the one steady thing in a house that never stopped falling apart. When our mom got sick, when our dad disappeared into another girlfriend’s apartment and didn’t come back,hewas the one who stepped in.

He got a job in high school—stocking shelves overnight, skipping parties, saving every dollar—just so I could have decent shoes. So I could do dance for one semester. So I wouldn’t feel like the poor kid even though we were.

He was my brother. My protector. My whole damn foundation when everything else cracked.

So hearing that—“You’re the one good thing I’ve ever done right”—hits me straight in the gut.

Because if he knew what I’ve done lately?

Who I’ve done lately?

He wouldn’t say it.

He’d flip out on me, and rightly so. I can’t afford to lose my focus right now. Not when I’m so close.

“Thanks, Fletch.”

“Call me soon. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I hang up.

The silence afterward feels louder than the washer. My throat’s tight. My chest heavier. I blink fast, trying not to unravel right here between two baskets of laundry.

Because he’s right.

I’m here to finish. To make it.

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