Chapter 17

After six months apart, we’d both changed. Aiden looked different—thinner, with sun-lightened hair—but still unfairly handsome in that effortless way that had made half our high school swoon. I might have been naive about people, but I always had good taste. It’s probably why I’d spent years following him around like a lovesick puppy, convincing myself the boy next door was my destiny. Looking at him now, I could still see why, but the view was different without rose-colored glasses.

After a moment’s pause, I walked over with an easy smile, the kind you give distant acquaintances. “Hey, Aiden! Didn’t expect to see you here.”

His hand froze mid-reach for my suitcase; he stared at me as if I’d started speaking in tongues. The casual tone seemed to throw him more than anything else—no trace of our history, no hint of the girl who used to hang on his every word.

It took him a full minute to recover, hands slightly shaking as he grabbed my luggage. The confident golden boy suddenly looked unsure of his role in this new script.

Mom leaned in, whispering, “We ran into him outside. He insisted on helping. Wouldn’t take no for an answer—you know how he gets.”

I just smiled, assuring her it was fine. And surprisingly, it was.

In the car, I filled the silence with stories about college life, making my parents laugh with tales of midnight pizza runs and failed laundry attempts. While we carefully ignored Aiden’s presence, I caught him fighting back smiles in the rearview mirror, as if he couldn’t help himself.

He lingered when we got home, clearly angling for an invitation inside, but we politely deflected with practiced suburban courtesy—a subtle “not today” without actually saying it.

Throughout the break, I kept busy with driving lessons (finally getting my license) and meeting old friends. I heard he’d tried to see me several times, but I was always conveniently out. Mom mentioned he’d stop by, looking like a lost puppy, only to leave disappointed.

I was genuinely puzzled why he’d even try—what could we possibly have left to say? Some stories are better left unfinished.

New Year’s Eve brought the usual chaos. Our house was packed with family—my grandmother and aunt had flown in from Chicago, bringing their usual mix of love and drama. After our traditional family dinner (complete with my dad’s infamous winter grilling attempts), the older generation settled in with their shows while the younger ones attempted to learn poker, mostly failing but having fun.

That’s when the Carters showed up unexpectedly, laden with gifts, just as they used to before everything changed—as if nothing had changed at all.