Prologue
Brenna
The first thing I notice when I pull into our spot is that I’m early.
Of course I am. I’ve been staring at the clock in my bedroom for the last forty minutes, barely breathing, my stomach twisted so tight it feels like something is clawing at the inside of me. By the time I finally grabbed my keys and told my mom I was going for a drive, I was already shaking.
Now I’m parked at the edge of the old gravel turnout overlooking the lake, my headlights cutting across the wooden railing and the patch of tall grass just beyond it, and all I can think is that I shouldn’t be here.
I shouldn’t have asked him to meet me.
I shouldn’t have texted, Can you come?
I shouldn't be doing any of this at all.
But I am.
The engine ticks softly as it cools, and I grip the steering wheel so hard my fingers ache. Outside, the summer night is quiet in that eerie, suspended way it only is this far out of town. The lake is a dark stretch of black glass under the moon, and the old tree line surrounding it sways every now and then with the wind.
This place has always felt like ours. It’s where we came when we wanted to be alone. Where we parked after football games and late-night drives and the first time he told me he loved me with his forehead pressed to mine like it was a secret too big for the rest of the world.
That memory hits so hard I squeeze my eyes shut.
I shouldn’t be here.
My phone glows in the cup holder. No new texts. No missed calls. Just the one I sent him twenty-two minutes ago. The one he answered almost immediately.
On my way, baby.
My throat burns.
I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know how I got from missing him so much it physically hurts to sitting in our spot about to tell him I can’t do this anymore.
That’s the part that makes me feel like the worst person alive.
Because I still love him.
That’s the whole problem.
I love him, and he’s an hour and a half away, living a life that doesn’t fit around me anymore. I love him, and every missed phone call feels like a tiny crack splitting wider in my chest. I love him, and every time he says he can’t make it home this weekend because he has practice, or work, or a paper due, I say it’s okay like a liar.
I love him, and I’m so tired of crying after we hang up.
My chest tightens until it’s hard to breathe.
Headlights flash in my rearview mirror.
For one stupid second, my heart jumps so hard it hurts.
His truck.
Even before the diesel engine gets loud enough to rattle through the quiet, I know it’s him. I’d know that truck anywhere. I watch through the windshield as his headlights sweep across the gravel and his dark pickup rolls in beside me, big and familiar and so stupidly him that I almost lose my nerve right there.
He parks crooked, like always.
The engine idles for a second, then cuts.
And I just sit there.
Hands cold. Heart pounding. Eyes stinging.
The driver’s door swings open, and Chase climbs out in faded jeans, work boots, and a dark hoodie shoved over a gray T-shirt. His baseball cap is backwards, curls pushing out from underneath it, and he shuts the truck door with one hand before glancing toward my car.
Even from here, even in the low light, he looks like home to me.
That’s what makes this impossible.
He starts toward me with that easy, familiar confidence that always makes my pulse trip over itself. He’s smiling—that small, sleepy, soft-around-the-edges look he gets when he’s happy. Like maybe he thinks I just missed him too much. Like maybe he’s expecting me to climb into his arms the second he gets close.
The thought nearly breaks me.
I push open my door before he can get there and step out on shaky legs.
“Hey, baby.” His voice is warm. Low. Automatic. “You okay? You sounded kind of urgent in that text. I thought maybe your car broke down or something.”
I can’t answer. I just stand there, paralyzed.
He takes another couple of steps, then slows. The smile disappears first. Then the easy looseness in his body. His brows pull together as he looks at me more carefully, seeing my face, the way I’m standing, the fact that I’m hugging my arms around myself like I’m trying to keep from falling apart.
“Brenna.” His voice changes. Sharper now. “What’s wrong?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
His expression tightens, concern flashing hard enough to make me want to take it all back. He closes the distance fast, stopping right in front of me. His hand lifts, and his thumb and forefinger catch gently under my chin, tipping my face up toward his.
“Look at me,” he murmurs, his eyes searching mine, frantic and tender all at once. “Talk to me, Bren. You’re shaking. What is it? Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. Just tell me.”
His touch is careful. Devastating. He hesitates for the barest second, his thumb brushing my lower lip, before letting his hand fall away as the silence stretches too long.
“What happened?” he asks again, his voice dropping an octave. “Are you okay?”
That should not make this harder. But it does. Because even now, he’s still him. Still the boy who would drive out here in the middle of the night just because I asked.
“I—” My voice breaks so badly I stop and press my lips together.
His whole face changes. Not because he knows yet, but because he knows enough. He takes a small step back, eyes narrowing as he studies me. The warmth starts to drain out of him, replaced by a cold, sudden realization.
“What is this?” he asks, and this time, it’s not a question about my safety. It’s a question about us.
My chest caves in. “Chase—”
“No.” He shakes his head once, quick and disbelieving. “No, don’t do that. Don’t say my name like that. You didn’t call me out here to tell me you’re okay, did you?” His jaw clenches. “What is this, Brenna? Talk to me.”
I stare at the zipper of his hoodie because I can’t look at him and say it. I physically can’t.
“I don’t think…” I swallow hard, the words tasting like ash. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
For a second, everything goes still. No wind. No bugs. No sound from the lake. When I finally force myself to look up, Chase is just staring at me like I’m a stranger. Like his brain rejected the words before they could even land.
“What?” The single word is quiet. Too quiet.
Tears blur my vision almost instantly. “I’m sorry.”
His face twists, not with sadness at first, but with sheer, jagged disbelief. “You’re sorry? You call me at eleven o'clock at night, tell me you need to see me, let me drive the whole way out here thinking something was actually wrong—and you just say you’re sorry?”
“I just—” I suck in a breath that doesn’t help. “This distance, and school, and the way we only talk through a screen… it’s hard, Chase. It’s too hard.”
He actually laughs. It’s a dry, hollow sound that makes me flinch.
“You asked me to come out here in the middle of the night to tell me distance is hard? You think I don’t know that? You think I’m having a blast an hour and a half away without you?”
“I didn't say that—”
“Then what are you saying?” He points toward his truck, then back at me, his voice rising. “Because I thought we were in this. I thought we were the couple that actually made it. I thought that was the plan.”
“I can't keep waiting for the weekends,” I sob, the truth finally spilling out. “I can’t keep living for one day a week, sometimes none, and feeling like a ghost for the other days. I’m lonely, Chase. Even when I’m talking to you, I’m lonely.”
His hand drags over his mouth, then drops to his side. He starts pacing a few feet away, boots crunching against gravel, his head bent for a second before he looks back at me.
“You could’ve just told me that,” he says, anger bleeding into his voice now. “You could’ve said, ‘Chase, I’m struggling.’ You could’ve said something before you decided to just end it.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” He stops pacing and looks at me, not mean, not wild, just wrecked. “Because I would’ve done something, Bren. I would’ve fixed it. I would’ve driven home every single night if that’s what it took. I would’ve transferred schools. I would’ve done whatever you needed.”
That hurts worst of all, because I know he means it. And because I never gave him the chance to choose.
“I didn’t want to be the reason you gave up your scholarship,” I whisper. “I didn’t want to be the thing you had to 'fix.'”
His face hardens. “So instead you just decided for both of us? You just gave up?”
I don’t have an answer that doesn’t sound pathetic. Because I missed him too much. Because I hated needing him this much. But all I say is, “I just can’t do it.”
The second it leaves my mouth, I hate it. It sounds flat. Empty.
Chase looks at me for a long second, and I can almost see the moment something in him gives way. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… breaks. His eyes go cold in a way I’ve never seen before.
“Wow,” he says softly. “Okay. I get it.”
“Chase—”
“No.” He shakes his head again, but slower this time, like he’s finally caught up to the reality of the situation. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to say my name and cry like this is happening to you. You’re the one doing it, Brenna.”
That one lands like a slap. I suck in a breath, but he’s not done.
“You don’t get to blindside me at our spot and then stand there looking heartbroken while you tear my life apart. If you wanted out, fine. You’re out.”
Tears spill down my cheeks. “I never wanted to hurt you. I love you.”
“Then why am I standing here?” he snaps, the words raw and bleeding. “If you love me, why is this the end? Why aren't we talking about how to make it work instead of you telling me it’s over?”
I have nothing. Nothing good. Nothing honest enough.
His eyes search my face for another second, looking for a flicker of doubt, a sign that I’ll take it back. When he doesn't find it, his mouth twists into a quiet, wrecked scoff.
“Unbelievable.”
The word is barely above a murmur. He takes a step back. Then another.
I panic. “Chase—please—”
But he’s already turning away. He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t beg. Doesn’t ask me one more time to explain. He just walks back toward his truck, shoulders tight, head down, one hand yanking open the driver’s door harder than necessary.
“Chase!” I call again, my voice breaking completely now.
He pauses for half a second with one hand on the door. I think maybe he’s going to turn around. Maybe he’s going to look at me and tell me he hates me, or that he’ll stay.
He doesn’t. He climbs into the truck, slams the door, and a second later the engine roars to life, loud enough to shake through the ground beneath my feet.
I stand there crying as he throws it into reverse, gravel spitting under the tires. Then he’s gone. Just like that.
His taillights disappear down the road, swallowed by the dark, and I’m left standing alone in the middle of our spot with my arms wrapped around myself and the sound of his truck still echoing in my chest.
I did this. That’s the worst part. Not that he left. Not even that he hates me now.
It’s that when he looked at me tonight, right before he walked away, he looked like I had taken something from him.
And maybe I did.
Because the truth is, I left him here first.
