#tsitp x reader

Sometimes, Conrad would look across the table and see his mother smiling at him.

It didn’t matter that she had been gone for years now, her absence a quiet ache that threaded through every season since. It didn’t matter that this was her memorial, that the soft clink of cutlery was muted by the weight of grief, or that candles flickered gently in her name while bouquets of her favorite flowers filled the room with the ghost of summer. It didn’t matter that every chair was occupied by someone who had known her laugh, her warmth, and her boundless way of loving and who carried that loss like a stone in their chest.

It didn’t matter that the person really sitting across from him was his father, rigid in his collared shirt.

Because for him, Susannah was always there.

She was in the light. In the sun pouring through the restaurant window and catching the glint of the ocean just beyond the dunes. In the quiet way Laurel had wrapped her arms around him earlier, holding him like a second mother, so tight and grounding, as if she could hold him together just long enough to get through the day. She was in the sound of Steven’s easy laugh, in the way Belly rolled her eyes fondly at her brother’s joke, and in how Jeremiah nudged his shoulder like they hadn’t lost entire years between them.

Being with them again, after everything and despite everything, felt like slipping into a worn hoodie from his childhood. Frayed at the sleeves, thinned in places, but still warm. Still his.

And then there was you.

Maybe most of all, she was in you.

You, who had crashed into his life quietly and all at once, like the tide.

He’d met you just weeks before his mother died. A moment in time he sometimes thought about like a scene in a movie, too perfectly timed to be real. Like fate, or maybe something softer. Kinder. Maybe she had sent you. Maybe Susannah, with all her light and knowing and mother’s heart, had looked at her boy, being a splintered, grieving, impossibly young and already so tired, and thought: he’s going to need someone like her.

Someone patient. Someone with a voice like a lullaby and laughter that filled the cracks in his chest. Someone who ate ice cream even on rainy days and sang along, very badly, to the radio with him, who learned his silences and never tried to fix them, only sat beside him until he could breathe again.

You had been her parting gift. The last bright ribbon on a life wrapped too tightly around loss.

And sometimes, when you smiled at him from across the room like he was the only thing you saw, or when you pressed your hand flat against his chest like you could feel the places where it still hurt, Conrad would close his eyes, swallow the knot in his throat, and think:

Thank you, Mom.

He was still lost in thought about you when Laurel’s voice rose above the soft clink of glasses and low hum of conversation. Her tone was warm, filled with that quiet maternal pride that always wrapped around him like a knit blanket, one he never asked for but always accepted. She was raising a toast to her children, to their futures, her eyes glinting with unshed emotion beneath the dim restaurant lighting. The flicker of candlelight played across her face as she turned her gaze toward him, and the warmth in her voice softened further.

She spoke of him next.

Of all he’d done, all he’d built, far from home. Her words weren’t just kind, they were reverent and admiring. She spoke of his discipline, his strength, and the way he’d carried the weight of grief and still managed to chase down a future through lecture halls and exam rooms. Each sentence felt like a gentle pat on the shoulder, a reminder that he wasn’t invisible in his efforts. That someone, even from afar, had seen him.

Conrad stared down at the glass in front of him, the golden liquid inside catching the light just enough to blur his reflection. He felt the burn behind his eyes, low and steady, and swallowed it down like the rest of the things he never said.

But before the silence of her words could settle, before he could let the swell of emotion crest and fall, Steven’s voice cut in. Playful. Sharp. Curious. A disruption of that fragile stillness.

“So do you have a girl there?” He asked, his voice slicing through the quiet hum of reverence like a pebble skipped across still water.

Conrad blinked slowly, his gaze lifting from the golden ripple of his drink, catching the soft light that danced along the glass’s edge. For a moment, he hesitated, not because he didn’t know the answer, but because saying it aloud felt fragile and intimate, like unfolding a delicate secret in a room still steeped in memories and silence.

Around the table, Laurel smiled warmly, gently nudging Belly with an elbow as if sharing a quiet joke. Jeremiah tilted his head, curiosity flickering across his features. Even his father looked up from his plate, brows arched with a quiet but unmistakable interest.

The attention turned toward him like a slow tide.

Conrad didn’t rush. He never did. He rubbed a thumb against the condensation on his glass, lips twitching just slightly.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low but sure. “Yeah, I do.”

Steven leaned forward, eyes bright and wide with boyish enthusiasm. “Wait, seriously? You’re seeing someone?”

His dad chuckled softly, a sound rich with both surprise and amusement. “And you didn’t bring her? Why not?”

Conrad looked up then, eyes calm but glittering with something warmer, deeper. “It’s her family’s day, too,” he said quietly. “Didn’t feel right to take her away.”

A thoughtful pause followed, the kind that hangs heavy yet respectful in the air. Laurel’s voice broke it gently, honeyed with fondness. “What’s she like?”

And there it was, the question that mattered most.

Conrad didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for his wallet, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t just flipping through receipts and cards but handling something precious. He slid a small, worn photo from the back sleeve, the one he kept tucked there like a secret, like a prayer.

It was you, standing on the beach last fall, hair wild from the wind, the hem of your jeans wet with saltwater. You weren’t even looking at the camera. You were laughing at something he’d said, eyes half-shut from smiling, your hand lifted in a blurry motion like you’d just tossed a shell back into the waves.

He laid the photo on the table.

A soft collective breath escaped the group, somewhere between a sigh and a quiet ‘oh.’ Laurel’s hand fluttered to her chest, her eyes shining with unspoken emotion. Belly’s head tilted, brows knitting together in a thoughtful frown.

“Wait…that’s this beach,” she murmured.

“That’s our house behind,” Jeremiah added, glancing at his brother. “You brought her here? When?”

“Almost a year ago,” Conrad said softly.

For a moment, no one spoke. The room seemed to pause, the usual clatter of the restaurant fading beneath the weight of his quiet vulnerability. This raw, unguarded glimpse into his life was rare, almost sacred.

Even his father nodded slowly, a silent approval etched into the lines of his weathered face.

“Well,” Laurel said softly, eyes shimmering, “she must be pretty special.”

Conrad’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile, the corners lifting with a quiet certainty. “She is,” he murmured. “She really is.”

A minute later, Conrad quietly excused himself from the table, slipping away from the low hum of conversation and the soft clinking of glasses. He didn’t really need the bathroom, he just needed a moment to breathe, to catch the sharp edges of his thoughts before they cut too deep.

His throat felt tight and heavy, the strange ache that comes when grief and love collide pressing against his chest like a weight he couldn’t set down.

Leaning against the cool, smooth tile wall, he pulled out his phone. Your name was already glowing softly on the screen, as if waiting for him, an anchor in the swirling storm.

He tapped it gently and held the phone to his ear, heart pounding a quiet rhythm.

You answered on the second ring, your voice soft and warm, wrapping around him like a familiar melody that made the noisy restaurant fade into a distant murmur.

“Hey, love. Everything alright?” you asked, your tone tender, filled with a soothing kind of care that made his tight chest ease a little.

He swallowed hard, the ache tightening as he pressed his forehead against the cold wall, eyes closing for a brief moment. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just needed a little break.”

A pause stretched between them, your steady breathing a quiet comfort over the line.

“You sound a little shaken,” you said gently. “Talk to me.”

He let out a shaky breath, fingers curling around the edge of the sink. “It’s just…today. Being with them, remembering her. And now…hearing your voice.”

You didn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, you let it hold him like a soft, protective cloak, an unspoken invitation to unravel the tight knot inside his chest.

“I told them I have a girlfriend,” he said, a shy, almost bashful smile touching his lips. “Showed them a picture of you.”

Your laughter was gentle and bright through the phone. “Oh? You really did?”

He nodded, though you couldn’t see the movement. “Yeah. Wanted them to know you’re not just a voice in my ear.”

There was a tenderness in your voice that made his heart skip, a soft anchor in the tumult. “I’m very real.”

He brushed a trembling hand over his face, trying to chase away the rawness threatening to spill through his words. “I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. “But at least we’re just a call away.”

His lips curved into a genuine, quiet smile. The heavy weight pressing on his chest lifted ever so slightly. “I’m lucky.”

“No,” you said softly, voice steady and sure. “I’m the lucky one.”

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, letting the warmth of your voice fill the hollow spaces inside him, the steady pulse of your love a balm to his weary heart. For a fragile, fleeting moment, everything felt like it might be alright.

He lingered in the silence, the phone pressed gently to his ear, as if holding onto you through the line could stop the world from spinning too fast.

“I wish you were here,” he finally murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, heavy with longing.

There was a quiet pause, full of everything that words couldn’t say.

“I know,” you answered softly. “I wish I was, too.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat, feeling the chill of the tiles seep through his skin, grounding him even as his heart soared.

“Soon,” you promised gently, “I’ll be with you for real. No more phone calls.”

A small, hopeful smile broke through the tension coiled inside him.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “I’d like that.”

Conrad woke up from feeling the empty side of your bed. His blurry eyes looked around the room, hoping that you were just standing in front of the crib, which wouldn’t be the first time.

His friend Agnes introduced you to him; she thought the two of you would make a cute couple, plus it would get him to move on from his brother's girlfriend. You and Agnes met at the coffee shop, and she noticed a pin on your backpack was from a show she also enjoyed. So the two of them clicked and became best friends.

Towards the end of the fall semester, Agnes was hosting a Christmas party. She practically dragged the two of you to come. She pushed you into a conversation and would tackle anyone who tried to get one of your attention. You guys have been talking and taking it slow, and now you’ve been dating for two years.

Well, except for your first anniversary in January, when you told Conrad you were pregnant. You were so scared to tell him, not knowing how he’d react. He smiled and assured you that it was going to be okay because you’re in this together.

Conrad noticed you weren’t in the room. He was trying to keep his anxious thoughts at bay, but it was hard. What if you fell and you both got hurt? How could he be so careless? He should’ve noticed you weren’t gone and waited up for you.

He bolted out of the bedroom, about to scream your name, but he saw the kitchen light on. Conrad walked into the kitchen, and his heart relaxed at what he saw.

You are sitting at the kitchen island, wearing a short lounge set, which had your showing off your five-month bump proudly. From what Conrad could see, you were eating a bowl of Cookies and Cream ice cream with whipped cream, chocolate drizzle, and… jalapeños? Not the weirdest craving you’ve had, but maybe top three.

“You scared me, love,” Conrad smiled, towering behind you, “I’m sorry, bub. I was going to come back from the bathroom, but she wanted this.” You smiled before taking a big bite of your snack. Conrad chuckled before pressing a kiss on the top of your head.

Conrad moved next to you, his brows furrowed when he saw the abundance of jalapeños you had in your bowl. Now Conrad didn’t want to say anything because he never wants you to be insecure about your pregnancy, but the need to protect you overrides him. “Just be careful with the jalapeños, love. I don’t want you getting heartburn,” Conrad's voice softened, rubbing your back. You gave him your best puppy dog eyes. “More?” You threw in a pout.

The power you had over Conrad was insane. You could ask him to rob a bank, and he would ask which one. Conrad never minded about your power until you used it for evil, like now.

Conrad shook his head, sighing, but his small smile gave him away. “Fine. But only one,” Conrad agreed. You smiled brightly before littering his face with kisses. To this day, Conrad had no idea how he survived life without your kisses.

Conrad opened the jalapeño jar with ease, “You’re going to make me spill the jar.” Conrad smiled, trying to keep his hands steady. You pulled away and looked at him like he had committed a war crime. “Do not drop my jalapeño, Conrad!” You sassed, Conrad, knowing the consequences if he did. Conrad hated when you called him by his real name. It's always his way of knowing when you’re mad at him. Which would make Conrad's chest physically hurt; he never wants to hurt you. He wants to be with you forever, to pick you up when you’re feeling down, and he wants to protect you and his baby girl, Susannah.

You never met Susannah, but from the stories Conrad told you, it feels like you do. You could tell how much Conrad loved his mom, so when you found out you were having a baby girl, it was a no-brainer what her name was going to be. As a way to honor his mom and a thank you for raising such a wonderful guy.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, love,” Conrad smiled, pulling out a big and juicy one. Hoping that this was his ticket to earn back his status as your bub. Conrad dug the jalapeño deep into your snack to make sure it was covered in every sweet treat.

“Yeah?” He asked with a teasing lilt. Conrad licked around the curve of the breast exposed above the hem of your tank top before sucking hard. You subconsciously pushed your chest up into him, jerking as he bit into the fat of your breasts. You whined his name, pulling on his hair.

You’d never been more grateful to go braless than when Conrad travelled further down, teeth grazing your nipple through the thin cotton fabric.

Seeing your pleasure, he carried on, free-hand bunching your top up so he could stare down upon your boobs.

“So fucking pretty,” He mumbled before diving back in, mouth sucking on one pink nipple as his hand moved to torture the other. You were already a mess, and you’d barely started.

You took the initiative to remove your shirt, flinging it across the room. Conrad’s guitar made a discordant echo as the fabric landed on the neck. Neither of you paid it any attention, Conrad practically devouring your breasts as you pawed at his shirt, silently begging him to take it off.

You propped yourself up on your elbows as Conrad pulled away for a moment, struggling almost comedically to get his shirt off in his desperation. Maybe Conrad wasn’t as built as his younger brother, but that couldn’t have concerned you less. You thought he was perfect, and gave him your best bedroom eyes to convey it.

Conrad watched you, staring up at him with lidded eyes under thick lashes. The corners of his lips twitched in an almost smile before he dove back into you, stealing a passionate kiss from your lips as his hands wandered down to the waistband of your white linen trousers, fiddling with the button.

You helped him shimmy the trousers and your panties down your legs, landing in a pile on Conrad’s floor.

Conrad kept his eyes on you as his fingers crept closer to where you needed them most, your breathing shallow as he teased. When his nimble fingers finally made contact with your clit you yelped, hips bucking up to create more friction.

“Calm down, baby. I’m not gonna let you go unsatisfied,” He teased you, floppy hair falling in front of his face as he lowered himself down to be level with your crotch.

Conrad only managed one polite lick before he was devouring you, mouthing at your pussy like it was the last time he’d ever eat. All you could do was sigh and moan and writhe under his attention.

“Oh, Connie, you treat me so well,” You babbled, hands fisting the sheets in an attempt to ground yourself.

If you thought Conrad’s mouth was heavenly, it was nothing compared to when he slid one long digit inside you, stretching you out.

“Need you, Con,” You mumbled, trying to wriggle out of his grip. He was reluctant to let you go, enjoying giving as much as you were enjoying getting.

“Need me how, angel?” He emerged, chin glistening with your juice.

“Wanna ride you.” Conrad’s face broke out into a grin, the pretty kind you loved being the cause of.

“Yeah?” He asked, sounding almost disbelieving. You nodded, producing an affirmative hum.

Conrad sprang into action, climbing up the bed to sit against his headboard, shimmying out of his shorts and boxers. He held out his hand, and you spat in it, watching in fascination as he jerked himself off with a few languid strokes.

You climbed on top of him, legs straddling his own brilliant thighs. There was a moment of quiet as you lined Conrad up with your entrance. You both moaned as you sank down on his length, holding each other like you were the only ones left on earth.

You smashed your lips against his, hands wandering over his body as you began to lift and sink on Conrad’s erection, the friction sending shudders up through your body.

Conrad’s eyes were glued to your breasts, staring as they bounced up and down in time with your movements. Without warning, he attached himself to you again, teeth catching your nipple.

He sucked, hard, his other hand drifting up your body so that both buds were stimulated, breathy sighs escaping without your consent.

“So handsome,” You admired him, eyes barely open as you focused on keeping a steady rhythm. “You’re so good to me, Con. I love you, I love you so much.” You blabbered, pressure building where the two of you joined.

“My girl,” He mumbled in response, face in the crook of your neck so his breath tickled your skin. “Making me feel so good. I love you.”

You traded whispered declarations of love and admiration as Conrad began thrusting up into you, both on the very edge of falling apart.

“Come on, beautiful. Come for me.” Conrad’s words, the earnestness and devotion, sent you over the edge, shaking until you slumped into your boyfriend’s chest.

Your erotic show was too much for Conrad to handle, and he followed soon after you, holding you tight to him as you felt him twitch and spill inside you.

When you were both finished, Conrad manoeuvred you into a lying position, still inside you. You lay intertwined, syncing your breaths until you felt like a singular being.

“Thank you,” You mumbled, hand threading through his hair.

“For what?” Conrad huffed a quiet laugh, “You did all the work.”

“For loving me. I’ve never felt the way I feel with you, Conrad.”

Conrad didn’t reply, just kissing your temple and pulling your head closer to his chest.

You’re reading on a bench by yourself, right in front of the local community centre. It’s peaceful– it’s a cool, November day, and although you know Cousins is adored during the summer, you’ve always had a secret love for autumn, too. The trees’ leaves are bright, crisp red, the water has cooled to an un-swimmable degree of chilliness, and the air feels solemn and holy in a way you can’t quite describe– almost like the season is slowing down, allowing for rest, through winter and then finally opening back up during spring.

You adore it. You think of it as a time that you get to relax and just be yourself, not like during the summer, when there are constant beach parties with the coolest, richest teens around. Where debutante balls and trust funds make a bigger appearance than during any other time of the year. Where tourists make it clear that they have enough funds to come here just for the hell of it– unlike you, who’s lived here her entire life, and can’t afford to leave.

It’s not anyone’s fault. You live in the poorest neighbourhood in Cousins– right at the intersection of Cliff Commons and Main Street– and it’s purely because your family inherited your home. It’s the wealthiest asset in your lives, and your family can just make by here, comfortably enough to make some savings. Selling and uprooting your lives to be somewhere else is something you’ve considered, too– but your mom admits it’s a much bigger pain in the ass to do so. Careers and bills don’t quite line up anywhere else.

So you get treated like a poor person despite living here year-round.

None of that is the Fishers’ fault, though, and it’s Conrad’s birthday, too. And you don’t want to be an asshole– it’s just that Conrad and his brother seem to have it all in this world. 

You sigh and then flip a page. You settle into your jacket, hoping that they leave soon.

Jeremiah is sitting back down in his seat, and you think they’re about to drive away, when they suddenly park right in front of your bench.

You blink. “...?”

“Hey. What are you reading?” Jeremiah asks through the open window, as if he’s genuinely curious.

You focus on his question.

It’s Jane Eyre– one of your favourite books. The plot is terribly relevant to you. Without the romance, you feel like Jane. Poor, plain, not belonging to the society she’s stuck in.

Before you can answer, Conrad elbows him. “Jere, leave her alone– she’s clearly focused.”

He always seems to finish a sentence for you– effectively blocking you out.

“Is focused code for staring at us the whole time you were driving?” Jeremiah shoots back at him, with an easy smile. He looks back at you.

You don’t hate Jeremiah, not at all, really. He’s more like an annoying kid– despite being the same age as you, he never seems to mean any harm towards you. 

Not until right now, where he’s basically calling you out.

Conrad can’t quite make eye-contact with you, so you know he was wondering about this, too. Conrad is the one that you never got along with, never during young play dates during the summer. He’s the one who always acted awkward around you, as if you don’t belong here– and you’ve never forgotten it.

You smile sweetly at Jeremiah, and then glare at Conrad, thinly veiled through your smile. “I was just wondering why you guys have such a sweet ride.”

“Wanna take it for a spin?” Jeremiah starts, before Conrad coughs uncomfortably. 

“No, that’s okay.” You look pointedly at Conrad. “Happy birthday, Fisher.”

You enjoy the look of stunned silence on his face, and walk away.

/

It was rare that you’d see them at any point during the year that wasn’t summer, but Jeremiah and Conrad loved any excuse to come to Cousins– Christmas was often that time, but special birthdays were important, too.

The year Conrad turned ten, there was a massive party down at the square– Susannah and Adam set up a little weekend getaway, just for him, and invited almost everyone to the local bakery for carrot cake and milkshakes. You do remember wishing him a happy birthday, and hugging him excitedly, as nine year olds do– and Susannah gently prying you off, as Conrad couldn’t bare to hug you and ruin his cool guy reputation. Of course.

And then, when Jeremiah and you both turned ten the next year– double digits!– you in May, Jeremiah in late September, you got a new bicycle, and Jeremiah got a brand new PS4. During his birthday party, when all the local kids were invited to their beach house, you remember playing a random fps game that you were terrible at– and you were incredibly jealous that they could have games that were so polished with high definition graphics, while you were still playing your parents’ old Nintendo 64.

That was when you met Belly Conklin.

“Whoa, hey! I don’t know you.” An eager nine-year old with thick, black hair down her back, and funny glasses, is staring you down as you pass the controller to a red-headed kid.

“I’m–”

“Mann.” Conrad finishes for you, all cool and nonchalant because he’s eleven years old now. “She’s from around here, Belly.”

“Well, that’s just my last name…” You feel desperately uncool that this Belly girl seems to know Conrad and Jeremiah even better than you do– and you’re here year round.

Typical of the boys to never remember your first name. When you were all really young, basically seven and under, you made jokes about being Fisher-Mann together– and you’d rush into the sea, hoping to find a fish to prove your skills.

It’s a silly memory that should make you fond of them, but instead, you resent how close they pretend to be to you.

“Belly is a nickname. My full name is Isabel Susannah Conklin.” She proudly announces, and you feel your insides shrivel, knowing that whoever this girl is, she must be really important to the family if she’s named after Susannah. “I usually come here every summer, but my mom let us come to Jere’s birthday this time!”

She clasps your hands, excited, and you do your best to smile, but your ten-year old heart is too young to understand that you’re feeling left out. That life isn’t always fair.

“Is that baby Belly?” Your mom, usually a safe place for you to run over to, comes around, and pokes Belly’s face, and she grins at her, and now you’re really grouchy and despondent. Why does your mom know her? Even worse, why does she like her?

“Mom…” You pull her sleeve, and your mom looks at you with a bit of trepidation. “Who–”

“Belly is a friend of the Fishers, honey.” Your mom explains as if you should know this. “She was there when we would have beach trips together, remember?”

You don’t– not really– but this information reminds you that summer used to be a time for everyone to hang out, bonfires and night swims and movies at the drive in, until the Fishers (and you guess the Conklins) would do their own separate stuff. 

Rich person stuff? Maybe. Or maybe it was just without the Mann family. The last time you remember hanging out with them properly during the summer, with all the other local kids… you must’ve been eight.

You want to throw a tantrum, that you’re so sidelined that some other girl– as if you were even important enough to have that label of the Fisher boys’ girl best friend and then be replaced– has always had their attention and now does so, undivided.

You’re too young to realize that they don’t hate you– a lack of acknowledgment isn’t hate– but old enough to know you can’t beg people to be friends with you.

No, especially not when you’re just regular-degular middle class, as your mom loves to say. She herself has rejected invites to fancy balls and luxe barbecues in villas around here, because that’s just not a place you can fit into, and people are not always inclusive of you guys– and if that fails a relationship, as hard as it might be, your mom has always told you that friends need to be there for you, too. 

The Fishers aren’t really there for you. A hard truth for a ten year old to suddenly reckon with– it’s not that you didn’t know you weren’t best friends, but you thought you were closer than just mere neighbours– and you sigh and get more punch.

“Being ten sucks.” You mutter into your glass, hoping no one hears you.

“Eleven is much worse. Trust me.” Conrad remarks drily from his corner in the kitchen, where he’s sipping on Gatorade, with it’s unneeded electrolytes. 

Just when you were feeling unnoticed, Conrad always seems to spring up at the worst moment, making you feel seen and then unseen all over again as he hovers, unsure of what to make of you, and then looking away again.

You know he doesn’t care now, but it still stings.

/

After that, years of growing up and being confident in your own place in the world just makes you ambivalent about the Fishers. You’ve always been cordial to each other– but you know the way they live their lives is something you’ll never relate to. And so you’ve come to accept that you don’t like them, and you don’t have to pretend to, as much as rich people love to canoodle and act like nothing is ever wrong.

At the very least, you refuse to suck up to them just because they’re well off. Classism and elitism are terms you love to throw around, much to your parent’s chagrin.

“It almost makes me happy, Deena, that they were such dicks still.” You’re gossiping on the phone to your best friend, peppy, supersmart, always willing to give good advice.

You’re lying on the old pull-out couch in your basement. Many games of poker have been played down here with your friends and family, but right now, it’s just a great place to gossip where your mom won’t reprimand you for it.

“Were they? They sounded perfectly neutral to me.” She replies back, smacking her gum, and you hear writing sounds in the background– Deena must be preparing for exams already. “I mean, how were Jeremiah and Conrad Fisher supposed to know that you hate them for being able to afford a new car?”

“One: I don’t hate them.” You state, and Deena bursts out in laughter. “No, really! Two: Conrad Fisher got it as a gift. God, it’s like people like that don’t even know how good they’ve got it, Deena, and I wish they just had some self awareness.”

“You don’t need to tell me that. I’m still saving for my car next year.” Deena sighs wistfully. “That 2012 Honda Fit is going to be mine.”

“Okay, true. Maybe I should just calm down.” You exhale.

Deena moves on to talking about the semi-formal, and you listen, hoping that you never have to run into Conrad again.

/

Of course, them owning a summer house and all, you do end up seeing him. Every summer, the Fishers and Conklins make their drive up to Cousins Beach, and you know they’re here because every time, without fail, you see Conrad, again and again. 

It doesn’t even have to be for a particular reason– he’s just around, like at your local convenience store, down by the beach kicking rocks, or maybe just taking a stroll down the street.

It makes you fume for some reason. The way he looks up, and then looks away– as if you’re not worth a second glance. This is your home, isn’t it? Cousins Beach was more yours than his, considering you would always be here, and probably die here, too.

So you hold your ground. You refuse to look away from him, daring him to avoid you when you say “Hey.” 

He’s always mildly surprised, and it gives you a tiny bit of glee to have knocked Conrad Fisher off guard. “Hey.”

And then you’re on your way again, off back to your own neighbourhood and your own life.

/ 

You don’t actually actively think about Conrad for the most part, other than those brief glimpses during summer, for the other part of your teenage years. Dislike eventually melted away into indifference, because you never really saw the Fishers again. 

Other than when Susannah died, and your mom was so desolate, because Susannah wasn’t really like the other rich people around Cousins, she was always a kind person, and you both made a nice care package to send over to their house. 

Then all you could think about was how he must have struggled. Him and Jeremiah, and maybe that girl, Belly, if she was still friends with them. It was horrible to lose a mom– you don’t know what you’d do without yours, because she was all you had in the world.

You know at some point there were rumors of the Fishers selling the house, which made sense to you– maybe a bitter reminder of the life they once had– but that doesn’t seemed to have happened, as much as you and your mom joked about buying it.

“As if we could afford that view, Mom!” You had laughed as she insisted that being a twenty minute walk away from such a view wasn’t too shabby, too. That your family has done well for itself.

She wasn’t wrong. You were very proud of your mother– she’d climbed up the corporate building blocks and been promoted to a senior manager role at her job, making your situation not nearly as desolate as it once was. Yes, you could finally say that you’re middle class, rather than just lower-middle as you once were.

And then, a few years later, after you finished high school and college, you’ve started working as a paralegal for one of the smaller firms up in Boston– about an hour drive from your house, so you choose to make the commute rather than waste money on rent, for now. 

Life is good.

/

At least, life was good, until you receive a call from Belly Conklin, on the first day of August, 2027.

You’re surprised. You never really talked to the girl, so you’ve got no idea why she’s calling.

You’re staring at the caller ID, currently doing laundry at your house, basket against your hip, until you decide to answer.

“Hello?” You hope you don’t sound too confused. Belly always seemed to be the sweetest out of the kids at the Fisher Beach House– she was the only one who really bothered to say hello first, a lot of the time.

“Hi!” Belly mentions your name. “It is you, right? Do you still go by Mann?”

“Hi, Belly.” Your stomach twists in a way that feels nostalgic– Mann was something that only the Fishers really called you, way back when. “Sure I do. Do you still go by Belly?”

“Never really stopped!” She laughs, and you feel a bit more at ease. “I’m calling because it’s been a while, and I wanted to ask if you and your mom were still coming to our wedding?”

Your brain stops for a moment. What on earth is she talking about?

For some reason, you just assume she’s talking about Conrad and herself. They seem to fit– you think you’ve noticed something through the meagre glances you stole at them glancing at each other through out the years. And why else would Belly invite you to a wedding if not through the relation of the Fishers?

“Mann? Hello?” She’s still waiting for your answer. 

“Right, gimme just one second…” You scratch your head in the meantime, setting down your laundry basket and sitting in front of the machine. “Do you mind if I just–”

“Ask your mom?” Belly responds in turn. “Yeah, of course, go for it. I’m sure it’s a bit of a surprise– Adam just went ahead and invited a ton of people, I think he was using his assistant, who was using Susannah’s contact list– so there’s a lot of people who had no idea about the wedding who, well, they know now! That’s not to say we don’t want you here– it’s just awkward, maybe…?”

You grimace to yourself. That doesn’t sound ideal, it sounds like Conrad and Belly asked his father to deal with the invites because they couldn’t care less who came or didn’t. Sounds like a big mistake, as if you’re Cinderella going to a ball by request of the King and Queen for everyone to come.

You don’t have a fairy godmother to dress you up for such an affair either.

But on the other hand– you’d love a free dinner, and drinks. Whatever crazy rich people shenanigans they get up to will be gossip for you and your mom to yap about for ages. Plus, with years of missing out on the events for the socialites of Cousins, you don’t mind showing up.

Maybe a part of you wants them to see that you’re not doing so bad yourself.

“Belly, it’s all good. I don’t mind coming to your wedding, and I’m sure Mom doesn’t either.” You answer, and you can hear Belly smile and squeal through the phone.

“Okay! Awesome. Sorry, I know how it must feel– I honestly always feel out of place at all these fancy events and things, too– and you were probably like ‘agh, why do they want us to come to this?’ But it means so much that you’re coming! Susannah would’ve wanted you guys there.” Belly exclaims, and you feel a little pang of guilt, now.

Belly grew up comparably to you, and here you are thinking that she’s one of them, one of those ghastly evil Fisher boys. Men, now, you suppose. She was probably a fish out of water her whole life– and now she’s marrying into that kind of life. It warms you to her considerably.

And you just know she never meant any harm by this whole invite situation– in fact, look at her, trying to make it alright, insisting that Susannah would’ve wanted you there– and you know she’s right. Susannah was always nice to you and your mom no matter how many times your mom apologetically couldn’t come to a party she was throwing.

“Thanks, Belly. I really appreciate that.” You say sincerely, and she bids you goodbye.

“Mom?” You call out, and your mom answers, half-asleep on the couch in your living room.

“...Yeah?”

You sigh, and walk out into the living room, and shake her lightly, waking her.

“Ugh, kid.” She yawns. “Yeah?”

“Did we get an invite to a wedding recently?” You cross your arms, waiting for an answer. You need to know when it is– you can’t believed you RSVP’d just like that.

“Oh, yeah. There, it’s on the counter–” Your mom points to the kitchen island counter behind the couch. 

You rifle through some bills and find, sure enough, a cream coloured envelope. Inside is a very fancy invitation with embossments of flowers and seashells, a jellyfish illustration, and serif writing proclaiming:

We cordially invite you to celebrate the wedding of: Ms. Isabel Susannah Conklin & Mr. Jeremiah Adam Fisher

That’s odd.

You could’ve sworn that Belly and Conrad were going to be it, but it’s not like you know them like that. Who knows what could’ve transpired over the last few years?

The date listed is August 6th, 2027. 

You breathe a sigh of relief– That’s on a Friday, and you don’t work Fridays anyways. And your mom has more than enough days off.

With the wedding in the back of your mind, you get back to doing your laundry.

/

Conrad hates himself for choosing to be here.

He thought it would be fine– helping Belly with wedding stuff, being there for Jere, whatever he could do, he would do.

But he’s exhausted.

Ever since Belly and Jeremiah had announced their wedding together– so many people had been against it, but Conrad knew he had to be there for them if no one else was, and it was killing him inside.

He loves– loved her. He doesn’t want to give a name to that feeling, choosing to place it in the past, but he knows it’s going to be impossible to get over until after this whole thing is done.

Not even Cousins was really helping him unwind at all. He always left the beach house every morning– not wanting to intrude on domestic bliss after Belly and Jeremiah decided to stay there. 

The beach was tiring, too. Swimming made him want to drown. Somehow he just feels lost no matter where he looked.

And it was all thanks to Belly. She was always going to be the one that got away, and unfortunately, for Conrad, having grown up with her, there was a piece of Belly everywhere he looked. Her laugh was what he missed the most.

Of course Jeremiah got to hear it every single day, now. They can’t stop canoodling, even now, sitting at the counter, as Conrad checks out what’s in the fridge.

Obviously he can’t trust these two kids to get groceries, so he tells them he’d be out.

They barely notice as Jeremiah starts kissing Belly’s neck, and Conrad resists the urge to gag.

/

The Cousins Supermarket is kind of busy this time around. Not surprisingly, considering it’s a Sunday and all.

Conrad says hello to Enid, the lovely older woman who works the in-store flower boutique– and she tells him they’re having a deal on bouquets, 12.99 for 2, which he says he’ll keep in mind.

His heart sinks again, remembering that he’s not marrying Belly, and Belly already couldn’t buy flowers at that much more expensive boutique– so he suggested Susannah’s hydrangeas, and now he’s wishing again he was the one with Belly, dumb and young and in love, needing to save money because they barely have any to begin with, with the wedding swallowing costs, budgeting so their futures are set.

He sighs. Time will make these feelings pass, he knows.

He knows Belly loves sugar, but it can’t just be pastries and soda in the pantry, so he gets to finding some vegetables, protein, carbs, really all the food groups that would be good to keep the happy couple healthy.

Conrad is staring down different meats when there’s a voice that interrupts his train of thought.

“Hey, sorry.” It’s you, and you’re reaching for the marked down rib-eyes that he’s standing in front of. “Fisher.”

“Mann.” He gives you a self-conscious nod, as if you’re bros, and feels a teeny bit embarrassed about it. “Sorry. Let me move out of the way.”

You’re quick to grab the package, and you open your mouth like you’re about to say something.

Conrad isn’t sure when you’ve grown up, but you have. Your hair is styled in a way that reads grown-woman rather than awkward teen, your handbag is leather rather than a polyester belt-bag, and you’ve got heeled sandals on, that add half an inch to your height. There’s a translucent pinky gloss on your lips, too, and he remembers– you’re twenty-two years old now.

You look confident, but not mean. And then he wonders why he would think you’re mean, except… you always used to glare at him.

He hardly remembers the last time he’s seen you– but he’s sure of it. You used to have a real stink eye for him. 

You shut your mouth, not knowing what to say.

“Here for the wedding?” Conrad fills in the blanks, and then raises his eyebrows at his own stupidity. “Uh, sorry– you–”

“Live here.” You smirk at him, glad Conrad is the same as ever, and he shakes his head.

“Sorry. Really, that’s my bad, I just forgot.” He sees your eyes squint, and continues to perhaps bury himself deeper into the hole he’s started to dig. “I mean, you’re not forgettable, Mann– I’m just surrounded by wedding shit all the time, so it was the first thing out of my mouth. I didn’t mean to make you feel–”

“Left out?” You’re enjoying this a little too much, as Conrad’s mouth is left agape, and he struggles with what to say next. You don’t know when Conrad became such a doormat, considering what an aloof kid he used to be, but it makes you happy– you feel, for once, that Conrad is the one groveling for your attention.

And then you blink at that thought. Are you seriously that insecure? That petty, all these years, that you wanted him to see that you don’t have to be the one groveling just because of your financial background?

No, you’re gonna extend an olive branch. You refuse to let Conrad have a thing above you, that he can be nicer than you now. And if that’s petty, too, well you’re not gonna look that deeply into it.

Fair’s fair.

“Don’t worry, Fisher, I’m fucking with you.” You laugh, looking down, and it actually sets Conrad off, as he blinks, traces his arm, and smiles sheepishly, if not a little confused. 

“You were always really intense.” He mentions, and your head snaps back up, wondering when he could’ve noticed such a thing. 

It’s why you went into law. You argue with an intensity that almost no one wants to be on the other side of– almost to your detriment at times, where you have to learn to lay off. 

This would be a good time to lay off, you think. He doesn’t seem exactly the same as he once was, and he’s staring at you like he needs a lifeline– he’s struggling with something.

You can tell he’d almost welcome an argument for all the wrong reasons. To feel worse about himself in the end. His blue eyes have a hollowness to them now. 

“To answer your question, yes, I am coming to the wedding.” You explain, stepping forward a bit, to be friendly, while Conrad stares at you intently. “I didn’t even know we were invited, honestly. Me and my mom are pretty used to being left out of things.”

“I’m–”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault.” You shake your head, and Conrad sighs in relief.

You frown at how serious he is.

“I feel like I’ve been apologizing for everything the last few years.” Conrad admits to you, and you raise your eyebrows.

“Conrad Fisher? He’s been wrong about things?” You joke, and he smiles a real smile.

“I’ve been dead wrong about a lot.” There’s a solemnness to the way he says that, and you don’t know why that is, but you don’t want to pry.

“Anyways, it’s no secret that me and my mom have a different income to the rest of you guys. It’s no one’s fault.” You shrug, but Conrad won’t shake this look of intense guilt. “It’s easier to avoid going to expensive parties so you can pay bills, you know? But Belly told me we were in Susannah’s contact list, and she would’ve wanted us there.”

“You’re right. She would have.” Conrad grins. “Mom was always open to anyone who would have her.”

“Yeah.” You think about Susannah and think about how she never talked to you any differently, even with the fact that you and your mom hardly ever made it to the beach house for margaritas and what-not. “She was really sweet. I know she probably wished more than anything to be there for Jeremiah and Belly.”

“Yeah, she probably did.” Conrad’s face changes a bit, you notice, almost in displeasure, before he suddenly changes the subject. “I… gotta go buy these groceries, but I’ll catch you around? A lot of the wedding party is arriving today, but I’m sure they don’t need me bugging them.” It floors you to see Conrad, of all the people you’ve ever known, asking you to potentially hang. In fact, he’s quite literally hanging on to see your answer– puppy dog eyes and all.

“I’ll see what I can do. Can’t make any promises, I have a riveting episode of Dawson’s Creek waiting for me at home.” You tentatively remark, wondering who you think you are, making plans with a guy that was never really your friend. 

“Awesome.” Conrad laughs, and he then asks for your number, staring at the floor, and then your face, the entire time you’re typing it into his phone.

He sends a text– “Hey, it’s Conrad Fisher :)” and you feel more than just tolerance. Maybe you’re not made out of ice.

Maybe you had him pegged all wrong.

/

The Dawson’s Creek episode is one you’ve seen a million times growing up. It’s the wedding finale episode, and it’s a little on the nose for what’s happening right now, so you can’t put Conrad out of your mind.

You have a million unanswered questions.

Why does he seem so depressed? What happened to that kid, the one who was too smart and cool for everyone?

Or was it just growing up, where you realize you don’t know everything, and the real weight of the world is on you?

No. It’s something deeper, you can tell. That boy is troubled by something, and even though you don’t owe him anything, you care enough to alleviate his spirits, at least a little.

It replays in your mind that Conrad seemed especially upset over mention of Jeremiah and Belly. 

You pause the episode, and instead look at his text message. 

A call might be too desperate, you think.

You: Still up for hanging?

Conrad: Yeah, sure.

Conrad: Actually, could you do me a favour?

You: Are we on favour levels of friendship now?

Conrad: If it’s not a big deal sure. Ask me for anything later I just need to

He hit send on that without saying the rest of what it was.

Conrad: I need to get out of here. Can you pick me up or is that too crazy?

Conrad: I’m really sorry about this

Conrad: I just 

You furrow your brows. Conrad sure knows how to make the night eventful, you guess. It hasn’t even been 24 hours and now you’re his buddy he calls to pick you up?

You: What about jeremiah?

Conrad: i’m at his bach party and it’s going really poorly. I gotta leave

You: Okay fine. but you owe me!!

Conrad reacts with a thumbs up to that last message, and sends you the address.

It’s a bar. In Downtown Cousins. Fuck, you really hope he isn’t drunk.

The last thing you want to do is be near him when he’s in such a vulnerable state, especially because you hardly know the guy at this point and he’s already been so up and down today. Who knows how clingy he’ll be right now? Until he suddenly turns avoidant, as he always used to be.

But maybe he’s really got no one else to reach out to.

You sigh, knowing you’re going to pick him up, but you’re going to put a heavy boundary in place later on.

/

Conrad wants to yell at Jeremiah so, so badly. But the guy is so drunk, he can’t function, and nothing Conrad could say right now would stick in his mind.

He wants to fucking throttle him.

Bad enough that he has Belly, but to cheat on her? To treat her like she’s nothing more than a disposable tissue for a wank, easily replaceable by the next one?

It makes him genuinely shocked. He’s in such disbelief, he feels like he never knew Jere or Belly.

How could she be so okay with this? To go ahead, and marry him anyways? Conrad doesn’t think she knows. There’s no way the Isabel Conklin he knew would’ve done this.

He’s swaying back and forth, in the front of the bar. He hardly knows you, he knows that– he just doesn’t know who to trust within this circle of apparent liars.

Conrad wants out.

And when he sees a chocolate brown Suzuki Swift pull up to the curb, with you waving out the driver’s window, he feels an enormous sense of relief.

You’re very apprehensive. He’s standing on the sidewalk, in a polo and khakis, and he doesn’t seem drunk– just very pale and sweaty, and his eyes are wide and shell shocked. You have even more questions.

Conrad opens the door to the passenger seat. And sits down, shutting the door, putting on his seatbelt, all wordlessly, but with the frantic nature of someone who wants to leave.

You decide not to pressure him. Just sitting there, until he asks you to drive.

“Where to?” You think about making a silly remark about being his uber driver. 

“Just around. Please.” Conrad coughs, and you shrug, thinking that you hardly take joyrides anyways.

When you’ve driven at least a mile, Conrad finally speaks up. He’d been staring out the window for ages– and every once in a while, he’d turn to you, staring at you, which you could feel but you chose to focus on the road, obviously– and you wanted him to say something the entire time.

You don’t do great with pregnant silences like that. The paralegal side of you was waiting to interrogate him on what was up, but your weird ambiguous acquaintanceship with him made it impossible to do so.

You still have a modicum of respect for him.

“Sorry, by the way.” Conrad starts, and now, all the emotions he was keeping at bay suddenly come through by way of his sudden verbosity. “I know you probably have better things to do and you don't know me like that. I just, I didn’t really know who else I could ask to just help out. I know that sounds fucked, but listen– I just needed someone new, someone removed from the whole thing, even though it’s kind of my fault. I just can’t be alone in good conscience right now.”

You’re silent for a moment as Conrad searches your face for a response. It’s not that you’re trying to scare him by lack of an answer– although unintentionally, he does become fearful that you’re not going to understand, and he’s really just taking a leap here– it’s just that you’re truly at a loss at how to comfort him when you never thought of Conrad being capable of saying that much all in one go.

He’s someone who you still think of as too cool. Not vulnerable, not like this.

Conrad really does need a friend, you realize.

“Can’t be alone in good conscience? Do I need call a suicide helpline, Fisher?” You dryly comment, secretly hoping your shitty banter will lighten his spirits a little.

He actually grins, and then laughs really hard. It almost sounds like he’s crying– it’s maybe a bit too far for how unfunny your joke was– but you understand, he needs to let go of some weight on his chest.

“Nothing that serious, Mann.” Conrad leans back in the seat, breathing really hard. “I just needed a friend. If you don’t mind me being so forward.”

For some inane, childish reason, you feel your face turn warm, but you know the guy didn’t mean anything actually forward.

“No, we’re on favours-level now.” You smile at him, and he exhales, smiling very lightly, although his eyes are still watery.

“Conrad.” You lightly tread the conversation here, and he blinks, because you have never really called him Conrad before. “Do you want to talk about it with me? Or do you want me to drop me off at your house–” Before you can even finish your sentence, Conrad shakes his head.

“I can’t go back.” He sounds so sullen. “Everywhere I go, I just get reminded of how fucked up it all is.”

You nod at that, still lost.

/

You take him to your favourite, greasy pizza place that’s a bit further out of Cousins, more up north and away from the general traffic of rich summer house owners, and tourists.

As in, there’s no way any of the wedding party can find you guys here.

Conrad has been bouncing on the balls of his feet since you both entered the restaurant. It’s nothing fancy, nothing like what he’d be used to. Off-white, yellowing linoleum counters. Fluorescent, dated menu screens that are also yellowing. $1.99 slices of pizza, large and thin and oily, but cheesy and hot and very tasty. You’d vouch for them on your life.

“What do you usually get?” Conrad asks quietly, leaning to the side to hear you better, and you shake your head.

“So typical of a rich kid.” You snort, and Conrad’s face falls, before his lips form a thin, firm smile.

“Why? Because I want an informed experience?” He retorts, and you blink before laughing.

“No, it’s just funny to tease you. Sorry.” You bite your lip. “I don’t even really know what I meant– maybe that you wouldn’t know a place like this, obviously.”

“I’ve been to shitty hole-in-the-wall restaurants.” Conrad insists with an argumentative tone, but you laugh dismissively.

“Really? Where, NYC?” You raise your eyebrows at him expectantly. “I bet you couldn’t even guess where my cheap clothes are from.” 

You motion down to your old sweatshorts and hoodie combo, and Conrad gives you a look-over, and suddenly you remember that he’s a guy and he’s kind of cute when he leans in like that, thinking.

Except, he’s hurting, and you’re clearly just thirsting since you haven’t had any romantic tension in a while. Regular banter is getting to you.

Conrad holds his jaw as he thinks. “Maybe the Gap?”

“Uh, no.” You look down to examine your sloppy outfit. “The hoodie is from Walmart. The shorts… actually, wait, might be from the Gap? They’re my mom’s. Nice, Conrad, I never even noticed that. You’ve got an eye for detail.”

It’s a silly compliment, but Conrad’s feeling so low, he takes it.

“Thanks.” He smiles, genuinely, his eyes lighting up a little, and you feel glad.

“Anyways. Best thing to order would probably be a cheese. Best way to see how they do the basics.” You murmur to him.

“Smart.” Conrad replies.

/

Sitting at a booth, two slices into the giant pizza you’ve ordered, which Conrad insisted on paying for since you already picked him up and offered to be a willing ear to listen to his problems– favour for a favour was his argument– he finally tells you.

“I dated Belly.” He says, all non-committal, but you can see his neck tighten and clench at her name. “Years and years ago. You would think I’m over it, but…”

“Well, you guys kinda grew up together. Right?” You comment, biting a crust covered in this place’s buttermilk-based hot sauce. “She’s your white whale.”

“Right. I’m Captain Ahab.” Conrad adds, gesturing with his hands. “I just always felt like it was supposed to be us. We were always on the same wave length– always understood each other instantly. I guess, as cliche as it sounds, we never got the fucking timing right.”

The sudden expletive makes you bite your tongue. “Elaborate a little.”

“Just that, after my mom died–” Conrad does the thing you’ve seen in common with other grieving people, he kind of sinks into himself for a second. “I struggled a lot to tell her how I was feeling. What was up with me. And I think Belly blamed it on herself, that I wasn’t caring, or really there for her, even though I told her I couldn’t do that in that moment, that it was my fault, as hard as I wanted to try for us– so she ended things on prom night. Later on, she told me she thought I never loved her like that.”

“Sounds like you were a pretty shit communicator, Conrad.” You comment, just to see his reaction, but he agrees.

“Yeah. I should’ve been honest from the beginning.” Conrad shakes his head, and takes a bite of his own slice of pizza. “I should’ve shown her that I did care, I did love her more than she thought.”

“No.” You interject a bit too loudly, and the night shift employee grimaces at you. “Sorry. No, Conrad. I don’t see anything so wrong with what you’ve said you did.”

“And what if I’m an unreliable narrator?” Conrad side-eyes you, but you side-eye him back.

“No unreliable narrator makes themselves sound so self-deprecatingly pathetic. No offense.” You respond, and he smiles at that. “Listen. It sounds like you’re taking way too much of the blame in this whole situation. Your mother passed away. You were struggling, it’s not your fault that you reacted the way you did. Forgive yourself for not being perfect at every moment.”

“But I…” Conrad sighs. “Even if that was true, I should’ve spoken up. I should’ve told her I did love her so she wouldn’t be marrying that asshole.”

“Life’s easier in hindsight, I know.” You say, not unkindly. “Listen to me. You might’ve done some things wrong, but that doesn’t mean you were the only person at fault. Why wasn’t she there for you? Why was she so quick to assume that your feelings were more shallow than they were?”

“Belly shouldn’t have had to deal with my silent and brooding shit.” Conrad jumps to her defense, but even he knows with his years of therapy now, that you have to find people to rely on. “I should have told her what was up so she could’ve been there for me, for real.”

“Very true. I do think she would’ve been there if you’d let her, I won’t lie.” You admit, finally, and Conrad is glad to hear it. “But that still doesn’t mean Belly doesn’t have her own faults. You say you love her, and maybe you do, too much, that you can’t see how insecure she sounds. Belly’s assumption of your feelings being shallow means she clearly didn’t have much faith in your relationship, either– maybe she thought she wasn’t worth it.”

“Because I made her feel that way.” Conrad argues, stubborn to a fault.

“Easy cop-out. You can give someone like that all the love confessions in the world, and they’ll still find something wrong with it– because they think they’re unlovable.” You lean in. “Hear me out, because I’m just guessing based on what you’ve told me: did Belly ever put you on a pedestal, make you feel like you were the perfect, older, wiser one?”

Conrad nods, slowly, his eyes turning inquisitive.

“And you couldn’t meet those standards, obviously, because nobody’s perfect. But even worse– Belly puts herself below you, by her own insecurity. She refuses to speak on the fact that she doesn’t see herself as worth it for you, instead choosing to let you grovel and apologize for things. And that’s because she doesn’t see the point anymore– she’s stubborn, and a bad communicator, too.” You finish off. “Or so I think. I could be wrong.”

Conrad groans. “Are you a fucking lawyer, or something?”

“Nah, just a lousy paralegal.” You tap the table, thinking. “I don’t know, Conrad, don’t listen to me. I’m entirely an outsider looking in.”

“Fuck, you’re not wrong.” Conrad mulls over what you’ve said, and then nods, his expression turning more frantic. “She never– I don’t think I ever thought she should’ve apologized to me. She never made it less than crystal clear that she totally adored me, and the very second I was imperfect, I failed… she fucking bailed on me.”

“Uh–”

“She loved me to an unfair standard.” Conrad blinks away angry tears. “Fuck, fuck, that’s why she’s so okay with Jeremiah, because he half-asses everything so Belly would never expect much from him.”

“Oh.” You frown at that. “I don’t really remember much about Jeremiah, to be honest.”

“Well, good, you won’t have any memories ruined, because he’s a fucking cheater and I’m the only person who gives a shit, apparently.” Conrad huffs, and then shakes his head. “Sorry. Sorry. That’s why I needed to get out of the bar– I heard him and his friends gloating over that shit. Fucking disgusting.”

“You apologize too much, Conrad.” You gently hold his forearm from across the table, and he looks up at you, blinking, half-enraged still, breathing heavily. “I don’t think very highly of Jeremiah at this moment, considering he went after his brother’s ex, or of Belly for marrying him, despite it all. I’m with you. Sure, it might just be because I’ve only heard your side, but… I’m choosing to believe you, okay?”

He’s blinking back tears. Conrad feels like he’s spent years just wanting someone from the group to listen to him– to just be on his side for once, instead of villainizing him for everything, expecting him to fix everything wrong. And it’s the first time, ever, with you by his side, that he’s felt like it wasn’t all his fault.

Like he had been wronged, too, and now been heard properly for the first time. 

Conrad's overwhelmed.

He collapses very quietly into small, short sobs, sniffling in a way that you can barely hear him. Repressed to a fault, Conrad is.

“Hey. Hey. It’s gonna be okay.” You move to his side of the booth, and against your better judgment, hug him from the side, your arms around his shoulders, which Conrad gratefully takes, his face buried in your shoulder. He doesn’t exactly hug you back– he just lets you hold him.

“M’sorry.” He says, hurriedly, wiping his tears, trying to fix things, because you’re new to him and he doesn’t want to push you away with his bullshit. 

But you look at him and you don’t look judging, just concerned for him, and as you stand up, holding his hand, dragging him and the pizza box back to your car, he’s so beholden to your empathy that he can’t help but follow you.

It’s weirdly intimate, you won’t lie. This is someone you haven’t talked to in years, and suddenly, you’re hugging him, comforting him. Things like this don’t normally happen in 24 hours. You know you went past every boundary that you swore you would set.

But you don’t think Conrad Fisher is going to hurt you, based on what he’s told you today. 

Conrad, for the life of him, is still trying not to break down in the passenger seat, and it’s not until you squeeze his shoulder comfortingly, that he starts talking again in a wavery voice.

“I never– I always thought I had to be the responsible one. Big brother, you know?” He quivers a little at the end of the sentence and you nod encouragingly. “I never felt like I was allowed to have my own problems, but you really helped me. Thank you, genuinely– I don’t think I would’ve ever made a breakthrough without you.”

“Not even with therapy?” You ask, but you feel guilty that you were enjoying Conrad's overly apologetic nature earlier in the day. 

Conrad grimaces.

“Don’t know. Most of the time the therapist would suggest ways for me to fix myself.” Conrad admits, and you make a face at that. “I really, really thought I loved her, you know? I was going to do anything for her.”

“Yeah.” You say, thinking that you’ve never been that in love, and Conrad frowns again. 

“I think I just loved the idea of her.” Conrad slumps back in the seat, pushing his hair back. “I don’t think I ever really knew her.”

/

You dropped him off home around 4 AM. You hoped that was late enough for him not to get ambushed by anyone at the beach house, but Conrad said not to worry since he felt he could handle it.

You hoped he was right about that.

Because of how close you came together, both you and Conrad found it apropos to take some time apart. So you're not overbearing on each other, but also because both of you are unsure if the other person is even really comfortable with the current agreement of whatever it is you got going on. 

Two idiots, really. Both overly conscious of potentially hurting someone else. 

Honestly, you couldn't get your interactions with him off your mind. You hope he is alright, but a part of you also just wants to know what he's up to.

To you, it's the most interesting thing that's happened all year.

Eventually, after it's been about 2 days and you've had time to think, you text him in the middle of the night.

You: hey, you good?

The message is read almost instantly, but he doesn't reply for at least fifteen minutes.

Oh, god, why does this make you feel sick? You're sure it's just childhood trauma– wanting to impress the cool kids.

Conrad swallows, and then commits to texting you, as he lies in his bed. He doesn't want to bug you, even as you offered yourself up, but you're extremely comforting to talk to and a very nice distraction from all the mess. Belly and Jere and the wedding party have regularly been celebrating in the house– and the more he's there, the more he knows he hasn't loved her for years, which feels bittersweet to know now.

Plus the important thing he took away from talking to you is that he has to take up space. So he will.

Conrad: Hey. I’m actually doing great, really all thanks to our talk. I have no idea if you were even comfortable with it. I hope it helps you to know how helpful it was for me.

It’s such a kind message that you were never expecting him to say. He is a sweet guy– you feel like maybe under the veneer of aloofness, Conrad is just really introverted.

Conrad: Sorry that I took so long to message you, anyways. I didn't want to be too annoying, just wanted to say a final thanks

You: you are very welcome. Glad I could help and that you’re doing better.

You: FINAL thanks??? Conrad you better not kill yourself please. I'm invested now

Conrad: what, really? I thought you were just in it for the pizza

You: hahaha. No really I do care. Sorry if I came across kind of weird earlier that day

You: realistically I just want what's best for anyone

Conrad: aw so there's nothing special about me?

There's a pause on your end, no immediate response, and Conrad– who hasn't felt anything a while, other than a lingering obsession for Belly for years– wonders if he's flirting a little.

Wonders if he likes it.

You: I think we both know you're very special

You: for one thing, you have access to a trust fund

Conrad smiles to himself sheepishly. 

Conrad: not anymore

You: anymore??

Conrad: I'll explain it later. Tomorrow if you want

You: I'm not busy anyways. Took the week off to use up vacation days. Was gonna go wedding gift + outfit shopping

Conrad: great. I can repay the favour

You: ???

You: Conrad, you already did that. You bought the pizza, remember?

Conrad: surely you can't think your advice is only worth a 5.99 XL pizza

Now you, in your own bed, smile sheepishly, before you think about how Conrad is in an emotionally vulnerable state and you're kind of a bad person to take advantage of that. You're not asking him out or anything, it's just that it feels… delicate. 

But feelings are going to make themselves felt, and you can't control them with perfect robotic logic. You think you might have a slight inkling of a crush. 

One that you'll shut down, because for one thing– he's probably not over Belly, and for the other thing– how could you be his type?

You: and what if I said yes I do think that?

Conrad: then I'd say you're really undervaluing your services and maybe we need to get you paid a higher wage 

You:omg 

Conrad: kidding. But you can't stop me from repaying what I think you deserve, okay?

Conrad: call it friendship idk. 

You: help I'm being terrorized by a rich man lording his wealth over me and he's calling it friendship

Conrad: please. My father was Rich Man. You can call me Conrad

You burst out laughing at that, not realizing how funny Conrad could be.

/

Conrad picks you up the next day in his nice, new silver Range Rover. 

Actually, he knocks on your door at 8:30 AM on the dot. And you, you're not even dressed– still wearing a giant t-shirt that reads “life's a BEACH” and itty bitty short shorts. Your hair is disheveled and all over the place.

“Cute.” Conrad comments, in the way that you remembered him to be as a kid. Observant, but not exactly mean– just dry. “I like the shirt.”

“Because it's true, right?” You yawn, letting him in. “Sorry. I didn't expect you here so early, Fisher.”

He blinks. “Are we back on a last name basis?”

“Did you ever stop calling me Mann?” You retort, and he grins at that.

“I guess not.”

“You can take a seat– unless my humble beginnings offend you in some way, Fisher.” You point to the couch, and Conrad sits down, not even looking put-off, which you have to give him credit for.

“Who's at the door? Is it my package?” Your mom calls, and she comes downstairs to see, well, Conrad. “Oh!”

“Forgive me for the intrusion, Mrs. Mann.” Conrad immediately stands up and apologizes, and your mom looks to you with a glance that reads do-you-know-this-man.

“Mom, it’s Conrad. Conrad Fisher?” You motion at him, and Conrad, being the kind of guy to be silly but also entirely serious about it, spins around on the spot, so your mom gets a good look at him.

You stifle a laugh, and Conrad looks at you conspiratorially, yet seriously, as if he’s daring you to laugh– you and him are starting to share a sense of humor.

“Oh. You’ve really grown up, Conrad. I’m sorry– I didn’t recognize you.” Your mom finally says, after taking a long gander at him, and then back at you, with more questions apparent on her face. 

“That’s totally my bad.” Conrad takes the blame, even though you told him to stop doing that so much. “I should have visited more often.”

“No, no. That’s okay. Maybe she could’ve reached out more.” Your mom points a finger at you, and you shrug with a slightly teenage attitude. “So, not to be an overbearing parent, but why are you here? Just curious, I swear.”

You know that tone of voice. Your mom is about to make a massive Mom-sin and say something embarrassing.

“Mom–” You try to interject, but it’s too late.

“I mean, she used to really hate you when you guys were kids.” Your mom elaborates, and you exhale, face in your hands, as if the most private secret of your whole life has been revealed– it’s not that deep, and yet you know from the way Conrad is looking at you, he’s never going to let this go.

“I know.” He grins at your mom. “I’m trying to change that.”

You think he’s just saving face.

“Mom, Conrad’s just helping me go shopping for the wedding stuff today, alright? Like the gift and the dress and things?” You try to move her along with your answer, but she stops in her tracks towards the kitchen.

“Really? But he’s the groom’s brother, isn’t he? Why would he be helping some girl that used to hate him, when there’s probably a ton of wedding planning to do?” She prattles on, not noticing how you are losing your patience a little.

Conrad notices, though. He notices everything– guilty of being the older brother, he guesses.  

“To be honest, Mrs. Mann,” Conrad starts, and you really hope that he’s not going to start explaining everything about Belly being his ex and awkward tension with her and his brother is preventing him from helping out.

Your mom’s a gossip, and hearing that will probably permanently seal her to your couch, listening to this story for good.

“The wedding’s pretty much covered. Belly and Jere don’t need any help– they’re all just out there partying.” Conrad asserts, which isn’t exactly wrong– it’s more like even if he offered help, they wouldn’t take it at this point.

You’re so glad he can read your signals, somehow.

“Okay. How kind of you, Conrad.” Your mom smiles at him, and gently touches his shoulder. He smiles back, and your mom looks at you, and you know she’s thinking something romantic is happening, because why else would he care enough to come and help you with these things?

As if– this is just a strange friendship. You’re sure as soon as all of these favours are over and done with, you and Conrad will both have gotten a nice experience out of this summer– nothing more.

/

“So, Mann. You used to hate me.” Conrad notes, when you’re both in his car, and you’ve gotten all  ready and comfortable, wearing capri jeans and a flowy top.

“Ugh, Fisher, don’t start with that.” You request. “Please? My mom doesn’t know what she’s talking about, I never hated you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I hated Jeremiah.” You try, but all it takes is one sputter on Conrad’s part to make you start laughing. “Okay, no. But I swear I never–”

“No, it’s fine, Mann.” Conrad counters you, as he begins to park in a spot, near the downtown shops of Cousins. “I know you did.”

“What?” You fix a quizzical glance on him. “Even if that was true, what do you mean, you know?”

“I saw the way you used to look at me.” Conrad admits, and you want to refute that– but he’s already exiting the car, shutting the door, and you’re walking after him.

“But– Conrad–” You want to apologize, now, because you’re worried that he’s offended. That he might think you were trying to pull one over him, and that’s why you were so kind to him– so you could laugh in his face now.

You have no intent of doing that, but you don’t want him to have the wrong impression of you, anyways.

“Have you ever noticed that you only use my first name when you’re being nice to me?” He inquires, with a little smirk, and you stop right next to him.

He’s staring down at you. The sun shining through his brown hair, his eyes looking more like the blue of the sky behind him. 

“Yeah, because I care about you, Conrad.” You stress, before you can even stop yourself from saying it. 

But it’s true, isn’t it? Even if you grow apart after this week of convenient friendship– and you will, surely, as adult friendships typically go– you do care about him.

It feels like a loss to admit it. Like you’re already mourning him.

And so you look up at him tentatively, to see if admitting this has any effect on the fact that he knows you hated him, once upon a time.

Conrad has never look more self-assured. Kind, even, as his eyes glance over yours. 

“Relax, Mann.” He grins, finally. “I know you used to hate me. Obviously, you don’t now.”

You do relax, visibly, and Conrad thinks you look much more agreeable– you’re very pretty even when you’re angry, though.

And he’s been on the receiving end of your angry face for years.

“What I want to know,” He says your name, and continues on. “Is why you did. Why you hated me, past tense.”

“Wow, Conrad.” You fold your arms together, and start walking to the nearest dress shop. “We’re certainly having a lot of heart-to-hearts for people who are barely friends.”

“Maybe this is what will make us good friends, then.” Conrad says. “Being honest– the start to any good friendship, right?”

“Besides,” He continues again, as you’re entering the store. “Therapy taught me to stop repressing shit. So I wanna make sure every relationship I have starts on the right foot.”

“Very true.” You take a look over at all the dresses, ignoring the way your face is flushing at Conrad’s use of “relationship.”

“I just hope you’re not trauma bonding with me,” You kid, and your eye is immediately caught by a taupe-silver dress that’s got little gemstones along the bodice.

“No. I’m not.” Conrad says far too seriously, that makes your stomach flip-flop so you excuse yourself to go try on this dress in the fitting room– and another random one you grab on the way there.

/

After zipping yourself in the random dress– a butter yellow monstrosity that was clearly on trend a couple years ago– you poke your head out.

“Still want to know why I hated you, Fisher?” You remark, and he gestures for you to continue from his seat on the couch.

“Definitely.” He leans forward to hear you. And maybe to check out how you look in the dress.

Not in that way, no way. Just to tell you if it looks right for the wedding. If it’s formal enough.

“Okay.” You step out, and before Conrad can say a thing about the dress, you launch into the backstory. “Don’t judge me, okay. In my defense, I was a bratty kid, who didn’t know any better.”

“I might’ve been just as bratty.”

“...” You turn towards the mirror, and then back to him. “I used to really dislike you, because you seemed like this perfect rich kid, who got everything handed to him, and you had the nerve to also be kind of cool and hard to talk to– looking back you might have just been shy, honestly– and I thought we were friends, so it really hurt my feelings, as a kid, that you were rejecting me, because I guess in my fucked up self esteem, as a kid, I thought it was because I was poor. I kinda assumed you hated poorer people, which was wrong.”

“Jesus Christ.” Conrad raises his eyebrows, and you raise a finger.

“Again, I cannot emphasize this enough: As a literal child.” You stress. “I don’t believe that anymore, Conrad.”

“Is that why you make so many comments about me being rich and having a trust fund?” Conrad throws back at you, and you’re actually at a loss for words.

“Um, you kind of out-manoeuvred me on that one.” You admit, and sit down. “Listen– I don’t think you’re some rich asshole now. Those are just jokes.”

“I know, I just thought it was funny to point out.” Conrad laughs to himself. “You’re not wrong, though. I’ve thought the same– we are a bunch of shitty trust fund kids. Although, we don’t have trust funds anymore. It all went to the summer house.”

“Oh.” You don’t know if you should apologize.

“Don’t apologize, please.” Conrad interjects. “I don’t think we will ever be broke or homeless or hungry, so I don’t care not to have the trust fund. And I know that’s a privileged thing to think, too– I just am very aware of my good fortune in life. I didn’t have to pay for college, Mann, I didn’t even have to worry about having good grades because I went to good schools that offer good education as a kid. Life’s incredibly unfair when you’re rich.”

“You really… know what you’re talking about.” You conclude, knowing you can’t add anything, because he’s right, and Conrad nods.

“That’s why I want to be a doctor. Help people legitimately. Not to be a corporate overlord like my dad.” Conrad finishes, and you are genuinely surprised.

You knew Conrad was smart– he was one of those annoying, smart-yet-cool people as a kid, who could have it all– you just didn’t know he was in pre-med.

“I’m seriously impressed and at a loss for words.” You say, and he shakes his head.

“Stop it, it’s nothing that deep.” He shrugs. “I just had this need to prove myself. As one of the good ones, I guess.”

“No such thing as a good oligarch.” You joke, and Conrad chuckles.

“I know.” He leans back in his sofa seat. “I wish you would’ve told me when we were kids.”

“What, that you were kinda stand-offish?”

“No, just that you wanted to still be friends.” Conrad says, and you realize that you did say that.

You did admit to wanting their friendship as a kid, but still would imply that you had it.

“I… I’m not sure if I would’ve articulated it correctly, at that age.” You shrug, and Conrad is staring at you, absentmindedly. “You might’ve thought I was crazy, assuming that we were close enough to even argue being friends.”

“Excuse me?” Conrad frowns. “We were friends. Sure, maybe friendships fall apart, maybe it’s been years of silence since, but I never forgot being friends with you back then.”

You don’t believe him, and he can tell.

“Remember the Fisher-Mann joke we used to make?” Conrad says in a slightly pleading tone, and you do remember. 

“If we fused, we’d be the best fisherman Cousins would ever see.” You remember it now. You would clamber onto Conrad’s shoulders and he’d run into the sea, as if you guys could catch a fish like that. 

It’s a fond childhood memory, one that you didn’t realize he would remember.

“I didn’t think it meant anything to you, but I’m glad it did.” You smile at him, and he smiles back. “I’m glad we became friends again.”

“Me too.” Conrad stands up, suddenly, and comes forward, which makes your smile drop. “It means I can tell you in confidence that that dress is… not the best.”

You pause, shut your eyes at the audacity, but also secretly commend him for phrasing it in a way that’s so neutral it’s not even hurtful. “Thanks, Fisher.”

“There’s the last name, again. No, don’t worry, I like it, it indicates that you’re not playing nice anymore.” Conrad pushes you back into the fitting room while you protest a little. “Try on the other dress, Mann.”

“The first one?”

“Yeah.”

/

You don’t know why you shied away from it– maybe because it’s a lot more fancy than anything you’re used to wearing.

“This better not be a My Fair Lady situation, Fisher…” You slowly pull back the curtain and walk out.

It’s a silvery, dark gray-taupe silk gown, with spaghetti straps, and a open back with a tie up situation, a long ribbon zig-zagging across your bare back. The bodice is a ruched material fashioned in a sort of sweetheart-neckline, and along the border there are little stones that reflect white in the light.

You’re waiting for him to say something. He’s just staring at you, thinking, and you need to know what he wants to say.

“It doesn’t fit the best, I think…” You turn over in the mirror, seeing how loose it seems around your waist and chest. 

You feel a bit out of your element. The nicest dress you own is from Banana Republic.

Conrad comes up behind you.

“Turn around?” He utters, and you stiffen at how close he is. You can feel his breath on the back of your head. “Just trust me.”

You gently nod.

Conrad re-ties the corset so the bodice and waist sit higher and fit you a lot better. His fingers kind of trace your backside for a moment, and you turn, an unspoken whisper of Conrad flitting in your throat.

It dies when he leans in. 

“Mann?” He kinda murmurs, and there’s a beat of tension that you didn’t know things were leading towards. “You look great. Really pretty, in fact.”

/

That sentence replays in your head all night, after you’ve gone home, when you’re bundled up in your blankets but you’re unable to sleep.

You’re sweaty, your heart’s racing.

But you can’t help but have a rather girlish excitement over the whole thing– he called you pretty, and he meant it. You know he wouldn’t lie– he said it to help your confidence, too.

So you wouldn’t feel out of place at the wedding.

Afterwards, you had moved away, unsure of what to say, and Conrad blinked, and then turned red, as if he’d been too caught up in the moment. 

But he never apologized for it, either, never took back the moment– just let it be.

And then as you went to buy a gift for Jeremiah and Belly– matching cufflinks and earrings– you accidentally bumped into Conrad in the department store, and he held his hand against your waist to steady you, and then moved back again, but not as far as he could have.

You know it’s all new, and unsteady, and there’s no need to question what could just be considered flirting, at this point.

But you’re wary that he could just be clinging onto the next thing, after Belly. You don’t want to be a rebound– you’re still a person with your own feelings.

You hope Conrad sees that, too.

/

It might be crazy for Conrad to even think this, so early on, but to not admit his feelings would be akin to lying.

He’s looking forward to seeing you at the wedding.

That… shouldn’t be his first thought at his brother’s wedding, but he’s stopped caring about that. The only highlight of this ceremony has been getting to know you.

He hasn’t even bothered to pay attention to whatever dance they’ve been practicing this morning. Sure, his moves are floppy, but Jeremiah is just happy that his big brother is actually participating.

Conrad might still be a little angry– that Jere could do that, cheat on someone– but he’s not so cruel so to not be there for Jeremiah. Actually, he finds that he and Belly never had a relationship worth sacrificing Jeremiah for.

By the time Conrad is up by the altar, next to Jeremiah, he doesn’t feel that ache that he felt a week ago. That Belly should’ve been his– that he was entitled to her presence, that she loved him back, that she was this impossible fantasy of a perfect girl, and that he should’ve married her.

No, he doesn’t feel anything but a weird aftertaste to the whole thing, something that feels like what if there was still a chance, even though he knows that’s not worth thinking about. He can see that visually, at least, they’re happy together– whether or not that’s true is up to Jere and Belly.

And when she walks down the aisle, Conrad looks down that way for the first time, not just to see her, but the entire crowd, as well.

Of course his dad invited everyone, through fucking Kayleigh, too.

But at least that means you are there. Next to your mom, wearing the dress Conrad decided was better for you– not that he’s trying to claim ownership.

And how gorgeous you look, Conrad thinks, with your hair done more elegantly, and your face made up to really draw attention to your lovely features.

When your glance finally catches his– and there’s a slight realization there, that it’s him and it’s you, together, looking at each other– Conrad realizes he’s got it for you, badly.

/

At the reception, you’re sitting at your assigned seat in the country club, laughing at a kid dancing along really poorly to whatever shitty EDM music Jeremiah must’ve picked.

There’s a tap on your shoulder.

It’s Conrad, wearing a tuxedo suit, looking especially bold now that he’s left the groom’s table first, to come and talk to you. He seems to genuinely light up when you make eye contact with him.

“Aw, Fisher.” You stand up from your seat, and do something that bolsters your burgeoning relationship further– you hug him, and he hugs you back. “Tell the happy couple I said congrats, will you?”

“Sure.” He whispers in your ear, not letting go of the hug until you do. Still, his hand traces your arm lightly.

You don’t mind that. Not even with your mom noticing and tutting in the background.

And she’s not the only one, either. Lots of other people in relation to the Fishers, whether that be through family or business, are staring at you now.

You know what they’re thinking. Who’s the mystery woman who’s managed to capture a satisfactory match with a wealthy male?

“It’s all very Jane Austen, isn’t it, Conrad?” You whisper, hoping he gets it.

“I know. They’re not even hiding the fact that they’re eyeing you up,” Conrad whispers back, his mouth very nearly grazing your ear, which causes your face to flush. “I hate it. Sorry, but I really do. I don’t care what kind of money or status you have.”

“Oh, Conrad Fisher, my saviour.” You snort, and he lightly shoves your arm, but he’s fighting back laughter.

/

Belly makes a very beautiful bride. You can admit that.

But you wonder if Conrad notices, that with every moment, she glances at him, too.

You’re not exactly jealous– you don’t have enough of a stake in the situation to be jealous– but you’re kind of anxious. You really do like him– you just wonder if there’s anything still lingering inside him for Belly.

You don’t want to be hurt.

She might be married now, but there’s something strangely possessive about the way she looks at him. And Conrad, good natured as ever, doesn’t even bother to look at her unless he’s looking at the married couple.

As if he really, truly, does not care.

/

On the dance floor, Conrad– despite being a horrific dancer, and shy in his own right– has nervous energy to expend, and you seem to be his only friend right now, at least the only person available to dance with, so he’s yanking you out there.

“Fisher, seriously–” You pretend to yank yourself back, in a half ass fashion, but you actually do love to let loose on the dance floor, so you move forward, and he pulls a little too hard, and you kind of land into his arms all by accident.

“Oh.” He says, way too close, gazing into your eyes. 

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, and then let go, not wanting to have a great big romantic moment at someone else’s wedding.

At his ex girlfriend’s wedding.

You don’t want to be that girl. Swooping in like a vulture, and grabbing Conrad like he’s just a bunch of vulnerable remains for you to gobble up. 

You don’t think Conrad is thinking clearly, either. He won’t stop looking at your face, reading into something.

“What, Mann? What is it?” He asks, and you shake your head, the thumping music getting to you. “You know you can tell me anything at this point–”

“That’s just it, Fisher!” You chide him, and he looks deeply confused. “Can I talk to you? Outside?”

/

Conrad is worried.

Worried you’re about to tell him that you think things are moving too fast, even though he was sure– this time– that everything was mutual.

He doesn’t want to lose you as a friend, too. So he’s preparing to swallow down his feelings– much easier when there’s not such a strong sense of nostalgia wrapped around the whole thing, like Belly.

But he sees you thinking, outside in the cold air of the country club, your brows furrowed in such a level of focus that he knows only you would have– and he really knows that he likes you, and it’s not as simple as just wishing it away.

“Conrad–” You start, but you catch him already looking at you, and you don’t know what to say. “I…”

“Yeah?” He murmurs, staring from your eyes to your lips, and you can’t take it.

“I think that you know already.” You say, instead, and he nods. “Us, that there is kind of an us now, you know?”

“I know.” Conrad sighs, a deep, rumbling sigh, and he takes your hand, holding it in his own.

It’s much more intimate than the first time you held his hand– comforting him as he cried, leaving the pizza place– this is heavy with something else.

Some kind of tension.

“But.” You swallow, eyes flitting between looking at Conrad’s eyes and looking at the ground. “I just feel like, maybe, it’s too soon. You might still love…”

Conrad says your name. “No, listen. I don’t love her anymore.”

“But how do you know you’re not just getting wrapped up in the next fun thing?” You plead with him, and his face drops. “There’s years of growing up together, and then the time that you were in love with her, and that might have been years ago, but I can’t really compare to that, Conrad.”

“I don’t think you do.” Conrad says, and then blinks back in surprise at what he said. “Shit, that’s not what I meant. I meant that you’re entirely different.”

“Oh.” You still frown, though, and Conrad hates that, so he traces the side of your face, trying to get you to smile again.

It sort of works.

“I don’t want to compare you guys.” Conrad says, but he realizes you’re not going to be satisfied with that answer. “Okay, listen. Belly will always be apart of my past, my memories, that much is true.”

You nod, waiting to hear him proclaim that a part of him will always love her.

“But I think it’s a load of bullshit that you think you’re not enough for me. You’re not just a ‘fun thing’, or a rebound, you’re interesting in your own right– you’re your own woman, and if you let me, I’d want to get to know you in that way.” Conrad affirms, his face hard with how serious he means this. “I don’t love her– I loved the idea of her, remember? I was carrying a torch for nothing more than her memory. We talked about this before.”

“But still– what if you’re not over–”

“What if I’m not over some nostalgic feeling I get when I see her?” Conrad answers, cementing that it’s just that. “Childhood nostalgia. When you think destiny is written in the stars, instead of something you make your own. I’m an adult– I can choose to ignore that, and I’m going to, because–”

“I know. You’re gonna say you want something new with me, something you can make on your own.” You add to his poetic phrasing. “I just, I want to ask that we take it slowly, Conrad, if you’re really being serious–”

“So you do like me, Mann?” Conrad interrupts, and you blink at his question.

“Is it not obvious? I do.” You laugh, and Conrad grins.

“I just wanted to hear you say it.” He admits, and you put your face against his chest.

“You’ve been through a lot, Conrad.” You tell him, and he knows that, but it feels good again to hear you say it. “You deserve to be happy.”

“And I think that’s with you.” Conrad insists in a hushed whisper, and then he does what he was thinking of in the dress boutique, when he came far too close for words.

He leans in, holding your face, and kisses you, and it is exciting, because it’s you, and he knows he really does like you, in an entirely different and new way that he ever liked anyone else.

You haven’t been kissed in a while, let alone with someone you actually like, and you’re trying not to get overwhelmed– but Conrad unfortunately is a very good kisser, and it flusters you when he suddenly dives in further, bending down so he can kiss you harder, and you kind of shiver into his mouth, but you feel him groan into it, and you know it’s doing something for him, too.

And you smile– which Conrad mimics, himself, but he doesn’t let you go. Not just yet. 

As Conrad kisses you, he thinks that first loves are kind of overrated. Or, that love is new every time you experience it with a new person.

Belly had pinned, re-pinned, adjusted and re-adjusted her hair more times than you could count. In fact, you were half certain she might just do the whole thing again if she moved it one more time.

“Belly, you know I love you but if you change your hair one more time I’m going to scream,” You comment bluntly, eying her through the reflection in the mirror.

She looks at you and drops her shoulders, “Does it look bad?”

You stand up from your seat on the floor and go over to her at the vanity, placing your hands over hers to take the pin from her grasp. Belly lets her hands settle into her lap, dropping over the white satin robe. She watches you through the mirror and you smile lightly, fixing the bobby pin back into her hair and smoothing your hands over the hair to make sure it was in place.

“There, perfect,” You assure her, hands moving to rest on her shoulders, “A perfect bride.”

“Bride,” She repeats the word, “I still just can’t believe I’m a bride.”

“You’re not going to believe it until you’re on that aisle,” You laugh, “Maybe not even then.”

“I’m so nervous,” Belly shakes her head, “Like there’s a whole crowd of butterflies in my stomach.”

You squeeze her shoulders reassuringly, “And as soon as you see Jere at the end of that aisle you’re going to wonder why you were ever nervous in the first place.”

If you were being completely honest, you also couldn’t believe today was the day they were getting married. Belly and Jere. Your little sister. The boy you’d treated like your little brother. Married.

But, beyond all of that, the butterflies in your stomach weren’t for the wedding. They were for the boy you’d be walking down the aisle with. You as maid of honor, him as best man. Co-best man. Conrad Fisher. The boy you wished was yours.

It wasn’t a long lost love kind of story. Not one of unrequited love. Not one of long distance or right person wrong time or anything of the sort. It was simply you and him and it was never meant to be. You’d dated for one summer when both of you were 18. Many years ago. You were both too headstrong, too quick to become defensive, too protective of yourselves and everyone else. You were too similar. When you were together, almost always it would end in the two of you bickering about something. Sometimes it was about something you’d seen on the news, more like a debate, and other times it was because he’d taken the bigger muffin and only eaten a bite of it.

And yet there was always something there. When the two of you were together it was like a strange electricity burned in your heart, an adrenaline rush that only he could bring. You’d never thought too much about it. It was easier to ignore. It was one stupid summer fling and nothing else. There might always be something there but it was easy for that to be platonic. But with the wedding approaching so abruptly, it had brought with it a wave of emotion you hadn’t been prepared for. A yearning to be there yourself. At the end of the aisle making promises for the one you loved. And every time you found yourself picturing that exact image, there was only one boy that found himself by your side. Conrad fucking Fisher.

“Okay okay I have coffee I have croissants I have water,” Taylor comes stumbling through the bedroom door, her arms wrapped around the bundle of things in her grasp.

“Here, here, let me take those,” You laugh, taking the tray of iced coffees from her hand, “When did you have the time to get all of this?”

“I sent Steven out,” She shrugs nonchalantly, “The guys literally have nothing to do anyway.”

“I don’t think I can eat,” Belly grimaces, settling her hands over her stomach.

“Make sure you have something,” Taylor encourages, “We don’t want you passing out at the end of the aisle or something.”

“She’s right, Belly, try to have something,” You persuade, “I can get pop tarts from the kitchen too, if you want them.”

Belly shakes her head, “The croissant is fine. When should I get into my dress?”

“After coffee, definitely after coffee,” Taylor nods, curlers wrapped up in her hair, “Then we’ll fix up your makeup and then it’s dress time.”

You’d always thought Taylor was a good person for Belly to have. They could be so completely different, and yet they were the side of each other that they needed to be. Belly was reasonable when Taylor was rash, Taylor was bold when Belly wanted to be timid. They balanced each other out. And you wondered whether that was the fundamentals for any relationship, platonic or not.

You and Conrad didn’t balance each other out. You’d both tip in the same direction until it capsized you. When he’d argue, you’d argue back. When he wouldn’t talk, you wouldn’t either. You’d battle each other, even from the same side. It just wouldn’t function. You didn’t feel like the same person you were when the two of you were together but you still made sure to convince yourself those things hadn’t changed.

“I’ll be back in a second,” You squeeze Taylor’s arm, stepping past the girls and heading towards the door of Belly’s room.

When you were younger, the two of you had always shared. But when you’d turned ten, Susannah had decided you just had to have your own space. You still remember the excitement on her face when she first showed you. Conrad had helped her pick the color, the one he told her was your favourite. She knew anyway, but she wanted you to know that Conrad knew too. Whenever you passed through this house, when it was just you alone with your thoughts, you could still feel her here. She was in the art that hung on the walls, in the creaking floorboards, in the soft touch of a carpet beneath your feet, in the sun that shone through the windows of the kitchen, in the cold run of water before the heat kicked in. She was here, and part of you found comfort in the fact that she always would be.

“How’s Belly doing?”

You hadn’t noticed Steven in the kitchen until he had already spoken. He was already dressed in his grey suit, white shirt, black tie. His hair was fixed in the same way it always was, curls messy. He looked so grown up, and so much like your father.

“She’s okay, nervous,” You smile, “It’s one of the few times I don’t know what to say to make her feel better.”

Steven laughs, “My big sister admitting defeat? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Oh come on,” You roll your eyes, “They’re young! She’s getting married! The nerves are kind of a given.”

Steven nods and both of you fall silent.

“How’s Jere doing?”

“He’s,” Steven scratches the back of his neck, “He forgot to write his speech.”

“Wh-“ You choke on the air in your lungs, “Are you… are you joking?”

Steven shakes his head, “Conrad’s helping him to write it now.”

“Fucking hell I’m going to kill that guy.”

“Yep, I told him that,” Steven grimaces, “You know what Jere’s like. He’s never serious.”

“Clearly,” You swallow, shaking your head, “As long as Belly doesn’t know, we’re okay.”

Both of you fall quiet again.

Steven was one year younger than you, but it was always like the two of you had been twins. He was another person that balanced you out. He agreed with you when he needed to, but he knew how to make sure you still had fun, he knew when not to take things too seriously, he knew when to reason with you. You’d always been certain that the three of you were meant to be siblings - as if you’d been hand plucked from your parents qualities and morphed into the perfect balance of thirds.

“Did you talk to Belly… you know, about the whole thing with Jere in Cabo?”

Even the words made your stomach twist. Jere. Cabo. It was enough to make you feel sick.

You’d only found out what had happened about two weeks ago. Belly had admitted it to you when you’d overheard Taylor make a comment. Steven found out too, Conrad had told him as soon as he knew. Both of you had reacted in a similar way - in disbelief. For multiple reasons. One that it had taken so long for Belly to tell you, another that Jere had ever even dared to cheat on your baby sister, and another that the wedding was still going ahead, that Belly still loved him enough to marry him.

“Every time I mentioned it she just kept telling me it was a mistake, and blamed herself for him thinking they were broken up,” You clench your jaw, “Apparently it’s not exactly cheating if he thought he was single.”

“Yeah because any guy in love would just jump at the chance to get into bed with the next girl he sees,” Steven scoffs, adjusting his tie, “I can’t believe she forgave him.”

“Belly sees the good in everyone,” You state, “Even when they give her a reason not to.”

“He gave her a pretty fucking good reason,” Steven grumbles, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Steven,” You give him that same tone you always heard your mother use, it seemed to come naturally to you now, “You’ve messed up your hair and your tie now.”

You go over to him and stand in front of him, towering over you even despite his younger age. You fix the knot of his tie, pressing it against the top button of his shirt, moving your hands to fix the few curls he had seemed to set awry.

“Can I at least object or something? Tell them that my sister deserves better than some asshole cheater,” Steven mumbles, eyeing you like he was truly waiting on your response.

“An asshole you are best man for,” You point out.

“Only because Belly would never forgive me if I didn’t do it,” He comments, “Come on, be serious, do you honestly think, without any tiny bit of doubt, that our baby sister should be getting married to him today?”

You step back, crossing your arms over your chest, feeling a tightness wrap around your heart, “That’s not my call to make. Belly’s an adult. She can make her own choices. My job is to be her sister, her maid of honor. And yours is to be her brother and be Jere’s best man. They can make their own decisions and it’s not on us to change that.”

“You can’t be fucking serious I-“ Steven scoffs, “You’re the first one to tell us when we’ve fucked up! You know you’re just as bad as Conrad - he won’t say anything to Jere either, he just lets him get away with shit. Why the fuck-“

“Steven it’s their wedding,” You interrupt, your words cold, “Not like telling them you shouldn’t have ran off at the mall, not like telling them you shouldn’t go on a date with that boy from middle school, not like telling them you shouldn’t have pushed that kid at the park. It’s not my job to save the day.”

He falls silent, knowing now that there was nothing more to say, or at least nothing more to argue, “Okay, okay, you’re right. It’s their wedding. Okay.”

You take a deep breath, “Just please make sure he writes that fucking speech. And please make sure there’s a drink waiting for me after this ceremony, a strong one.”

Your brother laughs, “You got it.”

“I’m going to check on Belly, I’ll see you at the aisle?”

“See you there,” He nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets and disappearing back outside.

———

Your fingertips fumbled over the silky material, drawing up the zip against Belly’s spine until it reached the top, clasping together. You smoothed your hands back down the material, freshly steamed.

“You always looked beautiful in white,” You smile behind her shoulder.

“Oh my god she’s a bride!” Taylor squeals, “You look perfect, it’s perfect, this is perfect.”

Belly laughs, “You think so?” Her eyes go to you, like it is only you that can confirm.

“Perfect.”

By now, you and Taylor were dressed in your bridesmaid dresses too - both of a powder blue, both silky and simple and figure hugging around the torso, flowing beneath your waist.

“A little more lipgloss…” Taylor purses her lips together as she applies a thin layer across Belly’s lips, “And your bouquet…”

She hands her the peonies and fixes them to a perfect angle.

“And you… are ready to walk down the aisle,” Taylor grins.

“I can’t believe it’s really happening!” Belly says in that excited tone that only came when there were nerves too.

You feel it in your stomach, the urge to tell her she shouldn’t do this. The urge to tell her it was okay if she didn’t. But instead you say;

“I’m so proud of you Belly.”

She smiles, “I just… I really wish Mom…”

“I know,” You say softly, “I know.”

“Okayyyy,” Taylor clasps her hands, “I’m going to tell the boys to get everyone sat down. We’ve got a wedding to get to.”

She disappears, leaving just you and Belly.

“So, I wasn’t sure when was a good time to give you this, but now feels as good of a time as any,” You smile, reaching into your bag and rummaging around the belongings in there.

You pull out a book, brown backing with a baby blue ribbon tying it together. On the front was a photo of all of you - the Fishers and the Conklins - and you’d set some pressed flowers around the edges, ones from Susannah’s garden.

“When Susannah was sick, you know she wanted to write you letters to know that she was still here for all these big moments for you, for all of us,” You explain, “Well, the wedding of our baby girl Belly just felt like it deserved even more. So, before she got really sick, me and her made this. I, um,” You feel a lump in your throat at the memory, “I had to finish it. But I think it is everything she would’ve wanted it to be.”

You see tears prick in Belly’s eyes, “This is…” Her fingertips smooth over the front, “This is beautiful.”

“There’s, um,” You untie the bow, letting the pages break free, “There’s some photos,” You turn the page to a photo of you and her in wedding dresses when you were only a few years old, “And there’s some messages from all of us. Mom too.”

Your sister lets out an involuntary gasp.

“I know Mom might not agree with all of this but just…” You take a deep breath, “Just read that letter. When all is said and done, she just really wants you to be happy, however that is.”

Belly looks up at you, delicately closing the pages and setting the book down beside her, “Do you… um,” She clears her throat, does that little half-laugh that she does when she’s worried, “Never mind.”

“Belly,” You hold her hands in yours, squeezing the soft skin, “Tell me.”

“Do you think Taylor’s got the boys ready?” She averts her eyes to the door, stepping back from you, letting out a breath, “We should probably go downstairs.”

You feel a sinking feeling in your heart. A little bit of you that had to accept you’d lost a bit of your sister. She wasn’t all bundled into being yours anymore. She was entirely her own person. And today, despite anything you might have thought, she would be marrying Jeremiah Fisher. And you would stand by her side and be there for her. And that was all. That wasn’t changing.

———

Getting married at the house meant that there was an awkward waiting period at the back of the house, where you all had to hover around until it was your time to walk down the aisle. Taylor was checking over Steven’s clothes, making sure he looked ‘presentable’. Jeremiah was already down the aisle, talking with his Dad who had just stood up to adjust the lapels of his suit jacket.

“Conklin,” A voice you’d recognise anywhere.

And, despite all three Conklin siblings being within earshot, they knew being referred to by your last name by that particular voice would only apply to you.

“Fisher,” You turn around, watching as Conrad walks towards you.

He has his hands stuffed into his pockets, glancing up at you with that typical smirk on his face. He had a suit matching his brother’s, a charcoal grey with a black tie. Belly had wanted the boys’ ties to match the bridesmaids’ dresses but Jere hadn’t listened.

“You look very nice,” He nods as he stands in front of you, nodding towards your dress.

“Nice? You sure know how to compliment a lady,” You scoff, “And you don’t look too bad yourself.”

“Hey, I said very,” Conrad points out.

“Hey, um,” You glance over your shoulder to make sure Belly was out of earshot, “Thank you. Steven told me you helped Jere to write his speech so… thank you. I think Belly would’ve crumbled if she found out.”

Conrad shakes his head, “You don’t need to thank me.”

“I do,” You assure, “Anything to make Belly’s day smoother, easier, less stressful. So, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” He half whispers the words, like they get stuck on his lips.

His eyes felt even more piercing against the shades of his suit.

“So I hear we have to walk down together,” Conrad points out, “I’ll try not to trip you up.”

“I figured you’d try to,” You scoff, glancing down at your shoes, “And if you don’t… I think these will.”

“I’ll hold you up, Conklin.”

There it is. The electricity in your heart.

You suppress it.

“Okay, okay, everyone in their places!” Taylor exclaims, waving her hand around to make sure everyone was somewhat in their correct order.

Belly goes to step towards the back of the group of you. After the arguments with your parents, she’d decided to walk herself down the aisle. Your father had been upset, at first, and yet didn’t put up enough of a fight. He’d settled. He’d accepted his fate. Steven had tried to make Belly feel better - told her he didn’t like the idea of your father having to give her away anyway, it was her choice. And part of you thought that was another tiny fight your brother was putting up to sort of remind Belly she still had free will over these choices. One choice in particular.

Belly stands behind you and you glance back at her, smiling brightly.

You mouth the words ‘I love you’ and she settles her shoulders, smiling softly, returning the words back to you.

Steven and Taylor walk out first, her gripping his arm tightly to keep him in check, him laughing at the importance she holds in carrying her bouquet at the right height.

“Let’s do this Conklin,” Conrad links his arm with yours, glancing back to Belly, “See you out there!”

You hold onto him, stepping in time as you move towards the garden doors.

White wicker chairs had been set out in two sections on the garden, only fifteen or so either side. There were white rose petals scattered across the grass, directing the path that the two of you had to follow. A soft song was playing out of Steven’s speaker - you didn’t recognise it, or maybe you just couldn’t focus. At the end of the aisle, an archway of hydrangeas, powder blue. Susannah’s hydrangeas.

“Are you okay?” Conrad hisses from beside you, his arm clenching for you to draw your attention to the contact between the two of you.

You feel your steps falter, your feet stopping all together just momentarily, “It’s-“

It was the sight of Jeremiah there. Somehow smug and all too proud at the end of the aisle. It was then that you felt more confident than ever that Bely couldn’t do this. That you wished for more than anything that she wouldn’t.

“I know,” Conrad assures you, “I know.”

You glance at him and his eyes share the same certainty as yours. And, weirdly, the same acceptance that it was completely out of your hands. For the first time in forever, the two older siblings had to give up all attempts to fix things.

You take another deep breath, walking the rest of the way down the aisle together, smiling at each face you recognised. And one, in particular, a row back from the front - your mother.

“Mom,” You half whisper the word, like a gasp caught in your throat.

Conrad leans into your ear, “I called in a favor.”

You glance to him again and let out a laugh, “You-“

“Don’t thank me.”

He releases your arm at the end of the aisle, squeezing your hand just as it falls to your side. Conrad goes to stand beside his brother and you go to stand beside Taylor.

Your Mom looks up at you, that hint of warmth behind her eyes she always seemed to have when she looked at you.

Jeremiah looks over at you and you return his smile.

And then there she is.

Belly descends the few steps, following the path down the garden, getting closer to the waiting crowd. Her eyes land on you, on Taylor, on Steven, on Conrad, and then to Jeremiah. He faces away, focusing on the hydrangeas. He takes a deep breath. Belly does the same. And then her eyes land on your mother. You see the switch, the shift in her eyes. Belly’s lips part just slightly, like the air has been knocked from her lungs. Her shoulders drop a little, her grasp faltering slightly on the bouquet in her hands.

But it’s her eyes.

There’s something in them that Belly could never hide. Your Mom could see it too. So could Steven. You all knew her too well. Steven looks to you and you can feel the burn of his eyes, but you can’t take yours away from your sister. The crowd are starting to notice too, awkwardly shifting as they stand for the bride - the bride that was yet to move another inch. Jeremiah glances to his best men, evidently also concerned that the song was starting to end and he was still not greeted by his bride.

“She can’t do it,” You mutter the words, mainly to yourself but loud enough that Taylor clocks it too.

“Wh-“ Taylor looks to you, “What do you mean?”

Before you can respond, Belly loses her grip on the bouquet in her hands, and they fall to the floor almost perfectly in time with the tear that slips down her cheek. Her lips part like she is trying to find the words to say, her eyes blurrily focusing on the back of Jeremiah. He turns around then, like he can feel her eyes on him. It’s as if you can see the moment his heart breaks. He doesn’t know what is happening but he knows it isn’t what he had hoped. There she stood, perfect in her white dress, heels starting to dig just a little into the grass beneath her, hands trembling, tears in her eyes.

“Belly…” Jeremiah begins, his eyes only focused on her.

Across the aisle, you clock eyes with Conrad. He held a different expression to yours. You could feel your heart reaching out for your sister, wanting to wrap around hers before hers had the chance to break. He, instead, seemed to want desperately to reach out for his brother, to hold him up in his arms before he had the chance to crumble to the floor. Both of you the older siblings, just waiting for the moment to reach out to your baby siblings and tell them that you could fix whatever had broken. But something here just felt beyond fixing.

Within a second, Belly turns in her heels, hands grabbing at her dress to lift it above her ankles, running back up towards the house.

“Bells!” Jeremiah yells after her, glancing around at the gawking eyes around him, like he’s only just remembered that they are all there.

He goes to hurry after her, at the exact moment that your Mom steps out of her seat. She steps ahead of him and places a hand to his chest, saying nothing and everything in that one gesture - ‘i need to do this, not you’. And then your Mom is hurrying down the aisle, following in her youngest daughter’s footsteps back into the house. Jeremiah stands, defeated, picking up the fallen bouquet from the floor. His shoulders drop, the flowers hanging limp beside his leg. In that moment, he looks like a boy that had borrowed his father’s suit. A boy in an attempt to be a man, suddenly out of his depth and flailing to stay above the surface. He looked younger than his years, no longer a groom but simply a little boy that had lost his best friend. Whilst you would never put aside him cheating on Belly, in that moment your heart ached for him. In fact, your heart broke for him.

———

If it wasn’t obvious, the wedding didn’t go ahead that day. Conrad apologised to the guests, though the small crowd seemed more confused than disappointed. He had offered that they could take some food with them but the whole idea seemed a bit strange, and in the end everybody left sober and hungry as if there had never been a wedding to attend at all. Adam had sat trying to console Jeremiah, telling him that Belly just needed some space and then they could figure it out. Your Mom had been in Belly’s room with her for over an hour. You’d brought them water and tissues and, now, you, Steven and Taylor all stayed in the corridor outside waiting for your cue to her. It felt like a hospital waiting room. Steven had taken off his jacket, undone the top button of his shirt, loosened his tie. He sat on the floor, his suit trousers oddly looking far too small for him as they hiked up the length of his calfs, his knees drawn up, his head pressed back against the wall. Taylor stood beside him, her heels discarded on the floor, her hair still perfectly in place, creases forming in her dress from where she leant back against the wall too. You stood opposite the two of them, all three of you completely silent until Steven says;

“She should have never forgiven him in the first place.”

“Isn’t Jere supposed to be like your best friend?” Taylor squints, “Didn’t you want this?”

“Yeah before I found out that he cheated on my fucking sister,” Steven scoffs, “She deserves better than that.”

“How did your Mom turn up?” Taylor directs her attention to you, “Did you know she was going to be here?”

You shake your head, “I think Conrad spoke to her. I’m glad she came, it’s who Belly needed to see. Maybe Conrad knew that.”

Before you can say anything more, your Mom steps out of the room, glancing between all three of you. She gives you a nod as if an approval to enter and Steven and Taylor burst through the door as if they were animals breaking free from their cage. You pause for a moment, seeing the look on your mother’s face - a strange mix of sadness and relief and pride and worry. You were sure the same expression would echo in your own.

“She’s okay?”

“She’s going to be,” Laurel squeezes your arm.

With that, you step into the room too. Belly was sat in the middle of the bed. Steven sits in front of her, a furrow between his brows. Taylor sits on one side of her, stroking Belly’s hair. Your sister looked strangely older in the moment, not in age but more so in maturity. A full adult. You walk over and take the space on the other side of her. In the blink of an eye, Belly falls into you, her arms wrapping around you, your torso practically holding her up as she sobs against your shoulder. And, just like that, she’s back to being your little sister. You know nothing else in the moment but to be there for her, gripping her tightly, reminding her it would be okay, that she was okay, promising her it would get better. And that is how you stay.

———

The sun is starting to set by the time you leave the room. Belly had fallen asleep and Taylor had promised to stay with her. Steven had gone out to get food with your parents. You close the bedroom door behind you, picking up your heels from the floor and carrying them downstairs. As you step into the kitchen, the house feeling emptier than ever now, you catch a glimpse of one lingering body outside.

“You know I think the wedding is cancelled,” You call over to him, walking across the grass to the chairs and aisle still set up as they were.

Conrad glances over his shoulder, standing up from the chair in the front row, “Are you sure about that?”

“I heard something about it, yeah.”

You both laugh, falling silent a moment later.

“How’s Jere?”

“How’s Belly?”

The words come out together, tangling in the space between you. Conrad lets you speak first, he always did.

“She’s okay, she’s just fallen asleep. I think she’ll feel a bit clearer in the morning,” You nod, “And Jere?”

“Devastated. He’s gone home with Dad, we said it would be best if they just had some space for a day or two. For both of them,” Conrad nods, his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, “It was horrible seeing him like that.”

“Do you-“ You wrap your arms over your chest, “Do you think she made the right choice?”

“Absolutely,” Conrad exhales, shaking his head, “It’s just shitty that it had to break Jere’s heart in the process.”

You nod in agreement, both of you falling silent again. When the two of you split up, you both agreed nobody’s heart was broken, it just didn’t work out. It was only one summer. And yet you hadn’t felt complete again until you saw him that thanksgiving. Maybe that was what a broken heart could feel like, a little bit broken at least.

“It’s also shitty that I put all this effort into the hydrangeas for nothing,” Conrad turns around, walking over to the archway of flowers, still flourishing in bloom, seemingly the brightest thing around.

“You did this?!”

“Of course I did,” Conrad smirks, “Jere said they didn’t need anything but, come on!”

“Oh it absolutely needed this,” You reassure him, “I just can’t believe you made it.”

“Well, you underestimate me Conklin,” He nods, his eyes trailing you as you inspect the structure, fingertips brushing over the delicate petals.

“Maybe I do,” You smile, pulling your eyes away from the flowers to glance over at him.

“I, um,” He pauses, “I thought they’d be good if I ever got married but…”

“They’re beautiful,” You beam, “I used to tell your Mom when I was younger that I wanted them at my wedding.”

Conrad knew that, of course he did. That’s the main reason he wanted them at his.

He clears his throat, “Where did everybody go?”

“Well, Taylor is staying with Belly, and my parents and Steven went out for food,” You explain.

“Food?” Conrad laughs, “Have you seen how much fucking food we have for this wedding?”

You grimace, “Isn’t it a bit bad to eat food from a wedding that didn’t happen?”

“Isn’t it bad to waste perfectly good food?” Conrad narrows his eyes at you.

You laugh, reaching up to smooth a hand over your hair. It was a little messier now, the curls frizzing from where Belly had been pressed against you. In that moment, Conrad steps a space closer to you, his fingers lifting to brush a curl away from your face. His eyes flick from your hair, to your dress, to your eyes, to your lips, to your eyes again.

“You know,” He clears his throat, “As best man and maid of honor I think we’re supposed to dance at the wedding.”

“You don’t dance, Fisher.”

“With you, I would.”

He steps back from you, reaches a hand into his pocket and takes out his phone. In a few presses, ‘something, somehow, someday’ starts to play. It’s quiet, just loud enough for the two of you. Conrad sets the phone down onto the floor, beside the archway, and reaches out a hand to you. You oblige.

His hand moves to your back, the other holding one of yours. Your head rests against his chest, feeling a hint of calm for the first time all day. For the first verse and first chorus, you remain like this, until he moves both of his hands to your waist, and yours move to link behind his neck, looking up at him as he towered above you. Barefoot in front of him, you felt shorter than ever against his tall form.

“So, when did you change Fisher?”

“Change?” He cocks a brow, “I didn’t change.”

Perhaps, he’s right. Perhaps this was just you starting to see him again. There’s that electricity in your heart again, that same excitement. It was him. Only he could bring that feeling.

“We had to grow up so fast, being the older ones,” He speaks so softly, “I think in that time I was so focused on being there for them that I stopped thinking about doing anything to grow up myself. If I wasn’t focused on Jere or Belly or Steven, I was focused on impressing my Dad or being there for my Mom. After… when Mom passed, I just realised I had to do something differently. I could be there for Jere but I could also let him fuck up, and I could still kind of hate my Dad but I could also just accept that he was never going to change. I could grieve and be sad in California or I could keep busy - I started cooking more, getting better at making things, fixing things. I don’t know, I just felt like maybe I could be helpful to myself instead of just waiting for someone else that needed help.”

You readjust your hands around his neck, dropping to his shoulders, fingers holding over the muscles there, “I know how you feel. After Belly went to college… I just… you know, I love being their sister, of course I do, but part of me knew I needed to not just be that for a little while. I stopped being so argumentative when I didn’t have my little siblings to defend, I stopped worrying so much when I didn’t have to worry about them too. I feel like I’m more myself.”

Conrad smiles and only now do you realise the song had started playing for a second time. Neither of you make an attempt to move, still swaying back and forth to the lyrics, Conrad’s hands still held firmly on your waist. Your eyes look to the sun setting, to the empty chairs, to the hydrangeas in their perfect arrangement. And yet his eyes don’t leave you.

———

When you make the move to go back inside, Conrad holds the door open for you, the two of you padding over to the kitchen.

“Do you think they’ll notice if we eat some of the food?” You hiss.

Conrad looks back, turning on the low light in the kitchen to illuminate the room a little. You lean down to look into the refrigerator, scanning over the trays of food that were stored. You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering slightly.

Within a second, Conrad steps behind you, his jacket draping over your shoulders. Electricity, again.

“We can take this,” Conrad leans over you, placing one hand on your back and the other one reaching over you to take one of the plates.

“This feels like a curse,” You whisper, slipping your arms into his jacket, letting it fall over your form.

You hop up onto the kitchen island, legs dangling over the edge.

“Then we’ll be cursed,” He narrows his eyes at you, setting the plate down beside you, “But if it helps, this is just my leftovers.”

From one of the cupboards, he takes out two slices of bread - a thick farmhouse bread, the kind you’d pick up from the farmers market.

“It does help.”

Conrad takes out slices of grilled chicken and sets them over the slices of bread, taking out lettuce and mayonnaise from the fridge and bringing it over.

“I feel like I should be helping,” You comment, watching as he finishes up with the sandwich.

“Believe it or not Conklin, I’m just about capable of making a sandwich,” He assures you, picking up the sandwich and bringing it over, “You can try first.”

You take a big bite from one side, licking away the mayonnaise from the corner of your mouth, “You are correct, you are capable of making a sandwich, Fisher.”

Conrad leans down and takes a bite from the sandwich still in your hands, his eyes focused on you as he does, “Hm, could be better.”

You swallow the lump in your throat.

A growing part of you felt guilty. When you would think back to this day, it wouldn’t only be Belly that came to mind. Not just her. Not just Jeremiah’s devastation. Instead, the day would be laced with these moments with Conrad. These moments that didn’t feel like you and him and yet felt more like yourselves than ever. You weren’t arguing, you weren’t debating, you were just in these tiny moments of harmony with a boy that made you feel electric.

“So, where do you think things go from here?” Conrad asks you, not moving from in front of you.

“I’m hoping Belly goes to Paris, it would be good for her, get some space, clear her head,” You nod, “And I hope Jere is good too, who knows maybe this will bring he and your Dad closer. He can go back to the frat, maybe it will be good for him to just enjoy the last bit of college and figure it out from there.”

Conrad nods, “It’s Jere, he’ll be okay.”

Before you can continue, the front door opens and your Mom and Steven appear.

Conrad clears his throat, stepping back from you.

“Hey!” You smile over at the two of them, “Where’s Dad?”

“He went back to the motel,” Laurel explains, “He’ll come back in the morning to see Belly. Have you seen her?”

You shake your head, “She’s still asleep.”

Steven smiles, “It’s probably the most sleep she’s had all week.”

“Have you two eaten? I brought back some things from the restaurant,” Your Mom hands over a plastic bag of takeaway boxes.

Her eyes glance down at the sandwich on the counter, bites taken from two corners.

“Well, I’m going to go to sleep,” Laurel sighs, squeezing your knee, “Get some rest, it’s been a long day.”

You nod to your Mom and she squeezes Steven’s hand before walking out.

“What did you guys do since we’ve been gone?” Steven asks, filling up a glass of water.

Conrad glances to you, a small glint of a smile, “Nothing exciting.”

“Do you think they’re going to be okay?” Steven turns around, looking to you for his answer as he always seemed to.

“They will,” You nod, the sleeves of Conrad’s jacket hanging over your hands, “Eventually, both of them will know it was the right choice.”

Steven takes a deep breath, “I’m going to crash, I’ve had a headache since this morning.”

“There’s medicine in my toiletries bag, take some before you sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning,” You say to him and he salutes as if following an order.

“Good night, you two,” Steven shuffles out of the room.

Conrad looks back at you. Your hair was messier, your makeup was wearing down, your dress was wrinkling around your thighs where the material had creased, his jacket fell baggy around your torso. You were perfect. To him, you always would be.

“You want to know another shitty thing about this wedding not going ahead?”

“Let me guess, you also made the cake?” You cock a brow.

Conrad rolls his eyes, “No.”

“Then what, Fisher?”

“I-“ He croaks, “I wrote a speech.”

“A speech?” You raise your brows.

“Well, Steven did most of the best man speech but I thought I should say something too so I wrote some things down,” Conrad explains, “It’s in my jacket.”

You grin widely, reaching into the inside pocket to pull out the folded piece of paper.

Scrawled in his hand writing were a few bullet point notes:

- thank everyone

- congrats jere + belly

- mom + laurel

- dads?

And, underneath, scrawled just like the rest, words that struck like a bolt of lightning through your chest. Like you could hear them being spoken through his own voice.

Love like this will never leave you. It will stay with you in every moment you’re together. And in those moments you are apart, you will realise the difference love made when they were there. The person they make you want to be, the way they challenge you, the way you see parts of yourself in them. Love like this will never leave because it is what wakes you up in the morning, what makes every passing day worth it. Whether fleeting or forever, it is love that shapes us and love that makes us carry on.

When you look up, the paper held between your fingers, Conrad is stood leaning against the kitchen counter opposite you. You go to speak but, instead, your lips just part and nothing comes out. You feel a heat build in your cheeks, a clench in your chest. And before you can think, Conrad strides over to you, his hands grasping either side of your face, pulling you into him. His lips find yours, firm and desperate and longing and him. You gasp against the contact, hands flying to his shoulders, twisting at the material of his shirt.

When he pulls away, both of you stop as if the air has been completely knocked from your lungs. His eyes are solely on you, scanning for a reaction - be it good or bad.

You don’t say anything, just drag one hand into his hair at the back of his neck and pull him to you once more, gentle and steady this time.

“I-“

“Me too,” You whisper when his words won’t come out, his forehead pressing against yours.

He smiles, breathless in the hot air between the two of you, “I thought… I just… I couldn’t waste any more time not telling you how I felt.”

You smile too, running your hand through the hair that had fallen in front of his face.

“I mean it,” Conrad persists, “Everything on that paper, I mean it.”

You glance down at the speech notes he’d handed you, discarded at some point on the countertop. You feel your heart swell, less electric this time and more just like it was finally full once more.

“I’ve missed you,” You whisper, smiling over the words.

Conrad grins, shifting his hands underneath your thighs to scoop you from the counter. You squeal, your legs wrapping around him, arms flying to hold yourself around his neck.

He carries you across the kitchen and into the lounge, lowering you down onto the couch before dropping down beside you.

Years ago, the two of you would spend hours like this. It was at the same time that Laurel wasn’t happy with the two of you sharing a room. So, instead, you’d both sneak downstairs and spend hours on the couch. You’d lean back against the arm rest and he would lay down over you, his head against your chest, his legs hanging over the opposite arm rest. He could feel the steady beat of your heart, and the way your chest would shake when you’d laugh. You’d draw patterns over his arms, he’d draw patterns over your thighs.

Like this, the weight of the day seems to fall on your shoulders, your eyes struggling to remain open. You feel your limbs grow heavy, arm draping over him as if you needed even your sleeping form to remember that he was still there.

———

When you wake the next morning, there is no weight on top of you, instead just a blanket draped over. You glance around and don’t see Conrad anywhere.

This is how it was when the two of you first split up. You’d spoken for hours the night before about accepting that it wasn’t working, then you’d both fallen asleep on that couch and the next morning he’d disappeared. Neither of you brought it up again, never spoke about it to anybody else, you just carried on.

You feel a strange clench in your chest at the thought, maybe this was a repeat. Maybe yesterday was just both of you caught in the moment.

As you step up from the couch, your dress creased and bunched around you, the material feeling weirdly itchy and uncomfortable now you’d been wearing it for so long. Your eyes catch sight of a t-shirt and shorts folded on the table beside the couch and you feel your heart swell a little. They were folded neatly - one of Conrad’s t-shirts and a pair of your own shorts you were sure you hadn’t worn in maybe five years. When you try to change into them, the shorts barely reach past your knees but the t-shirt came down low enough around your thighs that you give up on the shorts all together. That would suffice.

You notice a glimpse of someone outside and recognise the mop of hair before anything else. Conrad is stacking up chairs from the garden and carrying them over to one side. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and grey baggy shorts. You smile to yourself. If this was like the first time, you would dread the thought of going out there and letting him confirm your worst fear. But you were older now. More sure of yourself.

You step outside, the door closing lightly behind you as you pad down the stairs and across the garden. Conrad was crouched down now beside one of the chairs, unfastening some flowers they’d used as decoration. He glances up when he sees you walking closer. And, as if a reflex response, his face lights up into a bright smile, standing up from his position instantly.

“Hey you,” He beams, wrapping his arms around you so strong he lifts you up from the ground.

Your arms wrap around him too, breathing in the after-shower scent he always had in the mornings.

As he lowers you back to the ground you find the courage to say, “I thought you’d left.”

“No, no, I just thought I’d clear this stuff up before Belly woke up and-“ It’s then that he realises what you actually meant, not that he’d just left but that he’d left you, that whatever happened yesterday was already over.

He pauses, cupping one hand to your cheek and leaning down to kiss you gently, pulling away and looking between both of your eyes, back to your lips, back to your eyes.

“I’m not leaving.”

You smile, looping your arms around his neck as you feel the relief settling into your chest.

“Thank you for bringing me clothes, I couldn’t wear that dress any longer,” You mention, running your finger through the short hairs at the back of his neck.

“Yeah I brought you shorts too but I-“ Conrad glances back to the house.

You giggle, “Con, I don’t think I’ve worn those since I was like 18, they definitely don’t fit anymore.”

He scrunches his nose, narrowing his eyes, “That would make sense, yeah, that would explain why I found them buried at the back of my closet.”

You laugh, “That would be it.”

“Well, at least you look good in my t-shirt,” Conrad grins, lifting you up, the t-shirt riding up over your underwear.

“Conrad!” You squeal, one hand flying back to try to pull the material back down.

He laughs, setting you back down onto the grass, “Give me five minutes to finish this up and then coffee?”

You hum in agreement and he kisses you gently, and then once more as if he just couldn’t help himself.

He turns around and finds an already empty chair, stepping aside as if encouraging you to sit there. You oblige, drawing your knees up to your chest as he carries on around the garden. He carries over a few chairs to the other side of the garden into the stacks he’d already made, a pile of flowers starting to form on the ground beside them. Then he moves over to the hydrangeas, seconds away from lifting the arch up before he pauses, glancing over his shoulder in your direction. He shifts around for a moment, unfastening one of the large flowers from its arrangement, before turning around with the biggest of smiles on his face.

You giggle as he walks towards you, flower held firmly in his hands as he crosses over the garden to you.

He leans down, settling the flower into your own grasp as his face comes to be level with yours. You smile, feeling your cheeks flush under his attention, your heart pounding with the same electricity. His breath fans hot over your lips, his lips parting just a little as Conrad leans in enough to close the gap between you. His kiss is slow and gentle and yet so incredibly sure of himself it’s unlike anything you’ve felt before. This could be it. You and him.

But that was exactly the point - we had been here a million times before, and I was tired of being seen as the same little girl who used to build sandcastles and chase fireflies. This summer, I looked different, felt different. This summer, Conrad Fisher was finally going to notice me.

The front door burst open before we'd even gotten out of the car, and Susannah Fisher came rushing down the porch steps with her arms wide open, her face glowing with that infectious joy that made everyone around her feel loved.

"My babies!" she called out, enveloping first me and then Steven in hugs that smelled like sunscreen and vanilla. "Look at you two! Belly, you're absolutely radiant, and Steven, you've gotten so tall!"

Behind her, I caught a glimpse of Jeremiah hanging back on the porch, his easy smile already in place. But there was no sign of Conrad, and my stomach clenched with disappointment.

"Where's Conrad?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

Something flickered across Susannah's face - so brief I almost missed it. "He's around somewhere. You know how he is."

But I did know how he was, and this felt different. Conrad was usually the first one to greet us, with his crooked smile and teasing comments about how much we'd changed. The fact that he wasn't here felt like a sign, and not a good one.

Y/N's POV

From your bedroom window, you watched the familiar chaos of the Conklin family's arrival with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Summer at Cousins meant the return of your chosen family - the people who had shaped every important memory of your childhood.

But it also meant the return of Conrad Fisher, and the complicated feelings you'd been trying to ignore for months.

You'd been here for a week already, helping your parents open up the house and get everything ready for the season. In that time, you'd caught glimpses of Conrad around the Fisher property, but he'd seemed different - distant, almost hollow in a way that made your chest ache with worry.

The Conrad you'd fallen for over years of shared summers was thoughtful and intense, yes, but never empty. Never like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

A soft knock on your door interrupted your thoughts. "Y/N, sweetheart," your mother called. "The Conklin's are here. Why don't you go say hello?"

You smoothed down your sundress and headed outside, your bare feet familiar with the path through the gate that connected your properties. The Fisher backyard was already full of voices and laughter, but your eyes immediately sought out Conrad.

You found him leaning against the side of the house, partially hidden in shadow, watching the reunion with an expression you couldn't quite read. When his eyes met yours across the yard, something passed between you - a recognition, maybe, or a question neither of you knew how to ask.

"Y/N!" Belly's voice pulled your attention away, and suddenly you were being swept into a hug that smelled like vanilla perfume and summer hopes. "I missed you so much!"

"I missed you too," you said, and meant it. Belly had always been like a little sister to you, even though you were the same age. There was something about her perpetual optimism that made you want to protect her from anything that might dim her light.

Even if that something might be your own feelings for the boy she'd been in love with for years.

Conrad's POV

CANCER.

The word echoed in Conrad's head like a death sentence, which, he supposed, they might be. He'd been carrying them around for two weeks now, ever since he'd overheard his parents' conversation in the kitchen late one night.

We can't tell the boys yet. Let them have one more normal summer.

Normal. As if anything could ever be normal again.

He watched from his position against the house as Y/N emerged from her family's property, and his chest tightened with a familiar ache. She looked beautiful in the golden afternoon light, her hair catching the breeze, her smile warm as she greeted everyone.

She was the one person who might understand, who might be able to help him carry this impossible weight. But she was also the one person he couldn't burden with it. Y/N had always been his safe place, his refuge from the expectations and pressures that came with being the responsible older Fisher son. How could he destroy that by telling her that his mother - the woman who had been like a second mother to Y/N her entire life - might be dying?

You're being dramatic, he told himself. The doctors said treatable. Susannah Fisher is the strongest person you know. She'll beat this.

But the rational part of his brain was being drowned out by the part that kept replaying his father's broken voice saying aggressive and we caught it late and we'll have to see.

"Conrad!" Belly's voice cut through his spiral, bright and hopeful in a way that made him feel even worse. "There you are! I was wondering where you'd disappeared to."

She'd grown up over the winter - he could see it in the confident way she held herself, in the dress that was definitely not something the old Belly would have worn. She was beautiful, and he should feel something about that. Instead, he just felt tired.

"Hey, Belly," he managed, forcing what he hoped looked like a smile.

But his eyes drifted back to Y/N, who was watching him with that perceptive gaze that had always seen too much. She knew something was wrong - he could see it in the way her brow furrowed with concern.

Stay away, he wanted to tell her. Don't look at me like that. It's too dangerous.

Susannah's POV

Susannah Fisher was a master at reading the emotional currents that flowed through her house each summer, and this year, those currents were more complicated than ever.

There was Belly, practically glowing with excitement and hope, her eyes tracking Conrad's every movement with barely concealed adoration. There was Y/N, beautiful and concerned, her gaze soft with the kind of love she probably didn't even realize she was broadcasting. And there was Conrad, her serious boy, who was carrying something heavy enough to dim the light in his eyes.

She'd noticed the change in him over the past few weeks, the way he'd grown quieter and more withdrawn. At first, she'd attributed it to the stress of finishing his senior year, the pressure of college applications and impending adulthood. But this felt different, deeper.

But Conrad had always been a light sleeper, and he'd always been too perceptive for his own good.

"Dinner in an hour!" she announced to the group. "Y/N, will you be joining us?"

"Actually," Y/N said, glancing toward her own house, "my parents wanted me home for dinner tonight. Rain check?"

Conrad's head snapped up at that, and for a moment, his mask slipped enough for Susannah to see the disappointment underneath. Oh, my sweet boy, she thought. Why won't you just tell her how you feel?

"Of course, sweetheart," Susannah replied. "Tomorrow night, then."

As Y/N headed back toward her house, Susannah caught the way both Conrad and Belly watched her go, though for very different reasons. This summer was going to test all of them in ways she wasn't sure they were ready for.

She just hoped they'd all survive it intact.

Y/N's POV - Evening

The text came just as you were finishing dinner with your parents: Bonfire tonight at the beach. You in? - Jere

You stared at the message for a long moment, weighing your options. Part of you wanted to stay home, to avoid the complicated dynamics that seemed to be brewing between you and Conrad and Belly. But a bigger part of you needed to be there, needed to try to figure out what was wrong with Conrad and how you could help.

I'll be there, you typed back.

An hour later, you were walking across the dunes toward the glow of the bonfire, your bare feet sinking into the still-warm sand. The beach was already crowded with local kids and summer residents, the air filled with laughter and the sound of someone's Bluetooth speaker competing with the crash of waves.

You spotted the Fisher boys immediately - Jeremiah was holding court near the fire, animated and charming as always, while Conrad stood apart from the group, a beer in his hand and that same distant expression on his face.

What you didn't expect was to see him with Nicole Martinez, a local girl you'd known peripherally for years. She was beautiful in an effortless way, with sun-streaked hair and the kind of confidence that came from never doubting your place in the world. Her hand was resting casually on Conrad's arm as she laughed at something he'd said.

The sight hit you like a physical blow, jealousy and hurt flooding your system before you could stop them. You had no claim on Conrad Fisher - you'd never even told him how you felt - but seeing him with someone else made you realize just how deep your feelings actually ran.

Get it together, you told yourself firmly. You're here for the same reason you've always been here - because these people are your family, and family shows up.

You made your way over to where Steven and Jeremiah were debating the merits of different surfboard brands, forcing a smile and trying to ignore the way your eyes kept drifting back to Conrad and Nicole.

"Y/N!" Steven greeted you with a grin. "Thank God you're here. Maybe you can talk some sense into Jere about his ridiculous board choices."

"Hey, my board choices are excellent," Jeremiah protested. "I'm just ahead of my time."

Their easy banter was exactly what you needed, and you let yourself sink into the familiar rhythm of summer friendships. But even as you laughed at their jokes and joined their conversations, you remained hyperaware of Conrad's presence across the fire.

He looked up once and caught your eye, and for a moment, his expression softened into something that looked almost like longing. But then Nicole said something that made him laugh, and the moment was broken.

Belly's POV

Sneaking out had seemed like such a good idea than watching movies with the moms. Mom had been clear that I wasn't allowed to go - something about it being too late and not properly supervised - but I was seventeen, not seven. I could handle a beach party.

Now, standing at the edge of the firelight in my carefully chosen outfit, I was starting to second-guess myself. Everyone looked older, more sophisticated, more like they belonged here. And Conrad was definitely not alone.

I spotted Conrad with a girl - she looked the kind of girl who made everything look effortless. She was exactly the kind of girl Conrad Fisher should be with.

The thought made my chest ache with something that felt suspiciously like defeat.

"Belly?" Steven's voice cut through my spiral, sharp with surprise and anger. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Great. Now I was going to get lectured by my brother in front of everyone. This night was going exactly as planned.

"I'm hanging out," I said, lifting my chin with more confidence than I felt. "Same as everyone else."

"You're supposed to be at home," Steven shot back, moving toward me with that protective-brother expression I knew all too well. "Mom's going to kill you when she finds out you snuck out."

"I'm not a child, Steven," I snapped, my embarrassment making me defensive. "I can make my own decisions."

"Obviously not, if this is the kind of decision you're making," he retorted.

I could feel people starting to stare, could see Y/N looking concerned and Jeremiah moving toward us with diplomat written all over his face. The last thing I wanted was to cause a scene, but Steven was treating me like I was still twelve years old.

"You don't get to control my life," I said, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay calm.

"I'm trying to protect you," Steven replied, grabbing my arm. "From making stupid mistakes that could get you in serious trouble."

"Get off me!" I yanked my arm away, and that's when Jeremiah finally reached us.

"Hey, hey," he said, his voice calm and soothing. "Let's all take a step back here. Belly, Steven, just worried about you. Steven, maybe we can find a middle ground?"

But before anyone could respond, the sound of raised voices erupted from somewhere near the water's edge. A fight was breaking out, and from the sound of it, it was getting serious fast.

That's when I heard Conrad's voice, sharp with anger and slurred with alcohol, and my blood ran cold.

Conrad's POV

The fight had started over something stupid.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the crushing weight of pretending everything was fine when his world was falling apart, but something in him just broke. The stranger was bigger and clearly looking for trouble, but Conrad was beyond caring about consequences.

Through the haze of adrenaline and rage, he was dimly aware of people shouting, of the crowd forming a circle around them. This was exactly the kind of scene he usually went out of his way to avoid, but tonight he couldn't seem to care about anything except hitting something until the pain in his chest went away.

The stranger lunged at him again, and Conrad barely managed to duck out of the way. That's when he saw them - Y/N and Belly, both rushing toward the fight from different directions, both with expressions of panic and determination.

No, he thought desperately. Stay back. Don't get involved.

But it was too late. Y/N reached the stranger first, grabbing his arm to try to pull him away, just as the guy's elbow came back hard and fast. The sound of the impact was sickening, and Conrad watched in horror as Y/N crumpled to the sand, Belly stumbling and falling nearby.

Everything else ceased to matter. The fight, his anger, the stranger who was still looking for round two - all of it disappeared in the face of Y/N's still form on the beach.

He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands shaking as he gently touched her shoulder. "Y/N, oh my God, Y/N," his voice was rough with panic. "Can you hear me?"

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused, and the relief that flooded through him was so intense it made him dizzy.

"I'm here," he whispered, fighting to keep his voice steady. "I'm here. You're going to be okay."

Somewhere behind him, he could hear Belly getting to her feet, could hear sirens in the distance. But his entire world had narrowed to Y/N's pale face and the growing bruise on her cheek.

This is your fault, the voice in his head whispered. She got hurt because of you. Because you can't control yourself. Because you're exactly the kind of person who brings chaos to everyone around you.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she said, smiling over her shoulder. “You sleep okay?”

“Like a rock,” you replied, stealing a blueberry from the bowl on the counter.

“Like a witch,” Conrad muttered, wandering in shirtless and half-asleep. “I heard you pacing at like, midnight. Thought you were summoning something.”

“She was,” Jeremiah chimed in behind him. “The tragic spirits of her failed love life.

“Funny,” you said, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at your lips, “especially coming from the guy who sobbed over his seventh-grade boyfriend.”

Jeremiah clutched his chest like you’d just stabbed him. “That was a real connection!”

You raised a brow. “It lasted four days.”

“Still counts.”

“And now that I think about it…” You paused dramatically, tapping your chin. “That was also your longest relationship, wasn’t it?”

Conrad cracked the ghost of a smirk as he leaned against the counter.

Jeremiah’s jaw dropped. “Wow. Okay. So we’re throwing low blows now?”

“Just observing patterns, sweetie.”

Your mom laughed, flipping another pancake. “You kids, must you always be like this? You bicker like it’s your love language.”

“It is,” you and Conrad said at the same time, then blinked at each other.

“Ew, we’re syncing,” you muttered. “I need to leave immediately.”

You poured yourself a glass of orange juice and reached for your tote bag.

“Where are you headed?” Susannah asked.

“Thinking I’ll head to town, rent one of those little skiff boats,” you said, tossing an apple into your bag. “I want to get out on the water, take some photos before the rest of the circus rolls in. Maybe read a little too.”

“Belly, Steven, and Laurel should be rolling in around one,” Susannah called as she turned off the stove, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“I’ll be back before the circus starts,” you promised, slinging your bag over your shoulder and grabbing your sunglasses from the counter.

“Lather up, sunscreen queen!” Jeremiah yelled after you, dramatically cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Try not to fall in,” Conrad added, barely looking up from where he was nursing his coffee. “Though… honestly? Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

Without turning around, you raised your middle finger high in the air and waltzed out the back door like you’d just won an award, the screen slamming lightly behind you.

You were grinning before your feet even hit the porch steps.

The sunlight hit you like a kiss as soon as you stepped outside, warm and syrup-thick, already starting to melt the edges of the morning. You took a deep breath, let the sea breeze sweep through your lungs, and jogged down the porch steps to where your bike was waiting in the grass like it always was.

The ride into town was easy, the kind of familiar that let your mind wander. The wheels hummed over the pavement, past dune fences and flowering bushes spilling over picket gates. You waved at a golden retriever sunbathing on someone’s front steps and dodged a couple of early joggers with an effortless “sorry!” tossed over your shoulder.

Cousins was still yawning itself awake when you pulled up beside the marina. The water glittered like a tray of spilt diamonds, and the air carried that sweet mix of salt and engine oil. You leaned your bike against the same old lamppost and headed down the creaky dock toward a weathered boathouse with peeling blue paint and a wind chime that never quite stopped singing.

And there she was, Mrs. Kersey, sitting on her usual stool by the window, a floppy sun hat drooping over one eye and a Styrofoam cup of sweet tea sweating in her hand and a crossword in the other.

You grinned. “Morning, Miss Kersey.”

“You’re late,” she said, not looking up from her crossword. “Already handed your boat off to some frat boys in salmon-colored shorts.”

You clutched your chest in mock horror. “The betrayal.”

“Guess that means you’ll have to go home and listen to your brothers bicker all morning.”

You groaned. “Please, no. I’ll do anything.”

She rolled her eyes and waved you toward the back. “It’s out there, same one as always.”

You lingered a second longer, propping your elbows on the counter. “You ever gonna let me pay you for it?”

Miss Kersey gave a snort. “For that dusty thing? Wouldn’t see daylight if it weren’t for you. You’re doing it a favor.”

“I’ll pretend I’m flattered.”

“You always do,” she muttered, but her mouth twitched.

You laughed and thanked her again, stepping out to the dock where your little old boat was tied up, bobbing gently on the water like it had been waiting too.

You tossed your bag in, climbed aboard, and pushed off with a practiced foot.

And just like that, you were off, drifting past the harbor, the houses shrinking behind you, the world softening around the edges.

You reached for your camera from the bottom of the bag, snapped a few frames of the coastline—Miss Kersey’s weathered dock, the sleepy buildings behind it, the strip of sand where some early risers were setting up umbrellas.

The boat continued to drift, like the current already knew where you wanted to go.

You paddled lazily for a while, just enough to steer yourself past the usual boat traffic, aiming toward that patch of coastline no one ever really claimed. The oars cutting soft ripples into the water, your dress bunched beneath you, and your bag tucked safe at your feet.

The sun sat warm on your shoulders, and the further you went, the quieter everything became. Just the hush of the wind, the lap of the waves, and the distant cry of gulls somewhere overhead.

Eventually, you let the oars fall beside you and reached into your tote for your camera. The good one, the battered but reliable one, with a strap that had once belonged to your mom. You lifted it, adjusted the settings by instinct, and started snapping.

Click.

The sun on the surface of the water, like spilt glitter.

Click.

Your bare legs stretched across the boat, the shadow of your fingers on the seat beside you.

Click.

A bird taking off, wings wide, water catching the light behind it like a trail of gold.

You let out a sigh and leaned back against the seat, camera resting in your lap, satisfied. This was the kind of quiet that didn’t last once summer really kicked in. The kind that made you feel small in the best way, drifting dot on the open water, untethered and unnoticed.

You reached into your tote bag, and first came your earbuds, old, wired ones with the cord twisted into a kind of permanent knot, and then your phone, cracked at the corner, salt-sticky from summers past. You thumbed through your music, squinting against the sun, and hit play on the Queen playlist you always came back to.

The boat rocked gently as the opening chords filled your head, the wind ruffling your hair in time with the music and Freddie Mercury in your bloodstream.

Then you pulled out your book, the spine cracked, corners curled, the pages worn soft from rereading. It smelled faintly of sunscreen and salt. You flipped to where you’d left off and let the words carry you.

You slid your legs over the edge, dipping your feet into the cool water. It sent a sharp little chill up your spine at first, but then it felt good. Your toes cut soft ripples into the surface as you leaned back, the slats at your back digging into your shoulder blades....

Your headphones were in, Queen humming in your ears (Somebody To Love, of course), and your book lay open on your lap, pages flickering a little in the breeze.

You had just closed your eyes, just for a minute, maybe five... or ten.

That’s when the cold crept higher.

You blinked awake and instinctively pulled your legs back in, frowning as the sudden shift made the boat rock beneath you. You sat up straighter.

Then you saw it, the water and not just freaking splashing, the damned water was pooling.

You stared at it. “…Shit.”

You tossed your book onto the bench beside you, yanked both headphones out, and lurched forward onto your knees, sloshing straight into the rising puddle. The water was colder now, up past your ankles, seeping into the floorboards like it belonged there.

“Oh, come on,” you hissed, scooping it out with your hands like that would do anything. It splashed right back in, mocking you.

Your tote bag was already damp at the bottom. You scrambled to pull it up onto the seat, heart hammering. You fished out your phone first (still dry, thank God), then your camera, holding it close like a lifeline. The strap was dripping, but the body was intact.

The book came last, waterlogged at the corners, but you shoved it back in the bag like you could pretend it hadn’t been bleeding ink just seconds ago.

The boat gave a low groan, like it knew it had betrayed you.

“I swear to God, Mrs Kersey, this stupid death trap—” you muttered, scooping another pathetic handful of water over the edge. It went nowhere.

Your knees were wet, your dress was soaked, and your dignity was gone, but you continued nonetheless.

Scooping water with your hands and throwing it off, muttering a nonstop string of curses under your breath, hair sticking to your face, salt on your lips.

The boat gave another ominous creak and dipped slightly lower.

“Fantastic,” you snapped. “Go ahead. Sink. Finish the job, you traitorous piece of—”

You saw it.

An island, a big, green and too quiet island.

You squinted, wiped your wet hair off your face, and blinked again, you recognized it, vaguely.... wasn't it;

“Beachwood.”

The private and very much off-limits island... and right now, you did not give a single fart about that because it was land. Solid, dry, beautiful land. And right now, you would kiss the sand if it meant getting out of that sinking boat.

You paddled with the best of your ability.

With arms that felt like jelly and a dress that clung to you like regret. Every stroke was fueled by pure adrenaline, mild rage, and the unshakable belief that this boat would sink out from under you if you gave it the chance.

The shore crept closer, maddeningly slow, like it was watching and laughing, making you curse out loud, at the boat, at the wind, at your fucking life choices.

But finally, the bow scraped against sand with a glorious, crunchy little thud.

You practically leapt out, dragging the cursed vessel just enough onto the beach so it wouldn’t float off and finish dying without you. Your feet sank into the wet shoreline, dress dripping, hair plastered to your neck, and your whole body screaming for rest.

But you made it.

You dropped your tote, fell backwards into the sand with a dramatic groan, and lay there for a full minute, breathing like you’d just finish a marathon and for a minute, you just stared at the sky.

What the actual fuck were you supposed to do now?

Call your mom? Conrad? Jeremiah? Right. Like those last two choices wouldn’t be humiliating.

It was definitely past one anyways. They were probably back at the house, catching up with Laurel, and Belly, and Steven. Sitting around the table, laughing, eating cold pasta salad and watermelon, completely unaware that you were currently trespassing on a private island.

Oh God.

You sat up fast.

OH GOD YOU WERE IN Beachwood.

Like, actual Beachwood.

You looked up at the island properly for the first time. The trees stretched thick and wild across the land, but there, perched high enough to see, close enough to make your stomach twist, was the house.

Big and distant... but not distant enough for your liking.

Oh… God.

You’d heard what happened here last summer. Everyone had, in that hushed, half-knowing kind of way. You’d already left Cousins when it happened. The news had spread like wildfire (no pun intended), but details were scarce.

Fire and deaths.

The house had burned, people had died, but no one really knew who or how or why. There was no press release, no statement, just whispers, rumors.

Because this wasn’t just any family, this was the Sinclair's. A family that didn’t do public.

Richer than half of Cousins Beach combined, or so the gossip always went, they hardly ever showed face in town. No backyard barbecues, no farmers’ market runs, no polite chitchat with your mom at the post office.

They had people for that.

Locals who worked the grounds came and went in quiet, unmarked cars. The kind of wealth that didn’t make noise because it didn’t have to.

And now here you were.

Soaked to the bone, dripping with sand and panic. Trespassing on their haunted, half-burned island like some dumbass summer cliché gone horribly wrong.

Your mouth went dry, this wasn’t just about getting out of a sinking boat anymore, this was about not getting arrested.

Shit shit shittttttt

Okay. Think.

You glanced at the boat.

Yeah, no. That was done, half-beached, half-dead and fully useless.

Swim for it? You can barely dog-paddle in a pool, let alone open water. Try again.

Calling your mom? Yeah, that was the plans, crew the embarrassment, you’d take the teasing, if it meant getting out of this mess. You reached into your tote, yanked your phone out and your heart stopped.

“No. No, no, no—”

Half the things inside were soaked. Absolutely drenched.

You dropped to your knees, panic clawing up your throat as you started pulling everything out, one waterlogged item at a time. Your book, ruined, the pages already wilting and curling like dead petals. Your towel, sopping wet, useless. Your phone, screen flickering, maybe, or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

And then your camera, your stomach turned.

“Oh, God,” you whispered.

It was dripping, actually dripping.

You turned it over, unscrewed the bottom, and popped the battery out with trembling fingers. Everything inside looked damp, too damp. You wanted to scream, but it caught in your chest instead, sharp and helpless.

Tears pricked at your eyes.

All those photos, of Cousins mornings, of the dock, of your brothers in all their goofy, golden-hour chaos, gone. You hadn’t backed them up. You hadn’t even thought about it.

You sat there, in the slowly sinking boat, salt on your lips and fire behind your eyes, clutching a waterlogged camera like it might still love you back.

OKAY. NO. No time for crying. No time for a breakdown. You could have a meltdown later, in the shower, maybe, or buried under your covers with headphones on full blast, but save and sound back home.

You stood up and spun in place, scanning the treeline, the rocky edges of the shore, the ominously expensive-looking house in the distance.

And tucked just off to the side, half-swallowed by trees, you saw a smaller building, worn, low-roofed, and vaguely familiar in the way all boathouses were.

Maybe… maybe someone was there, a caretaker or a groundskeeper.

Someone who could help you get back to town without asking too many questions. Someone who wouldn’t report you, or recognize you, or even speak a word of this to the Sinclairs.

Hope flares hard in your chest.

Please let there be a sympathetic local. Please let them have a working radio, an extra dinghy, a miraculous teleportation device—anything.

You yank your tote higher on your shoulder, give the half-dead rowboat one last glare (traitor), and start slogging up the sand. Every squelchy step leaves a puddle. Your dress clings like seaweed and your dignity? Long gone.

As you reach the boathouse, the wind rattles a loose plank, clack-clack-clack. Charming. You stop just outside the door, water still dripping off your elbows, and clear your throat.

“Hello?” you call, voice thin and unsteady. “Anyone here? I’m, uh… a little stranded—long story!”

Silence.

Your heart starts punching the inside of your ribs as you take a shaky breath, push the door open wider, and step into the dimness.

It smells like salt, old rope, engine grease, and the kind of wood that only exists near water, swollen, soft, and sun-warped. Light leaks in through crooked slats. Cobwebs cling to corners. A boat engine sits in pieces on a workbench, untouched.

You take another step.

“Hello?” you try again, louder this time, but still no answer.

You let out a groan so dramatic it could’ve won an award, clapping both hands over your face like maybe if you smothered yourself just hard enough, the universe would erase the last twenty minutes and teleport you back to Cousins with dry clothes and your sanity intact.

What were you supposed to do now?

Camp out in the creepy boathouse like some soggy cryptid? Wait until a Sinclair helicopter flew overhead and waved you off with a lawsuit?

You dragged your hands down your face and muttered under your breath, “Okay. No big deal. Just illegally marooned on a haunted billionaire island with no boat, and a bag full of soaked regrets. Totally fine.”

The wood creaked beneath your soaked shoes as you took another cautious step, peering around like a raccoon in someone’s garage, eyes wide, posture guilty, hoping to at least spot an old towel or something to dry you off.

You were about two seconds away from drying off with a boat tarp when a voice cut through the air behind you.

“You know this is private property, right?”

You screeched, a full-body, no-shame, startled-animal sound, as you whirled around and simultaneously tried to jump back from the unseen threat.

Which, unfortunately, resulted in your heel catching on a coil of rope, sending your soggy self down like a sack of wet laundry. You landed hard on your butt with a dramatic thud, bag still clutched to your chest, hair in your eyes, pride in shambles.

When you finally blinked up, there was a boy. Your age, maybe a little older. Tall, sun-dusted skin, blonde hair falling into his eyes like he didn’t care enough to fix it. Leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the clear fact that he was definitely judging you.

You, meanwhile, were sprawled in a puddle of your own chaos, dress clinging to your thighs, saltwater dripping from your elbows, hair half in your mouth, soggy bag clenched like a security blanket.

“What the hell, dude?” you snapped, still half on the ground, voice breathless and somewhere between offended and mortified.

He lifted a brow. “I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

“You don’t just sneak up on people like that!” you huffed, scrambling to your feet, brushing off sand that only smeared deeper into your soaked dress. “What’s wrong with you?”

He scoffed, unfolding his arms and gesturing pointedly in your direction. “What’s wrong with me? You’re the one sneaking around.”

“I wasn’t sneaking!” you snapped. “I—I was having a perfectly normal, peaceful morning. Took a boat out, was reading, taking some pictures, minding my own business, and then bam—my boat breaks down, water starts pouring in, half my stuff gets soaked, including, but not limited to my phone, so now I can’t even call anyone and it was either come here or try swimming for it, and newsflash, I’m not a good swimmer, okay?"

You gestured wildly toward your soaked dress, your dripping tote bag. “Do I look like someone who- who likes to be on other peoples properties?”

The boy with bright blue eyes just watched you.

You kept going, because now it was happening, the word-vomit spiral.

“I mean, it’s kind of ironic, right? I’ve been coming to Cousins every summer since I was, like, eight. You’d think I’d know how to swim better by now. But no, when I panic, I sink, like a rock. It’s actually kind of tragic if you think about it—”

“You always talk this much?” he cut in, not unkindly, more… curious. Bemused, if you will.

You blinked, suddenly aware of how hot your face felt, how hard you were breathing, and how thoroughly you’d just overshared with a total stranger.

“Okay,” you said, wiping wet hair from your eyes, “first of all—rude. And second, no. I don’t usually talk this much. I’m just—this is—look, I’m under a lot of stress, okey?”

You huffed, adjusting your bag like it would give you authority.

“Why don’t you just help me get off this island, alright? Preferably before the Richie Rich clan realizes I’m here and sues me into a tragic early grave. I really don’t have the emotional bandwidth for felony trespassing today.”

He stared at you, one brow lifted. “Richie Rich?”

You blinked at him. “Y’know… the 1994 movie? With Macaulay Culkin? Kid lives in a mansion the size of a shopping mall, owns a rollercoaster in his backyard, has a butler who’s basically a full-time therapist-slash-babysitter? Has a McDonald’s in his house?”

He kept looking at you.

You threw your hands up, a soggy, dramatic mess. “How have you never seen Richie Rich? It's, like, required viewing for anyone who’s ever looked at a yacht and felt poor.”

He just stared, unbothered, maybe even entertained, and you didn’t stop, of course, you didn’t.

“Anyway, point is—that’s the vibe I got when people talk about the Sinclairs. Y’know? Filthy rich, super mysterious, creepy old money energy," You gestured vaguely toward the trees. “I mean, Clairmont? Please. They probably have robots that wipe their countertops. You can’t even look in this direction from Cousins without someone whispering about ‘the Sinclairs’ like they’re some sort of old-money cult.”

The boy’s lips twitched, you didn’t notice.

“They never talk to anyone, like ever, unless it’s their staff or something. My brother once saw one of them at the marina and said she looked like she was allergic to the air. And don’t even get me started on the fire—like, what happened last summer? No news. No details. Just this ‘tragic accident’ and then silence, because God forbid the golden Sinclairs actually—”

“Don’t,” he said, flat.

Just one low word, but sharp enough to slice straight through your rant and to blink up at him.

His arms had dropped, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight. His whole body language had shifted, from vaguely bemused stranger to something much more closed off. Guarded, in a way, like a switch had flipped and you were suddenly, unmistakably, on the wrong side of it.

You swallowed, “…What?”

He shook his head slightly, looked away. “Maybe let’s skip the gossip next time. Especially when you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Your stomach dropped, a cold wave of realization hit you square in the chest.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

The sharp jaw, the sun-lightened hair, the quiet weight in his eyes, not just silence, but grief, tucked beneath the surface like something he’d been carrying too long.

And suddenly, your heart was crawling up your throat. “…You’re a Sin—”

"Johnny?" A woman’s voice called from outside, cutting clean through the tension. It sounded worried.

You froze.

“Johnny!” another voice followed, this one younger, a boy, loud and gaining fast.

You watched his jaw tighten, watched his whole body go still.

Of course, he was a Sinclair... And now there were witnesses.

Panic ricocheted inside your chest. You turned to him, wide-eyed, one breath away from begging.

“Please,” you whispered. “I can’t—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—”

But the footsteps were already too close. There was no hiding, no running, no burying yourself in the sand like a cartoon character.

A woman stepped into the doorway, tall, striking, her expression halfway between confusion and concern. She looked just enough like the boy in front of you that the connection was obvious. His mother. And right behind her, trailing in on sand-dusted sneakers, was a younger boy, messy-haired, sunburnt nose, eyes wide with curiosity.

Her gaze snapped to him first. “Johnny, what—”

And then she saw you. Soaked, disheveled and standing in their boathouse like the world’s saddest home intruder.

You gave her your best attempt at a smile. Something between please don’t call the cops and I swear I’m not dangerous.

“Hi…” you said, voice pitching up like it might shatter. “So sorry to, um… drop in.”

The woman blinked, clearly still processing the drowned rat standing in her boathouse. “Who are you?”

“Y/N Fisher, ma’am,” you said quickly, slapping on that same wide smile, though now it was visibly cracking at the edges. “I’m from Cousins. Been coming since I was eight! Love it here. Really big fan of the—uh, ocean.”

Her brows didn’t move, not one inch of relief.

You swallowed.

“So what happened was,” you rushed on, “I was just paddling around, you know? Taking pictures, reading, minding my business—when my boat just decided to quit on me. Fully mutinied. Started leaking out of nowhere and, long story short, I had to pick between sinking or, um…”

You gestured around helplessly. “…illegally trespassing. I chose trespassing. Which I now realize is not technically better, but in the moment, it felt like a survival situation. You get it, right?”

The young boy snorted, Johnny’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

His mother, however, was still just looking at you like someone who could shatter your entire world with a single phone call.

“Uh-huh,” she said slowly. “And you just ended up here.”

“Completely by accident, scout’s honor. Except I was never a scout. But, you know… same idea.” You gave a weak, strangled little laugh.

“I-I did try to call my mom,” you added quickly, holding up your bag like it might serve as evidence. “But my phone’s totally soaked. Like, dead. Not even a buzz. So I figured… boathouse? Human contact? Maybe a towel? Possibly avoid drowning or federal charges?”

Silence stretched for a second too long, and you thought, briefly, about running... But where? Into the trees? Off a cliff?

'Kill me,' you thought. 'Just kill me now.'

Johnny, behind you, finally cleared his throat.

“She’s not dangerous,” he said, tone bone-dry. “At least not unless you count aggressive rambling and falling over stuff.”

You nearly turned to glare at him again, but stopped yourself, probably because you were on thin ice and soaking wet and had zero legal ground to stand on.

Before his mom could respond, the smaller voice, his little brother, cut in, suddenly lighting up. “Wait! I know you! You’re the girl from the ice cream shop last summer, aren’t you?”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “I—what?”

“Yeah! Scoops Ahoy!” he said, already animated. “You gave me your cone when mine fell. And then—and then I got lost ‘cause Johnny and Mom were getting sandwiches, and you stayed with me the whole time and helped me look for them.”

And just like that, the memory clicked into place.

You had spent a whole afternoon with some poor lost kid last summer. Mint-chip cone sacrificed. Sand in your shoes. Sitting with him on the boardwalk bench while you cracked dumb jokes to keep him from crying. You’d ended up walking the beach with him for a while, holding his hand and letting him chatter about shells and sharks and Space Jam, before a brown-skinned man with a frantic expression had come running up, scooped him into a hug, and thanked you over and over.

You’d never gotten his name, never thought you’d see the kid again.

“Oh. Right. Captain Waffles, wasn’t it?” you said slowly, the nickname tumbling out like muscle memory.

The boy’s face lit up. He nodded so hard his hair flopped into his eyes. “Yes! You remembered!"

You grinned despite yourself. “Hard to forget someone who insisted on being addressed like a breakfast superhero for three hours.”

“I still use that name on my Switch!” he beamed.

Johnny’s mom gave a small laugh, quiet, disbelieving. “You’re that girl.”

You lifted your hands helplessly. “Apparently?”

The boy turned to her, nodding fiercely. “She stayed with me the whole time I got lost, Mom. Remember?” Then he looked back at you with that open, bright-eyed sincerity only kids could pull off. “You said I could have your ice cream because heroes share. Remember?”

You laughed, the sound breaking through your embarrassment like sunlight. Despite being soaked, despite trespassing, despite standing knee-deep in mortification… something warm bloomed in your chest.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I remember now.”

“I told them about you!” the boy burst out, practically bouncing in place. “I said you were the nicest girl ever. I kept looking for you again after that.”

Your breath caught a little, but you smiled anyway, a real one this time, small and surprised.

Johnny was also staring at you, but with a different expression. Eyebrows slightly raised, like he didn’t know what to do with this new information.

His mom looked down at her youngest, then back at you and for the first time, she actually smiled.

“Well,” she said, her voice lighter now, with just the faintest trace of amusement, “if you’re that girl, I suppose we can skip the part where I call security.”

You let out a breath that sounded embarrassingly close to a wheeze.

“God, thank you,” you said, pressing a hand to your chest like you might keel over. “Really appreciate the mercy.”

Behind you, Johnny muttered, deadpan, “Close call, though.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, somewhere between seriously? and try me again, golden boy.

He didn’t flinch, just raised an eyebrow like he was waiting for you to say something back. You rolled your eyes and turned forward again, but not before he caught the hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

“C’mon,” his mom said, glancing between the two of you (and you really hoped she hadn’t caught the glare you’d just shot her son). She stepped aside, voice softening. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’re trembling, dear.”

You hadn’t even realized it, but now that she said it… yeah. Your hands were shaking slightly, your dress clung to your skin like a second, soggy spine, and the adrenaline that had carried you this far was starting to wear off.

“Right,” you said with a weak laugh, hiking your bag up again. “Turns out trespassing and near-drowning is a pretty effective form of adrenaline release.”

His mother gave you a look, half-amused, half motherly. “Let’s try to avoid making it a habit.”

"Yes, ma'am." Your lips were pressed into a sheepish smile.

As you stepped onto the path, the boy, Captain Waffles, forever in your mind, trotted up beside you, practically bouncing.

You’d think you’d just parachuted in from space the way he looked at you. Like you were some kind of summer legend returned to life, he chattered nonstop, telling you everything from his Switch username to how many times he’d wiped out on his skateboard this week.

You listened, smiling, letting the familiar rhythm of a kid’s voice soften the aftershocks of panic still buzzing in your limbs.

As you walked, bag slung tight against your shoulder and your damp dress clinging stubbornly to your legs, you couldn’t help it, you started looking around. Casually or so you hoped.

Because you’d expected… something else.

This was the infamous Clairmont, wasn’t it? The island that had burned. That had haunted whispers and missing answers attached to its name. You’d half-prepared yourself for blackened trees, boarded windows, a scorched silence pressed into the dirt.

But the island was green, lush and quiet in that strange, careful way. If something had burned here, the island or more likely it's habitants had done an unnervingly good job of covering it up.

“We’re almost to Red Gate,” he announced proudly, cutting you out of your train of thought. “That’s what we call it.”

You followed his gaze to the house just coming into view.

It was big, but not showy. Set back into the trees, surrounded by quiet. The first thing you noticed was the red door, bold and worn, with a little chipping around the edges, as if it had been opened and closed a million times.

You didn’t know what you were expecting from the Sinclairs’ private island house, but it wasn’t… this. It felt lived-in. Real, like a place with history, like a place where people argued and laughed and slammed doors.

You had the weirdest urge to knock, even though you were already being let in.

Captain Waffles turned back, grinning. “That’s where we stay when we’re here. Me, Johnny, Ed, and mom. It’s got the best couch in the entire island.”

You raised your eyebrows. “The best couch? Bold claim. What are we talkin, nap levels? Or full-on ‘I could survive a zombie apocalypse as long as I have this couch’ levels?”

He laughed, bright and unfiltered, the kind that made your chest lighten a little.

“Both!” he said, practically skipping the last few steps to the porch. “It has a dent in the shape of Johnny’s butt from how much he hogs it lately.”

Behind you, you swore you heard a groan of pure older-sibling suffering. "Willy."

Ah. So that was his name.

Willy turned back toward his brother, completely unbothered. “It does, though!”

You bit back a grin. “Don’t worry, Willy. All the best couches have a butt dent. It means they’ve lived a full life.”

Another burst of laughter left the boy.

The red door creaked open, and you hovered awkwardly on the threshold.

You weren’t sure why it felt so big, stepping inside. Maybe because you weren’t supposed to be here or because this was a Sinclair house... or maybe because everything about it felt too quiet, too lived-in, too full of things that mattered to people who weren’t you.

You crossed the doorway like a thief in church.

Inside, the air was cooler. It smelled like linen and old wood, a faint trace of salt, and something warm, lemons, maybe, or the tail end of breakfast. The floors were wide-planked, scuffed with years of feet. The light was soft, filtered through gauzy curtains.

Cozy in a way you hadn’t expected.

You tried to make yourself small, shoulders tucked in, arms wrapped tight around your bag, thankfully now more dry than you had been in a while but still moist, for lack of better words.

Johnny stepped past you without looking and disappeared down the hall.

His mother (you still didn’t know her name, and that somehow made everything worse) turned slightly and called over her shoulder, calm but firm, “Willy, can you grab a towel for her? From the upstairs linen closet?”

“On it!” Willy chirped, taking off at full speed, feet thudding up the stairs like a kid on a mission.

You stood there in the entryway, hugging your damp self and trying very hard not to let your eyes dart around too much. But it was hard not to look. The mismatched framed photos on the walls. The stack of mail on the table. A pair of shoes kicked off haphazardly by the stairs.

Johnny’s mom turned back to you, offering a smile that was warm but just a little too practiced, like she’d hosted a hundred kids before and still hadn’t decided whether to treat you like one of them.

“Don’t just stand there, sweetheart. Come in, come in.” She motioned toward the living room, where the cushions were sunken just slightly from use. “You’re soaked. Make yourself comfortable—well, as comfortable as you can be when you’ve just been rescued from a sinking boat.”

You forced a smile, stepping gingerly inside, trying not to leave a trail behind you. “Sorry about the water.”

“Oh, please,” she waved it off. “This house has seen worse. Sand, blood, tears—you name it.”

That made you pause.

Not because of the mess, or the chaos she was describing, but because your mind had gone straight to the accident.... The blood. The tears. The silence that followed.

You didn’t mean to let it show, but something must’ve flickered across your face, because she glanced at you again, just a little too long, just sharp enough to notice.

Then, as if gently redirecting, she added, “Boys growing up around here. It's never quiet, and it’s never clean. You’re fine.”

You could tell by the slight shift in her tone, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, that it was a touchy subject. Something with weight behind it and you, soaked to the bone and feeling like an intruder, didn’t want to press on bruises you couldn’t see.

So you steered the conversation away, let out a soft huff of laughter, and said, “Wouldn’t I know. I’ve got two brothers, one older, one younger. It’s like living in the middle of a never-ending wrestling match.”

That earned a real smile from her, not big, but a little softer, a little less careful.

“Oh, the middle child and the only girl”, she said knowingly, as if that explained everything. “Poor thing. No wonder you ran off to sink yourself in the ocean.”

You grinned and shrugged. “It was either that or throw one of them in it.”

She laughed, and just like that, the tension cracked. Not gone, but gentler now, like maybe you could be a little more than the girl in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Footsteps pounded back down the stairs, and Willy appeared, holding a towel over his head like a victory flag.

“Mission accomplished!” he announced proudly, handing it to you with a grin.

You took the towel with both hands, dripping all over the floor despite your best effort not to. “Why, thank you, Captain Waffle. You’re a lifesaver.”

He puffed up with pride. “I am known for my heroic deeds.”

“Are you also known for naming yourself after breakfast?” you asked, raising a brow as you started patting down your hair.

“Obviously,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Waffles are elite. Pancakes are just lazy waffles.”

You bit back a laugh as you wiped your forehead. “Can’t argue with logic like that.”

Willy hadn’t stopped talking.

He was sitting criss-cross on the rug across from you, narrating something about a swordfight he once staged with a garden rake and a traffic cone. You were perched on the edge of the armchair, towel wrapped around your shoulders like a sad, soggy superhero cape, doing your best to keep up.

“So then I told Johnny it wasn’t cheating, because technically the hose wasn’t loaded yet, and—” He stopped suddenly. “You’re not listening.”

“I am,” you said, smiling weakly. “There was a hose and a rake. Some kind of epic betrayal.”

He gave a dramatic sigh, but forgave you with the ease of a ten-year-old already onto the next story.

You were saved by the soft clink of a mug being set down.

Miss Sinclair, stepped into the room holding two mugs. One she handed to you.

“Tea,” she said. “Didn’t have hot chocolate, but it’s sweet. Figured you needed something warm.”

You took it with both hands, grateful for the heat seeping into your fingers. “Tea's perfect, thank you, Miss Sinclair.”

She gave the barest flicker of a smile and sat across from you on the edge of the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, mug resting neatly in her lap.

Willy, meanwhile, had taken over again, launching into a dramatic retelling of the time he “accidentally on purpose” fell off the dock and swam all the way to the buoy and back just to prove a point to someone named Noah. You weren’t sure who Noah was, but apparently, he was “a doubter” and also “probably jealous.”

You offered the occasional nod and hum, but your eyes kept drifting back to Miss Sinclair, quiet, composed, thought perhaps a bit bohemian, watching the scene unfold like she was used to this exact kind of chaos.

After a moment, she said gently, “The family boat can take you back to Cousins, but it might be a little while. The driver’s making some arrangements.”

You nodded, brushing a wet strand of hair off your face, the towel now resting across your lap like a safety net. “I don’t mind waiting. As long as I’m welcome.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “You are.”

Before you could say anything else, Willy shot up from the floor like he’d been waiting for permission to explode.

"Yes! Let’s play a board game!” he shouted, already halfway to the hall. “I’ll get Johnny!”

You barely had time to open your mouth before he was gone, his voice echoing down the corridor. “JOHNNY! WE NEED YOU! IT’S IMPORTANT!”

You glanced back at her, Miss Sinclair, still nameless and caught the subtle twitch of her lip. Amusement, maybe, maybe exasperation. It was hard to tell with people like her.

“I’m sorry,” you said automatically, not even sure for what.

“Don’t be.” She sipped her tea, composed as ever. “He’s been… stuck here with nothing much to do, adrift in a way. Having you here, however unexpected, feels like a little joy I didn’t know he needed”

You blinked at that, surprised not just by the words, but by the softness behind them. It wasn’t warm exactly, but it wasn’t cold either, like she’d momentarily let the curtain slip.

You grinned at her, maybe a tad awkward from not really knowing what to say, “I’m glad I could help. Even if I did arrive by shipwreck.”

She actually laughed at that, just once, low and surprised, like it had snuck up on her.

Before anything else could be said, Johnny reappeared, wordless and resigned, setting the Monopoly box on the coffee table with the same energy someone might use to place a coffin and Willy trailing behind him like an overly enthusiastic shadow.

Willy plopped down on the floor. “Okay, ground rules,” he declared, fanning the colorful bills the way magicians fan cards. “No hoarding railroads, no making Mom bail you out, and the loser has to do a victory dance of shame.”

Johnny sat down wordlessly on the floor, starting to set up the board like this was just another Tuesday.

You followed, towel still loosely wrapped around you, settling cross-legged at the coffee table. The steam from your tea curled between you and the boy who had fished you out of the water like he hadn’t once planned on speaking to you again.

As Willy was handing out money with reckless abandon, Miss Sinclair rose from the sofa.

“I’ll leave you to it. Shout if you need snacks.” Her gaze met yours for a heartbeat: You good? The warmth behind it surprised you, so you nodded. She disappeared down the hall, soft footfalls fading into the house.

You curl your legs under you, the towel still damp around your waist, and reach for the dog token before Willy could claim it. He gasped like you’d stolen a sacred artefact.

“Oh, it’s on,” he whispered dramatically. “Roll for first!”

The dice tumbled. Johnny’s landed on a two; yours on double sixes. Willy whooped, announcing you the starting player and spinning the board so GO pointed your way.

“Lucky,” he muttered, mock-grumbling as he counted out your starter cash.

You moved the dog two spaces and landed on Baltic Avenue. You grimaced at the watery smudge still creeping along your sleeve. “Guess my luck’s turning around.”

“Don’t speak too soon,” Johnny said, voice low but finally aimed at you. “Baltic’s a money pit.”

You raised a brow. “You sound like you know from experience.”

He shrugged, eyes on the dice. “Some things you learn the hard way.”

Any silence pricked the air. Willy filled it by narrating every move like a sportscaster: “AND THE CROWD GOES WILD AS JOHNNY ROLLS A FOUR—ADVANCING TO THE MOST OVERRATED UTILITY ON THE BOARD!”

He was in full showman mode, and you played along, not because you were dying to dominate Monopoly, but because Willy’s enthusiasm was oddly contagious, and maybe, deep down, you figured the distraction was doing you good too.

“And I will build TWO houses on Boardwalk,” Willy declared, nearly knocking over your tea with the force of his slam. “Your move, shipwreck girl.”

You feigned deep contemplation. “I don’t know… I feel like I should consult my lawyer.”

Willy gasped. “There are no lawyers in Monopoly! Only the strong survive!”

You glanced over at Johnny, who was still half-slouched, but now watching you both with that almost-hidden flicker of amusement in his eyes.

A few rounds later, he finally spoke. “You can’t put hotels on Reading Railroad, dumbass.”

Willy froze mid-action. “You just cursed.”

“You’re breaking the entire economy,” Johnny said, snatching the tiny red hotel out of Willy’s hand and flicking it onto the pile. “It’s like watching capitalism cry.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you are paying attention.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t say I wasn’t.”

A few circuits later, Willy built two houses on Baltic just to say he’d “gentrified the cheap side.” When Johnny landed there, he groaned, flopped backward, and called the whole game corrupt. But then Willy started chanting, “Cap-tain Waf-fle! Cap-tain Waf-fle!” and it was impossible not to laugh, especially when you joined the chant, beating a soft drumroll on the coffee table. Johnny’s shoulders shook, an actual laugh, quiet, rusty, like he’d forgotten the mechanics, but undeniably real.

He sat up straighter after that.

Then came the bidding war for the last railroad. Johnny, suddenly animated, slammed the thimble down as a “hand grenade bid.” You and Willy burst into dramatic screams. Miss Sinclair paused in the doorway, eyebrow raised, but the corner of her mouth lifted before she disappeared again, no doubt grateful the ghosts had been replaced by shrieking children.

By the hour mark, Johnny was leaning forward, elbows on knees, eyes sharp in a way that felt… alive. He ribbed Willy for buying houses on St. James instead of investing in utilities (“Diversify, Captain Waffle, come on!”). He side-whispered strategies to Willy, half conspiracies, half trash talk, and when you accused the two of collusion, Johnny actually grinned: broad, teeth showing.

He was... handsome.

The towel around your waist slipped sometime during all the commotion; you barely noticed. Your tea went cold; nobody cared. The living room echoed with dice rattles, triumphant shrieks, catastrophic groans and every time Johnny cracked another sarcastic jab, the air felt lighter.

When Willy finally bankrupt-spiraled on your hotel-heavy orange set, he collapsed backward, hands to heart, tongue lolling for dramatic death. Johnny applauded the performance.

“Guess the shipwreck girl’s pretty ruthless,” he said, eyes catching yours for half a breath.

“Guess the thimble isn’t as harmless as it looks,” you fired back.

He huffed a laugh, no brood in sight now, just a faint flush of adrenaline and amusement.

Willy popped upright, already resetting pieces. “Best two out of three?”

Miss Sinclair returned with a fresh pot of tea, arching a brow at Johnny’s now-animated state. He just shrugged, as if it were no big deal that a drenched stranger and an over-caffeinated ten-year-old had dragged him out of the fog, even if for a little while.

She then called your name, “The boat’s ready.”

You blinked, standing a little too fast. The towel slipped again, your legs stiff from sitting cross-legged too long. “Oh—right. Thank you.”

Willy let out a groan so loud you winced.

“Noooo,” he whined, flopping backward onto the rug again. “She just got here! Can’t she stay? Or—or come back tomorrow? Please?”

Miss Sinclair gave him a look. “Willy—”

“No, really! I was having fun!” He turned to you, eyes wide with genuine, kid-level heartbreak. “You will come back, right?”

You opened your mouth—probably to say something neutral and noncommittal—but then Miss Sinclair looked at you in that quiet, assessing way again and said, casually, like she hadn’t been planning it all along:

“Well, if you’re going to be around Cousins for the summer… maybe you’d consider watching him a few days a week? He’s got more energy than the rest of us combined and clearly adores you.”

You blinked. “I—uh…”

“She means babysitter,” Johnny said dryly, not looking up from the mess of Monopoly money he was now organizing by color.

“I know what she meant,” you shot back, too surprised to filter.

Miss Sinclair’s expression didn’t shift much, just the slightest arch of an eyebrow, like she’d already expected the sass. “I’ll pay you, of course. Something fair.”

"Please please pleaseee," Willy was all but throwing the most vicious puppy dog eyes you've ever seen, second only to Belly's.

You hesitated, thought you really wanted to say yes because you now needed money for a new camera and probably a new phone too, and shifted the towel more securely around your waist. “I… if the hours are flexible, I could.”

It felt rude to even suggest a condition, especially standing there in her house, still damp from the ocean and halfway into a board game coma but you had to.

“You see, my mom signed me up to be a debutante at the club this summer and—”

Johnny, who had just managed to fit the Monopoly lid back on the box, snorted. “A debutant?”

You turned to him, brows raised. “You say that like I admitted to ritual sacrifice.”

He leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, lips twitching. “No, it’s just... unexpected. You don’t seem the type.”

Heat prickles across your cheeks. “Yeah, shocker—I’m multidimensional.”

“That means what I think it means?” Willy asks, eyes huge. “Like, gowns and fancy dances and learning how to balance books on your head?”

You nodded. “Pretty much."

“The hours will be as flexible as you need,” Miss Sinclair said, as she drinks more tea. “You can work around rehearsals, fittings, whatever. We’ll make it fit.”

You exhale. “Okay, then—yes. I’d like that.”

Willy lit up again like a firework. “Yesss!! You can come tomorrow and we’ll play every game and maybe explore the other side of the island—wait, do you like treasure maps?!”

You laughed, genuinely caught off guard. “I guess I do now?”

Johnny shook his head, but this time when he looked at you, the smirk stayed a little longer. “You’re gonna regret this.”

You met his eyes. “Probably. But not as much as you’re gonna regret landing on my hotels next time.”

He chuckled and rolled his eyes before standing up, brushing imaginary dust from his jeans like the last hour hadn’t completely betrayed his broody mystique.

“You talk a big game for someone who mortgaged half their properties to buy a single orange set,” he said, tossing the thimble back into the box with casual aim.

“That single orange set ended your capitalist empire, and you know it,” you called after him.

Willy scrambled up between you both, arms flapping like wings. “Okay! New plan! Tomorrow we play Life or Clue or Battleship. Ooh, pirate Battleship—”

“Slow down, Captain Waffle,” you said, ruffling his hair.

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’m gonna draw up a whole schedule. Color-coded and everything.”

“Oh god,” Johnny muttered from the doorway, but you caught the smile before he could hide it.

Miss Sinclair watched the exchange between you and her sons with that ever-intrigued but measured expression. “We’ll send the boat for you around ten. If that works?”

You nodded, heart still strangely buoyant. “Ten works.”

She extended a hand, firm, businesslike, but not cold. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Miss Sinclair. Actually,” you added, a little breathless, like the whole day was still catching up to you.

Her eyes crinkled slightly at the edges, just enough to register as something warmer than polite approval. Then she stepped back, nodding once.

Behind you, Willy was already listing tomorrow’s itinerary at lightning speed (“First we battle, then we snack, then we craft weapons—not real ones, I promise, Mom—then maybe make Johnny wear a crown—”), and Johnny was pretending not to hear a word of it, arms crossed and expression unreadable.

But when you turned to go, he said, offhandedly, “Try not to trash any more boats tonight, debutant.”

“Do try to watch more movies, Richie,” you called, dragging the name out just enough to make it sting playfully.

That caught him. His head tilted slightly, and there it was, that barely-there smirk, the one he probably didn’t even know he was wearing.

And you left that house dripping in the low late afternoon sun, exhausted, still a little sunburned and a lot overwhelmed, but lighter, somehow.

By the time you reached Cousins, the sky was blushing into gold, and the beach was alive again, towels scattered, the faint scent of grilled something in the air, and your bike still chained up exactly where you left it, as if the day hadn’t completely unraveled and reassembled your world.

You biked back fast, wind drying your curls and kicking up little streaks of sand on your calves. Your heart beat a little louder the closer you got to the house.

You flung the front door open with a bang, footsteps echoing through the sun-warmed hallway as you stepped into the kitchen, your mom, your brothers, Lauren, Steven and Belly. The room was warm, loud, chaotic in that Fisher-summer kind of way, with someone opening a bottle of soda too fast and Steven yelling about something on the stove.

As soon as you stepped inside, the screen door banging shut behind you, your mom turned from the kitchen sink, eyes going wide as she took in your rumpled clothes, tangled hair, and the towel still clinging to your waist like a badge of shame.

“Y/N Fisher, where in God’s name were you? I was two seconds away from calling the sheriff.”

The whole kitchen fell silent. Belly looked up from her drink. Steven froze mid–chip bite. Lauren paused mid-sentence. Your brothers turned in unison like they were part of a synchronized panic team.

"Don't tell me you actually fell in the water?" Said Conrad, that even in his mocking, there was relief to see you home.

You just grinned, stepping fully into the chaos like it was your stage. “You all won’t believe what just happened to me.”

And with that, your summer officially began.