Page 91 of Well That Happened

The quiet stretches again. The hum of traffic below barely registers.

“It’s not just a crush anymore,” I say, my voice low. “Not for me.”

Caleb nods slowly. “Yeah. I figured. She looks at you like she’s trying not to.”

I glance over. “And you? You’re not just messing around either.”

His jaw works for a second. Then he sighs. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But yeah. She matters.”

I nod, swallowing down something sharp. “She asked me things no one else ever has. Stuff I didn’t even know I wanted someone to notice.”

We both go quiet. The wind kicks up a bit. Someone honks in the distance.

Finally, Caleb says, “So what are we doing, then? Taking turns? Fighting it out?”

I shake my head. “She doesn’t want that. She’d hate that.”

“She’s not gonna choose,” he says quietly. “Not yet.”

“I know.”

He tilts his beer toward me. “You good with that?”

I’m not. Not really.

I take a sip of my beer, thinking.

“So?” Caleb asks, leaning back on his heels. “What, we flip a coin? Fight it out?”

I smirk. “I mean, I’d win. But nah.”

Caleb chuckles, and I continue.

“She deserves more than being torn in half just because we can’t get our shit together.”

“So… what are you saying?”

I shrug. “I’m saying maybe we stop pretending this is black and white. Maybe we just… trust her. Trust us. Figure it out together instead of making it harder on her.”

“You’re seriously okay with that?”

“I’d rather be beside her with you… than not at all.”

Caleb looks over, surprised. And there’s a long pause. “…You’re such a sentimental bastard.”

“Shut up and drink your beer.”

We clink cans. We drink.

And the night settles around us like a peace treaty, fragile and unspoken.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Rilee

The engine hums beneath us as Caleb’s truck barrels down the highway, the windshield wipers working overtime against the early afternoon rain. Gray clouds stretch across the sky like someone has dragged a wet sponge across the sun.

I’m wedged in the middle seat—Caleb on my right, one hand on the wheel, the other resting just above my knee. His thumb traces slow, absent circles against my jeans, as if he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. But I feel every brush like static in my blood.

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