He won’t look at me.
That’s the first thing I notice.
We’re halfway through cleanup after the archery tournament—a chaotic mess of broken arrows, leftover snacks, and glitter somehow—and Jason is moving through it like a ghost. Joking with the kids, helping collect bows, but his eyes? They never once flick toward mine.
It’s like I’ve turned into part of the background.
I tell myself I’m imagining it. That he’s busy. Focused.
But when I call out, “Hey, could you grab the target tarp?” and he responds with a clipped “Yeah,” without even meeting my gaze, the weight in my chest sinks all the way to my stomach.
This isn’t just distance.
This is something worse.
I find him near the shed later. Alone. Coiling ropes with the kind of intensity that makes it look personal.
My steps are slow, cautious. I feel like I’m tiptoeing into a storm that’s already swallowed half the sky.
“Jason,” I say, voice soft.
He doesn’t stop working.
“Can we talk?”
He grunts. Not yes. Not no.
Just noise.
I step closer anyway. “I know I’ve been... complicated. I pulled away. I got scared. But I’m trying.”
He pauses for a beat.
Then goes right back to coiling.
“I’m trying to be better,” I continue. “To not run. I know I hurt you. But I never meant to?—”
“I don’t need a speech, Alice.”
I freeze.
The way he says my name, it doesn’t sound like mine anymore. It sounds like something heavy in his mouth. Like regret.
“I just wanted to?—”
He drops the rope and turns to face me, jaw tight. “To what? Explain again how you’re scared of me? Of this? You already did that, remember?”
I flinch. “That’s not fair?—”
“Isn’t it?”
His voice isn’t loud, but it cuts like wind on bare skin.
“I let you in,” he says, arms crossed. “Every messy part. And you looked at it and said, ‘Maybe later.’”
“I never said that,” I whisper.
“You didn’t have to. You walked away.”