1•
I'm lying on my bed with my earbuds in, half-watching the ceiling fan spin, when my phone buzzes against my nightstand. The screen lights up with a name I haven't seen in almost two months. Jordan.
Hey Tiff. You free this weekend? Got something big to ask you.
My heart does this stupid little skip before I even read the rest. Old habit. I tell myself it's just excitement, just friendship, just the same Jordan who used to build blanket forts in my living room and eat all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms box before leaving me the sad, chalky stars. But my fingers are already typing before my brain catches up.
Always. What's up?
He answers in seconds. Can you meet at The Grind tomorrow at 4? I've got an idea. Bree, Ethan, Sam are coming too.
I stare at the message. Bree, Ethan, Sam. That's the whole crew. The five of us haven't been in the same room since graduation. There's a knot in my stomach that I can't quite name — part excitement, part something else. Something that tells me weekends like this never go the way you think they will.
I text back: I'll be there. And then I roll over and let the memories wash over me.
I remember the first time I met Jordan. I was six years old, sitting on the curb outside my apartment building, crying because I'd dropped my ice cream cone and it had splattered across the asphalt like a tiny, tragic explosion. He was seven, riding his bike down the street with scabs on both knees and a grin that seemed too big for his face. He stopped in front of me, looked at the mess, then at me, and said, "Don't cry. My mom says you can always make more ice cream."
I told him that wasn't true. He shrugged and pulled a crumpled dollar out of his pocket. "Then let's go get you another one."
That was Jordan. Always fixing things. Always showing up with exactly what you needed, even when you didn't know you needed it. We'd spent every summer after that running through sprinklers, climbing trees we shouldn't have, staying up late in his basement watching horror movies with our hands over our eyes. He was my best friend when I didn't have anyone else. And I guess some part of me still thinks of him that way, even though we've changed. Even though high school happened, and life happened, and suddenly we were all too busy to remember the way we used to be.
I'm not the same girl who cried over an ice cream cone. And Jordan isn't the same boy who rode his bike to my rescue. But when I think about him, I still feel like I'm six years old, waiting for him to make everything better.
That's probably why I say yes without asking more questions.
The Grind is exactly the kind of coffee shop that makes you feel like you're in a movie. Dim lighting, mismatched furniture, chalkboard menus with handwritten prices, and the faint smell of burnt espresso and cinnamon. I get there ten minutes early because that's what I do — I'm always early, always prepared, always standing in the corner with my hands in my pockets trying to pretend I'm not nervous.
Bree is already there. She's sitting on the arm of one of the couches, legs crossed, pink-tipped hair shoved behind her ears, her phone pressed to her ear. She's talking fast, laughing at something, and I catch the tail end of her conversation as she hangs up.
"—no, you're not getting that one, babe. That one's a lemon."
She looks up and sees me. Her grin is sharp and immediate, the kind that says she knows something you don't. "Tiffany! There she is. The whole band's back together."
I cross the room and we do that weird half-hug, half-handshake thing that's always been our way. Bree is small but she has this energy that fills the whole room, like a firecracker about to go off. She's wearing a cropped hoodie with some band name on it I don't recognize, cargo pants covered in what I hope is dirt.
"How're you doing?" she asks, already looking at her phone again. "You look good. Skinnier. New haircut?"
I touch my hair self-consciously. It's the same curly dark mess it's always been — long, halfway pinned up, a few strands escaping. "No, I just—"
"It looks good. You should keep it." She winks at me, and I'm never sure if she's being genuine or if she's just saying things to fill the silence. That's Bree. She talks because if she stops talking, the world might catch up to her.
The door opens and Sam walks in. She's wearing her usual olive jacket, hiking boots, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun that looks intentionally careless. She has a small axe tucked into the side of her bag — I know this because I've seen her use it to chop wood at summer camp last year. She doesn't do it to be edgy. She does it because she's practical and she trusts that she'll need it.
"Sam!" Bree calls. "Get over here, we're waiting on the boys."
Sam gives a nod, drops her bag onto the floor, and scans the room with that calculating look she has. When she sits down, she sits on the edge of the chair, like she's ready to move at any second.
"Did I miss anything?" she asks.
"Just Tiffany's new haircut," Bree says, and I die a little inside.
"It's not new," I mutter, but they're not listening.
The door opens again and Ethan comes in, head down, clutching his backpack straps like it's a lifeline. He pushes his glasses up his nose and scans the room with wide eyes before spotting us. "Hey," he says, voice a little croaked. "Sorry I'm late. The bus was—" He pauses, then just shrugs.
"You're not late," Sam says. "We're early. Take a seat."
Ethan settles into the chair beside me, close enough that I can smell soap and something like laundry. He's always been quiet, the kind of person you forget is in the room until he speaks and suddenly you realize he's been watching the whole time, taking everything in. I've always liked him, even if I don't know much about him. He's gentle in a way the rest of us aren't.
The four of us sit there for a few awkward minutes, checking phones, pretending we don't notice the absence in the room. Then the front door creaks open and Jordan walks in.
And I forget how to breathe for a second.
He's taller than I remember, though that's impossible because he was already tall at graduation. His blond hair is shorter now, a little messy on top, and he's wearing a dark green flannel over a gray t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks like he just came from somewhere outdoors, maybe a hike, maybe a construction job, maybe just stepping out of the sun. His face is still boyish — round cheeks, bright eyes, that grin that could charm a locked door into opening.
But there's something different about him. Something in the way he carries himself. A confidence that's always been there, but now it feels sharper. More intense.
"Sorry I'm late," he says, pulling up a chair and turning it around so he can straddle it backward. "Had to take care of something before I came."
"Your dog?" Bree asks innocently.
"Something like that." He looks around the table, his eyes landing on each of us, and then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and all the chatter stops. "Okay. So. Here's the thing."
I can feel my pulse in my throat. This is it. The invitation. The weekend.
"I found this cabin," he says. "Out in the middle of nowhere, up in the Pacific Northwest. It's this old place my dad used to take me to when I was a kid. He sold it years ago, but I tracked down the current owner and she said we could rent it for cheap. No wifi, no signal, no anything. Just the woods, the lake, and us."
"A lake?" Sam raises an eyebrow.
"Small one. Probably freezing. But yeah."
"And you want us to come with you?" Bree asks, already grinning.
"I want us to go together. All five of us. Like old times." He looks at me when he says it, and my chest tightens. "One last trip before we all go out into the real world. No phones. No distractions. Just friends."
There's a silence. I can see Sam's skeptical brain working, Ethan pushing his glasses up his nose, Bree already planning what she's going to pack. And me. I'm thinking about how long it's been since we've all been in the same room, how long it's been since I really talked to Jordan, how much has changed without us even noticing.
"When?" Sam asks.
"This weekend. Leave Friday morning, come back Sunday night. I've got a car that'll fit all of us."
"And the weather?" Sam again. She's not letting him off easy.
Jordan shrugs. "Maybe some rain. But that's part of it. Makes it feel like a movie."
Bree snorts. "A horror movie, maybe."
"Only if that's what we make it." Jordan's grin widens. "So what do you say? You in?"
They all look at each other. I can feel the energy shifting, tentative, excited. Ethan speaks first, quiet but firm. "I'm in."
Bree nods. "Obviously. I wouldn't miss the chance to watch Jordan sweat."
Sam hesitates a beat, then shrugs. "Fine. But if I get eaten by a bear, I'm haunting you."
They all turn to me. I feel the weight of their stares, and my heart is doing that thing again — the thing that tells me to say no, to stay safe, to listen to the small voice in my head that's always warning me about things that feel too good to be true. But Jordan is looking at me with those bright eyes, and I remember the boy who gave me his last dollar for ice cream, and I remember that we're not kids anymore, and maybe this is exactly what we need — to get away from everything, to remember who we used to be.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "I'm in."
Jordan's face splits into a full grin, and for a moment, everything feels like it used to. Bree cheers, Sam rolls her eyes but smiles, Ethan gives me a quiet nod. And I'm swept up in it, the warmth of us, the feeling of being part of something.
I don't know why I feel so uneasy. I don't know why my stomach is telling me to run.
I push it down. I tell myself it's just excitement. I tell myself everything is going to be fine.
And that's the first mistake I make all weekend.
