Page 26 of You Owe Me

“Not currently.”

She crosses her arms but doesn’t get out. “Why?”

I put the car in park and glance over at her. “Because you’ve been ready to fight everything with a pulse today, including me, and I figure maybe we both need a reset.”

She stares at me for a long second. Then, quietly, “I don’t like surprises.”

“You’ll like this one.”

That gets her. Not because she believes me, but because she’s too curious not to test it.

We step out of the car, and I head for the swings. She trails behind, arms still crossed, jaw still tight, watching me like I might try to sell her a beige sectional out here in the wild.

“This better not be some metaphor.” She eyes the swing set like it insulted her.

“It’s not,” I say, settling onto one. The chain creaks, but it holds. “It’s just a swing.”

She hesitates just a second too long. Then she sits beside me.

Her feet scrape the ground. She sways but doesn’t lift off. Not yet.

“You know, I haven’t done this since middle school,” she mutters.

“Yeah? Then you’re overdue.”

I push gently with my feet, just enough to rock the swing. She mimics me without meaning to. Muscle memory. The human brain remembers joy, even when we try to pretend it’s childish.

After a beat, she starts swinging higher. And higher. Until her hair’s whipping into her face and her legs are kicking like she’s daring the sky to push back.

I don’t say anything.

I just watch her being loud and free and chaotic in the most beautiful way. Like the weight’s gone for a second. Like the stuff she won’t say out loud about why she needs that couch and howhard it is to let go of something that’s carried her through hell is still there, but lighter now.

She looks over her shoulder. “You just gonna stare like a creep or what?”

“Definitely stare.”

She slows her swing just enough to make a face at me. “You’re weirdly sentimental today. It’s freaking me out.”

“Coming from the woman who threatened to stab someone over a couch spring the other day.”

“It’s not the spring I care about,” she mutters, kicking at the mulch under her feet. “It’s... everything else.”

I nod, even though she’s not really looking at me. “I know.”

She glances sideways. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I nudge the ground, letting my swing sway. “It’s the first place that felt like yours. I remember.”

Ainsley’s quiet again, but this time it’s not suspicious. It’s soft.

She drags her toes to a stop, staring down at the worn rubber of the swing like it’s holding the answers to every argument we’ve ever had. “It was the only place I felt like I could breathe that first week. Like, really breathe. Not fake-it-and-smile breathing.”

“I remember that, too.” I keep my voice level. “You wouldn’t go near the bed.”

“It smelled like Tucker.”

“Everything smelled like bad decisions back then.”

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