The ride to Jamie’s lake cabin felt longer than it was. I sat in the back of Leah’s car, forehead resting against the window, watching trees flicker past like static on an old TV. I felt like a girl in a coming-of-age movie, except there was no killer soundtrack, no voiceover telling me I was on the cusp of transformation — just the hum of the engine and the ding of another group text exploding with updates about snack bags and card games and swimwear mishaps.

Leah tried to keep it light. She asked what playlist I made for the weekend. I told her something vague — “vintage Paramore energy” — and smiled like I wasn’t mentally writing a breakup song with my eyeballs while holding my phone like it might spontaneously combust.

I was seconds away from texting Jaxon: I changed my mind, come get me.

But I didn’t.

Because I’d said yes. I’d told Jamie I was okay. I’d told myself I was strong enough to handle this.

And somewhere deep down, I wanted to believe that I could.

We pulled up just after noon. The house itself was beautiful in that wealthy-family-retreat kind of way — all cedar panels and big glass windows and those chairs that were definitely built for lounging but also somehow screamed upper-class lake aesthetic.

Red solo cups were already scattered across the porch like casualties. Someone was blasting early 2000s throwbacks with no regard for bass levels or the emotional damage of hearing “Since U Been Gone” at full volume. A guy I vaguely recognized from Spanish class was tossing flip-flops into the bushes with the enthusiasm of an Olympic athlete.

The place buzzed like it had been waiting for someone to light the fuse.

I followed Leah toward the front door, my lips set in a smile I’d practiced in the mirror the night before. Not too bright, not too brittle. The kind of smile that said I’m fine, really, and No, I don’t want to talk about it.

Then I saw them.

Liam spotted me the moment I walked in.

His hand lifted slightly — a reflex, maybe — like he was going to wave, or say something. But before the gesture could land, Madison stepped into his space. She was wearing a white bikini top and a high ponytail, and her expression was clean, practiced, almost bored. She didn’t say anything. Just nudged his arm, subtle but deliberate.

He let his hand fall like it had never moved.

That single beat of silence hit harder than a whole conversation could’ve.

And then I saw Macy.

She was on the back deck, lounging against the railing, drink in one hand, the other tucked in her hair like she was trying to look casually radiant for no one in particular. Her gaze flicked over to me, just long enough to arch one perfectly shaped brow.

She didn’t wave either, but the smirk was there.

The message was clear. I was being watched. We all knew it.

I ignored them all.

Or, I tried.

The only person who met me halfway was Jamie. He handed me a root beer like it was a peace offering and said quietly, “There’s tequila in the kitchen. Or a towel in the laundry room if you want to scream into something.”

I actually smiled. For real, this time.

By sunset, the whole party had spiraled into absolute chaos.

Someone had wheeled the karaoke machine onto the back deck, and a half-drunk sophomore was butchering Britney Spears while a group of guys attempted beer pong using paddleboards in the lake.

The firepit had turned into a full-blown marshmallow war. Someone was trying to light a s’more using tequila. It wasn’t going well.

And me?

I was on a patio chair, nursing my second root beer and pretending I wasn’t mentally peeling off my own skin every time someone looked at me sideways.

Every glance from Liam felt like a paper cut — small, sharp, stupidly painful.

Every whispered exchange between Madison and whoever she was currently clinging to lit a fuse in my stomach.

And Macy?

Macy didn’t even have to say anything.

That smirk of hers did all the heavy lifting. The look that said You lost. And I see you trying to pretend you didn’t.

I thought I was ready.

I told myself I was healed enough to walk into this house, see them together, and keep my head high.

But no amount of late-night hoodie cuddling or whispered revenge plans could’ve prepared me for this. For the gut-punch of seeing them this comfortable in my absence. Like my vanishing act had just cleared space for their happy ending.

I’d expected to feel angry. Instead, I felt small.

So I did the only thing that made sense.

I pulled out my phone and texted the one person who had no place here — and who somehow still felt like home.

ZOE: I’m at the lake. It’s awful. I wish you were here.

I hit send and regretted it instantly.

Because it was desperate. It was impulsive. It was me admitting I wasn’t okay.

Then the screen lit up again.

JAXON: Give me forty minutes and a bad playlist.

I stared at it, heart thudding.

He was joking. Obviously, he was joking.

Right?