Page 30 of Connor

North’s voice was clipped, sharp, cutting through the static in my head like a blade.

"Connor, you need to get here. Now."

The air was still. "What? Why?"

What was so important that he needed me there right now?

"It’s Summer."

Chapter 8

Summer

The can of ginger ale sweated against my palm, condensation dripping onto my fingers, but I barely felt it. My stomach was still a mess, my head pounding, but none of it had anything to do with the nausea. Quinn and North knew.

I hadn’t said anything, but somehow, they still knew—and just like that, all the tension and remorse about what happened two summers ago was gone. I had my friend back again, and she refused to leave me in that bathroom stall. She brought me home, not forcing me to admit it even as she told North to call Connor.

Not Vic.

Connor.

And now he was coming.

I forced a sip of the ginger ale, but it tasted like metal. The bubbles burned down my throat, but nothing settled. My fingers flexed around the can. Quinn sat across from me, curled into the far end of the couch, scrolling through her phone like she hadn’t just beenforcedinto playing babysitter.

North was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. Watching. Waiting. He hadn’t said anything since he ended the call, but he didn’t have to.

I knew exactly what he was thinking. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have chosenthisschool. And I definitely shouldn’t have let my legs carry me into that goddamn diner, because if I’d known—I would what? What would I have done?

God, I didn’t even know. The weight of it settled on my chest, pressing, crushing. My stomach clenched harder.

"You're holding that can like you're about to crush it," Quinn muttered, not looking up from her phone.

"I’m fine," I lied.

Quinn’s laugh was hollow. "Yeah? You didn’t look fine when you sprinted to the bathroom like you were running from a murder scene."

North said nothing, but I could feel his eyes on me. Assessing. Calculating.

He wasn’t stupid. Quinn wasn’t, either. I hadmaybefive minutes before Connor got here, and I had no idea what was going to happen when he did. Would he beangry? Would he behurt? Would he tear through the door, eyes burning, teeth gritted, voice sharp enough to leave me in ribbons?

I didn’t know. And that was the problem.

I shifted, trying to get comfortable, but the couch felt too soft, the tension crackling.

Quinn sighed and finally set her phone down, tilting her head. "You want to tell us what the hell is going on?"

I stiffened. "Nothing’s going on."

She scoffed. "Right. So you just happened to be puking your guts out in a diner bathroom, pale as a ghost, looking like you were one second away from passing out?"

I swallowed. My stomach twisted again, and for a moment, I was terrified I’d have to bolt for the bathroom a second time.

Quinn’s gaze flicked to North, then back to me. They were waiting. For the lie. For the cracks. For me toadmit it.I looked away, forcing another sip of the ginger ale. "I just wasn’t feeling well."

"Try again," North said, his voice low, unreadable.

The bubbles burned all the way down. My heart beat too fast, thudding against my ribs like it was trying to escape. I squeezed my eyes shut.

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