Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

THE PARTY WHERE EVERYTHING SHIFTS

The BEN house smelled like cheap beer and someone's bad decision with Axe body spray. Bass rattled Belly's ribs. The floors were sticky in that way that made her not want to think too hard about what she was stepping in.

She stood near the kitchen island, phone out, thumb hovering over the Uber app like a lifeline.

Taylor had dragged her here an hour ago. "You need to get out of your apartment," she'd said, already wearing Davis's oversized BEN jersey, hair in a high ponytail, lips glossed. "You've been rotting since the surgery. Come on, it'll be fun."

Fun.

Belly had lasted exactly forty-seven minutes before Taylor and Davis started their routine fight—something about him liking another girl's Instagram story, or not texting back fast enough, or breathing wrong. The usual. Taylor had stormed off in a cloud of perfume and righteous indignation, probably headed to the Tri Phi house to make a point.

And now Belly was alone. Surrounded by people in Greek letters, all of them louder and drunker and more there than she felt capable of being.

Four years. That's how long it had been since the debutante ball, since everything fell apart and came back together in a different configuration. Four years since Susannah's trial worked, since Conrad and Belly got together, since carefully maintained distance became the new normal. Four years of polite holiday conversations, of pretending the gap between them didn't ache.

She was about to confirm the Uber when someone slid into her peripheral vision.

"Hey. You good?"

Belly looked up.

Jeremiah Fisher. Holding two red Solo cups, wearing his BEN jersey over a white tee that had seen better days, hair doing that thing where it looked artfully messy but probably wasn't. At twenty-one, he'd filled out—sharper jaw, broader shoulders, still golden-tan even in October from all those hours at the natatorium. He looked comfortable. At home. Like he belonged exactly where he was.

Which made sense. As rush chair, this was basically his job—making people feel welcome, keeping the chaos contained.

"That obvious?"

"Bells, you look like you're at a dentist appointment. Like, a really bad one."

She couldn't help it—she laughed.

"You've been standing in the exact same spot for like twenty minutes. I timed it." He held out one of the cups. "Vodka cranberry. You still hate beer, right?"

She took it, genuinely surprised. 

"Taylor ditch you?"

"Her and Davis are having their weekly—"

"Meltdown about nothing that'll end with them making out in his car?"

"Probably, yeah."

"Classic." He leaned against the counter next to her, close enough that she could smell his cologne. Something clean and cedar-y. "Smart money's on like twenty minutes. Tay always breaks first."

"Taylor would kill you for saying that."

"Taylor knows I'm right. She just won't admit it." A grin. "So. You want company while you wait for your getaway car? Or I can walk you out now if you're desperate. I won't be offended. Much."

She should say yes. Should take the out, go back to her apartment, put on her knee brace and watch Netflix until she fell asleep. But something in his voice—underneath the easy charm—sounded tired. Like he was as ready to leave his own party as she was.

"Company's fine."

"Cool. Come on, kitchen's about to get loud and I'm pretty sure someone's gonna break something expensive."

She followed him through the crowd. People parted for him automatically—not because he pushed, but because he had that pull. He high-fived someone, dodged a drunk girl's attempt to pull him into a selfie, called out "Redbird, chill!" to him doing something stupid near the speakers.

They made it to the side porch. The one that overlooked the scraggly backyard where someone had strung up dollar store Christmas lights missing half their bulbs. The fall air hit her face, sharp and cold and necessary.

"Better?"

"Much." She leaned against the railing, feeling her shoulders drop for the first time all night.

Music thumped through the walls. Someone shrieked with laughter inside. But out here it was quieter. Manageable.

Belly took a sip of her drink. It was pretty delicious. He'd mixed it properly. "So. Rush chair. How's that going?"

"It's—" He laughed, running a hand through his hair. "It's insane. I'm basically running every rush event and keeping track of like forty guys who all want to join. Last week I had to talk three freshmen through why they should pick BEN over Delta Psi. Very serious business."

"Did they listen?"

"Two did. Lost one to the guys with the better house." He shook his head. "Plus I'm coordinating all the social events, managing the pledges, being the face of recruitment... it's a lot. But I'm still lifeguarding at the natatorium, so between that and this, I'm like... never sleeping. But it's good. Keeps me busy."

"Lifeguarding still?"

"Yeah. It's easy money and I can do class work between shifts. Well, when I'm not pulling drunk freshmen out of the pool."

She smiled. "Some things never change."

"Some things." He looked at her. "What about you? How's the apartment?"

"It's good. Quiet. My roommates are cool—Jillian and Anika."

"Jillian and Anika... volleyball and dance, right?"

"Yeah. Jillian's on the team with me. Well—was. Anika does contemporary."

Were. Was. The words hung there.

"How's the season going?"

Her stomach dropped. "I'm not playing this year."

His head snapped toward her. "Wait, what? Since when?"

"Since August." She kept her voice light. Practiced. "Tore my ACL during preseason. Had surgery in September."

Jeremiah went very still. Set his cup down on the railing with deliberate care.

"Surgery." Flat.

"Yeah. It was—it sucked. Still sucks." She shrugged, trying to play it off. "I'm doing PT but I'm out for the season. Maybe longer."

"Belly." His voice dropped. "I—fuck, I had no idea."

"Why would you?"

And there it was. The gap between them, wide and obvious.

Conrad knew. Of course he knew—he'd been there the night before surgery, held her hand in pre-op, texted her every day after. But the others... Taylor probably didn't want to stress Jeremiah out while he was dealing with rush. Steven was busy starting at Breaker. Laurel probably assumed Conrad had told him. Susannah, well, that was most surprising of all. 

But standing here now, watching Jeremiah's face do something complicated—surprise and hurt and something that looked like guilt—she realized nobody had actually said the words to him.

"That's—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Belly, that's not just like a bad sprain or whatever. That's serious. That's your whole—that's everything."

"Yeah, well. Turns out knees are important for volleyball. Who knew."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Make jokes when you're hurt." Quietly. "You always do that."

She met his eyes. He was watching her with an intensity that made her want to look away. But she didn't.

"What else am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know. Be pissed. Be sad. Just don't—" He gestured vaguely. "Don't just act like it's fine."

"It's not fine. But it is what it is."

"Yeah but is it?"

"Jere—"

"You were incredible out there, Bells. Best setter I ever saw. And I know I only came to like two games—"

"Three."

"Three. Right. But I watched every video Conrad sent me. Which was a lot, by the way. He was obsessed." He stopped. "You were really fucking good."

The mention of Conrad landed between them like a third person on the porch.

"How is he?" Too casual.

"Good. Busy. Med school's—"

"Brutal, yeah, I know." He took a drink. "You guys doing okay?"

"Yeah. I mean—" She wrapped her arms around herself. The cold was starting to bite. "It's hard. His schedule's insane. When we do talk he's basically like... asleep standing up. I get it, but..."

"But it's lonely."

She glanced at him, surprised he'd said it so plainly.

"Yeah. It's really lonely."

Another silence. This one heavier.

"I got waitlisted for study abroad. Paris. Spring semester. I really wanted it."

"Paris? Belly, that would've been perfect for you."

"Conrad promised he'd take me. When he has a break. Maybe next summer."

Jeremiah's jaw tightened. Just barely. "That's... yeah. That's good."

Before she could say anything else, the door burst open behind them.

"FISHER!" one of the pledges, eyes wild. "Someone just puked in the kitchen sink and someone's trying to make nachos in the microwave and I think—"

A shrill beeping cut through the air.

"Of course." Jeremiah closed his eyes. "Of fucking course."

"You should—" Belly gestured toward the door.

"Yeah. Um." But he didn't move. Just stood there, looking at her like he was trying to solve a problem he couldn't quite name. "This is gonna take a minute. Maybe longer. Rush chair problems."

"It's fine. I should go anyway."

"Or—" He paused. "You hungry?"

"What?"

"There's a diner. Like ten minutes from here. Open late. Makes actually decent fries, which I know sounds like a low bar but trust me, it's not." He shrugged, suddenly looking younger. Less certain. "We could get out of here. Talk somewhere that doesn't smell like Natty Light."

She should say no. Should maintain the distance they'd carefully built. Should go home to her quiet apartment.

But the thought of going back there alone, to the silence and the knee brace and another night of Netflix she wasn't really watching...

"Yeah. Okay."

His whole face changed. Lit up in a way that made her breath catch.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm starving."

"Cool. Awesome. Um, let me just—" He stuck his head back inside. "REDBIRD! You're in charge! Don't burn the house down!"

"NO PROMISES!" he yelled back.

Jeremiah grabbed his jacket from somewhere inside, then came back out, still lit up. "Come on. Before they rope me back into damage control."

They walked down the porch steps together. The campus was quiet this late—just scattered groups of students, the occasional car crawling toward the parking lots. Street lights made everything look softer, hazier.

"Your knee okay?" Noticing the way she favored her left leg.

"It's fine. Gets stiff if I stand too long."

"We can take the Jeep if you want—"

"It's ten minutes, Jere. I can walk ten minutes."

"Okay but if you need to stop—"

"I'll tell you."

She laughed despite herself. They fell into step beside each other, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him.

"So you're still lifeguarding. That's good. You always liked that."

"Yeah. It's easy. Pays decent. Plus I get to yell at people, which is satisfying." Another grin. "What about you? Besides PT and classes. What are you doing with your time?"

"Honestly? Not much. I've been kind of... hermit-y."

"That doesn't sound like you."

"It's not. But it's easier than explaining to everyone why I'm not playing."

He nodded. Didn't try to fix it. Just let it sit.

They turned a corner. The diner appeared—a squat building with neon signs and windows fogged with condensation. Marie's, the sign read in flickering red letters.

Jeremiah held the door open. A rush of warm air and the smell of coffee and grease hit her face.

"After you."

Inside was straight out of another decade—vinyl booths, checkered floors, a jukebox in the corner playing something old and crackly that might've been Fleetwood Mac. A tired-looking waitress glanced up from wiping down the counter.

"Fisher." Not unfriendly. Just tired. "Usual spot?"

"If it's open, Marie."

"All yours, hon."

He led Belly to a booth in the back corner. The vinyl was cracked and patched with duct tape, but it was clean. She slid in one side, he took the other. The table between them was scarred with initials and phone numbers carved into the laminate.

Marie appeared with two plastic menus and waters she didn't bother asking about.

"Kitchen's open another hour. You know what you want or you need a minute?"

"Give us a minute."

When she left, Belly picked up the menu but didn't open it. "You come here a lot?"

"Yeah. Couple times a week. When the dining hall's too depressing or the house gets too loud or I just—yeah. I come here."

"What's good?"

"Everything, honestly. But, uh—" He pointed at her menu. "Get the fries. Marie doesn't mess around with the fries."

"Trust me on this one." Grinning now. "The burger's solid. Grilled cheese is perfect drunk food. Breakfast is like, available twenty-four seven which is dangerous."

"Sounds like you've done your research."

"What can I say. I'm dedicated."

Marie came back. Jeremiah ordered a burger and fries without looking. Belly got the same, plus a chocolate shake.

When Marie left, they were alone again. The diner was mostly empty—just one couple across the room, a guy at the counter nursing coffee and scrolling his phone.

"So. ACL surgery. That's like—what, four to six months before you can even think about playing again?"

"Yeah. If I can play again."

"You will."

"You don't know that, Jere."

"No, I do." Total certainty. "You're way too stubborn to let your knee beat you."

"Or maybe I'm just being realistic."

"Realistic's boring. You were never boring, Bells."

Her face went warm. "I'm pretty boring these days. I go to class, PT, home. That's it."

"What are you watching?"

The question threw her. "What?"

"On Netflix. Or whatever. What are you watching?"

"Oh. Um. I finished The Crown. Started rewatching Gilmore Girls."

"Of course you did." But he was smiling.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've always been into that stuff. The small-town thing. The fast-talking. The—"

"I didn't think you paid attention to what I watched."

"I paid attention to like, a lot of things." Casually, but his eyes didn't leave hers.

The food arrived fast. Marie set down plates piled with burgers and fries that looked exactly as good as he'd promised. The shake came in one of those tall glasses with whipped cream threatening to spill over.

"Holy shit."

"Told you." Jeremiah was already reaching for the ketchup, squirting an aggressive amount onto his plate.

They ate for a minute in silence. The burger was perfect—messy and juicy and exactly what she needed. The fries were crispy and salty and she understood immediately why he came here multiple times a week.

"Okay. You were right. This is really good."

"I'm always right about food."

"You're always confident about food."

"Same thing."

She rolled her eyes. He reached across the table to steal one of her fries even though he had his own.

"Hey!"

"What? You've got more."

"That's not the point."

"The point is I wanted that one specifically."

"That's not how fries work, Jere."

"It's exactly how fries work." He bumped her shoulder lightly across the table, that easy grin back.

She laughed despite herself. This felt familiar. Easy. Like slipping into an old rhythm they'd both forgotten they knew.

"So. You're graduating in May."

"Don't remind me."

"You don't sound excited."

"Should I be?" He took a massive bite of burger. Chewed. Swallowed. "I'm about to like, enter the real world with no plan and a degree I don't even care about."

"Finance, right? That's what you're doing?"

His expression darkened. "That's what my dad wants me to do. Breaker Capital. Your brother just started there—graduated early, the overachiever." Without bitterness, just fact. "Dad's already talking about how Steven's killing it, how I should follow his lead. Like we're in some competition I didn't sign up for."

"God, Steven won't shut up about it. Every time I talk to him it's Breaker this, Adam Fisher that. Like he's trying to impress your dad more than you are."

Jeremiah's mouth twitched. "Yeah, well. Dad's thrilled. Finally has someone who actually wants to be there."

"Is that why you're not going?"

"Part of it." He picked at his fries. "The other part is I just... I don't know. I don't want to spend my life doing something I hate just because it's what everyone expects, you know?"

She nodded. "That makes sense."

"Yeah, well, try telling my dad that." He took a drink. "Oh, and apparently Steven's dating someone now. Denise. Didn't even know until my birthday—your brother mentioned it at dinner. She's like, three years older than him, brilliant and kind of scary in a good way."

"Wait, Steven's dating someone? Like, seriously dating?"

Jeremiah laughed. "That's what he said. Why, what's up?"

"I just—" She shook her head. "I can never tell what's going on with him and Taylor. One day they're fighting, the next they're all over each other, then she's with Davis, but Steven's still... I don't know. It's confusing."

"Oh, trust me, I know. Your brother and Taylor have been doing this weird dance since like, forever. Pretty sure nobody knows what's actually happening. Including them."

"Exactly. And now Denise is in the mix?"

"Apparently. Met her at my birthday last week. She seems cool. Really smart."

"Your birthday—that was last week, right? September 30th?"

"Yeah." He grinned. "Big milestone. Turned twenty-one."

"How'd you celebrate?"

He shrugged, stealing another fry. "Got high with some guys from the house. Fell asleep on the couch at like nine. Very rock star of me." He laughed. "Then Mom dragged Dad out from his loft the next day for this overpriced steakhouse in Boston. Apparently his latest girlfriend broke up with him. Haven't seen him that destroyed in a minute." He almost laughed, then caught himself. "Shit, I shouldn't laugh. But it was—I mean—" He shook his head. "Got drunk with Steven, met the brilliant and scary Denise. Mom was happy we were all there, so. Yeah."

There was something in his voice. Not sad, just... complicated.

"I'm sorry I didn't—" She stopped. "I should've at least texted."

"Bells, we haven't really been talking. It's—" He shrugged. "It's fine."

But she could tell it wasn't. Not really.

"Nobody told you about a lot of things. Same way nobody told me about your surgery."

The words hung there. True and sharp.

"I miss this. Knowing things about you. Being—I don't know. Part of your life."

"You are part of my life."

"Am I?" She looked at him. "We see each other at holidays. We're polite. We pretend everything's fine. But we don't actually—we're not—"

"I miss you too." Quiet but certain. "Like, all the time. Which is stupid because you're right here. You've been here."

"But not really."

Silence. This one felt different. Heavier. Like something was shifting beneath the surface.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"The whole party thing. Hooking up with Carter and Lacie Barone—"

His mouth twitched. "You keeping tabs on me, Bells?"

Her face went hot. "No. Taylor just—she tells me things."

"Uh-huh." Grinning now. "Um, for the record, Carter and I had a thing last spring. Lacie wanted a boyfriend, which wasn't really my speed. And before you ask, no, not at the same time."

"I wasn't asking that."

"You were thinking it."

"I wasn't—" She stopped. "Okay, maybe a little."

He laughed. "What can I say? I like to have fun."

She picked at a fry. "I guess I'm just curious why you haven't found anyone serious yet. I mean—look at you. You could."

The grin faltered. Just for a second. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing bad. Just—you're you, Jere. You're... I don't know. You're a catch." Like it was obvious.

"A catch." Flat.

"Yeah."

"Belly—" He stopped. Started again. "I'm not really looking for serious right now. It's easier this way."

"Easier how?"

He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "Just is."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got."

She studied him for a moment. "Or maybe you're protecting yourself."

The words landed differently this time. Softer. Not an accusation—an observation.

His expression did something complicated. "You don't get to do that." Quietly.

"Do what?"

"Show up after like, almost four years of basically nothing and act like you know what's going on in my head."

She flinched. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"No, I—" He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Shit. I'm sorry. That was unfair."

"It wasn't."

"It was." He looked at her. Something softer now. Tired. "I just—you don't know what it's been like. Being the fun one. The easy one. The one everyone wants at their party but nobody actually—" He stopped, let out a laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Okay, that sounded way more pathetic than I meant it to. We should probably talk about something else before I start quoting emo lyrics or whatever."

She wanted to push, but the deflection was so perfectly him that she let it go. For now.

They ate in silence for a minute. Not uncomfortable. Just weighted.

Then Jeremiah said, "You still miss it, huh? Volleyball?"

She looked up, surprised by the gentleness in his voice.

"Yeah. I mean—" She sighed. "Every once in a while I think, 'What if I hadn't jumped for that ball and messed up my knee?' It's weird how one choice can end up shaping your whole future."

"Are you still thinking about sports psych as a minor? Could be an option for a major now."

She blinked. "How did you—"

"I, uh—I remember you mentioning it. At Thanksgiving maybe? Or—I don't know. I just remember you saying you were looking into it."

"I was. I am." Surprised he'd remembered. "It's worth a shot. It wasn't my original plan."

"Maybe. But you're there now." Simply. Like it was obvious. "That's what matters."

Something in her throat went tight.

Marie appeared, clearing plates. "You kids want dessert? Got apple pie. Made it this morning."

"We'll split one?" Jeremiah asked her. She nodded with a smile.

"Ice cream?"

"Obviously."

The real grin. Not the practiced version.

The pie came. They ate straight from the plate, trading bites, forks clinking.

"This is really good."

"Told you."

"You say that a lot."

"Because I'm usually right."

"About food, maybe."

"About most things." But he was smiling. "Hey, um—come to dinner next week. Wednesday. Mom's place. She's been asking about you."

"Has she?"

"Constantly. Drives me insane. 'How's Belly? Is she eating? Does she need anything?'" He mimicked Susannah's voice fondly. "I told her you were fine but she doesn't believe me."

"I'd love to see her."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I miss her."

"She misses you too." He took another bite. "I'll make japchae. The one you used to steal off my plate."

"I never—"

"You absolutely did. Every single time."

She laughed. "Okay, fine. I did."

"I know."

They finished the pie. Marie brought the check. Jeremiah grabbed it before Belly could.

"My treat."

"Jere—"

"I invited you. I'm paying. Don't argue."

"I was going to say thank you."

"Oh." Surprised. "Well. You're welcome."

He left cash on the table with a generous tip. They walked back slowly. Neither in a rush. The night air had gotten colder, sharper.

"This is me." When they reached her building. Nothing fancy. A converted house split into apartments.

"Nice place."

"It's okay. Quiet."

They stood on the sidewalk. Neither quite ready to say goodbye.

"Thanks for tonight. For the diner. For listening."

"Anytime." He meant it.

"I'll see you Wednesday?"

"Wednesday."

"Okay."

Neither moved.

Then Belly stepped forward and hugged him. Quick. Impulsive. Before she could overthink it.

He went still for half a second. Then his arms came around her, solid and sure.

"I really did miss you." Into his shoulder.

"Missed you too." Into her hair. Quiet. Real.

They stood like that. Long enough to feel his heartbeat. Long enough that pulling away felt like ripping off a band-aid.

"Goodnight, Jere."

"Goodnight, Bells."

She made it three steps before she looked back.

He was still there. Hands in pockets. Hair messy. Looking exactly like the boy she'd grown up with and nothing like him at all.

Their eyes met.

Neither looked away.

And in that moment—that single, suspended moment—something shifted. Not a decision. Not even a want. Just a recognition.

Oh.

She turned away first, heart hammering, and kept walking.

But she could feel his gaze on her back the entire way to her door.

Inside her apartment, Jillian was already asleep in her room. Anika's door was closed, soft music playing behind it. Belly changed quietly, climbed into bed, stared at the ceiling for a long time.

Her phone buzzed.

Jere: thanks for tonight

She stared at the screen, smiling.

Belly: thank you for the food

Jere: anytime. seriously

There was a pause. Then:

Jere: it was really good seeing you

Belly: you too

Another pause.

Jere: wednesday. don't forget

Belly: i won't

She set her phone on her nightstand.

For the first time since the surgery, since Conrad had gotten too busy, since Paris had slipped away—for the first time in months, she didn't feel quite so alone.

Four years. They'd lost four years to distance and politeness and pretending everything was fine.

But maybe—maybe they could find their way back.

She closed her eyes, his voice still echoing in her head: I miss you too. Like, all the time.

And somewhere across campus, in a house that smelled like stale beer and brotherhood, Jeremiah lay in his bed and thought about the way she'd looked at him in the diner. The way her laugh had sounded exactly the same as it did when they were kids. The way she'd hugged him like she meant it.

He thought about Conrad in med school, too busy to notice what he had.

He thought about his mom asking about Belly every Wednesday, her voice hopeful that they had finally fixed their friendship.

He thought about Belly's "I miss you too" and wondered if she knew what those words did to him.

His phone was in his hand before he could stop himself.

Jere: glad you said yes tonight

He deleted it. Too much.

Jere: sleep well bells

He sent it before he could overthink.

Her response came fast.

Belly: you too jere

He smiled at his phone like an idiot, then set it aside.

Wednesday. He had until Wednesday to figure out what the hell he was doing. How to have her back into his life.

But for now, for tonight, it was enough that she'd said yes.

It was enough that after years of nothing, they'd finally said something real.

Belly stood outside the Fisher house, nerves doing something complicated in her stomach. She'd been here before over the past four years—awkward holiday dinners with Conrad, quick hellos when picking him up. But this felt different. This was just her and the Fishers. No Conrad as a buffer.

She knocked.

The door swung open almost immediately. Susannah stood there, and Belly's breath caught.

She looked good. Really good. Her hair had grown back—longer now, past her shoulders, that familiar honey-blonde catching the light. She'd gained weight, color in her cheeks, eyes bright. But there were shadows there too, a tiredness that came from years of treatment, of fighting. She was wearing a loose linen shirt, paint-stained jeans, barefoot.

"Belly!" Susannah pulled her into a hug that smelled like lavender and turpentine. "Oh, sweetheart, get in here. It's freezing."

"Hi, Susannah." Belly's throat went tight. She'd forgotten how much she'd missed this—the easy warmth, the feeling of being seen.

"Come on, Jere's already in the kitchen. Been in there for an hour, wouldn't let me help." Susannah rolled her eyes fondly, leading her through the familiar hallway. "You'd think I was the guest."

The kitchen was chaos in the best way. Ariana Grande played from a small speaker. Jeremiah stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair tied back with what looked like a scrunchie, wooden spoon in hand. The air smelled incredible—garlic, sesame oil, something savory and sweet.

He looked up when they entered, face breaking into that easy grin. "Hey. You made it."

"Told you I would."

Susannah's eyebrow quirked but she said nothing, just settled onto a stool at the island.

Belly set her jacket on the back of a chair and moved closer to the stove. "Smells good."

"Japchae, kimchi fried rice, and Mom requested the cucumber salad." He gestured with the spoon. "Also got some decent banchan from H Mart. The full spread."

"When did you learn to do all this?" Belly watched him move—confident, practiced, the way he tasted and adjusted seasoning without measuring.

"Had to." He shrugged, stirring the glass noodles. "Someone needed to make sure Mom actually ate during treatment. Hospital food's fucking terrible, and she kept losing weight. So I learned."

Susannah's expression softened. "He's better than me now. Won't admit it, but he is. And I still can't cook at all."

"Mom—"

"It's true! I burned rice last week. Rice, Jeremiah."

"You were painting. You forgot it was on the stove."

"Exactly. I get distracted. You don't." She turned to Belly. "He's got this whole... system. Timers, mise en place, the works. Very impressive."

Jeremiah's ears went pink. "Can we not?"

"I'm allowed to brag about my son." But her tone was gentle, proud.

Belly felt something warm settle in her chest. This—this easy back-and-forth, the teasing, the love underneath—this was what she'd been missing.

"Here." Jeremiah thrust a cutting board and knife at her. "Make yourself useful. Scallions need chopping."

"Yes, chef."

She fell into the rhythm easily—chopping while he cooked, Susannah watching them both with quiet contentment. The music shifted to Joni Mitchell. They worked in comfortable silence, broken only by Jeremiah's occasional directions ("thinner, Bells" "okay, those are perfect") and Susannah's commentary on her latest painting.

"So how's Conrad?" Susannah asked as Jeremiah plated the japchae. Casual, but Belly caught the slight tension in his shoulders.

"Busy. Really busy." Belly kept her eyes on the scallions. "He's doing his clinical rotations now. Barely sleeps."

"He called last week," Susannah said. "Sounded exhausted. I told him to take care of himself, but you know Conrad. Doesn't listen."

"Never has," Jeremiah muttered, carrying plates to the table.

"Be nice," Susannah chided, but without heat. She looked at Belly. "Med school's intense."

"Yeah." Belly didn't know what else to say. The distance between her and Conrad felt too big to explain, too complicated to untangle in front of his mother.

Jeremiah glanced at her, something understanding in his eyes, but he just gestured to the table. "Food's ready. Let's eat before it gets cold."

They settled around the dining table—a tablecloth with paint stains, candles already lit. The food looked incredible.

"This is amazing, Jere," Belly said after the first bite. The japchae was perfectly seasoned, glass noodles slippery and sweet.

"Told you I got good." He was trying to sound smug but looked pleased.

Susannah reached over and squeezed his hand. "He really did. I'm very lucky."

"Mom."

"What? I'm grateful my son can cook. Means I get fed properly."

"You'd eat paint if I let you."

"That was one time and I thought it was yogurt."

Belly laughed—really laughed—for the first time in months. "You ate paint?"

"It was in a yogurt container!" Susannah defended. "How was I supposed to know?"

"Maybe by looking at it?" Jeremiah deadpanned. "It was titanium white, Mom. Not exactly Greek yogurt consistency."

"I was distracted!"

"You're always distracted."

Belly set her fork down, watching him. "You know, you're really good at this. Like, really good."

"At what? Stopping Mom from eating art supplies?"

"No, I mean—" She gestured at the spread. "Cooking. This whole thing. You made it look easy."

He shrugged, suddenly focused on his plate. "It's just food, Bells."

"It's not just food. This is like, restaurant quality. Better than half the places Conrad dragged me to in Boston."

His ears went pink. "I mean, I've been doing it for a while now. It's not that hard once you figure out the basics."

"Have you ever thought about doing something with it?"

He looked up, genuinely confused. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Culinary school? Working at a restaurant? Catering?" She took another bite. "Jere, you could actually do this. Like, for real."

He laughed—not the easy one, the uncomfortable one. "Bells, come on. That's not—I can't just—"

"Why not?"

"Because—" He stopped. Started again. "My dad would lose his fucking mind. 'I paid for finance classes so you could flip burgers?' No way."

"But what do you want?"

The question hung there. Susannah had gone very still, watching her son.

"I don't know," he said finally. Quietly. "I've never really thought about it like that, you know? I just learned to cook because Mom needed—" He stopped, jaw working. "It was just survival. Not like, a career."

Susannah reached over and covered his hand with hers. "Sweetheart, it doesn't have to be one or the other. What you did for me—" Her voice caught. "That wasn't just survival. That was love. And maybe it could be more."

Jeremiah's throat worked. "Mom—"

"I'm just saying," she said gently, squeezing his hand. "You light up when you're in that kitchen. I see it. And clearly Belly sees it too." She smiled. "Your father doesn't get to decide what makes you happy."

"Yeah, well. Try telling him that."

"Maybe I will," Susannah said lightly. But her eyes were serious.

The doorbell rang, breaking the moment.

"Oh! That'll be Laurel." Susannah stood, but not before catching Jeremiah's eye—something passing between them that Belly couldn't quite read. Pride, maybe. Or permission.

"I got it. Sit." Jeremiah disappeared down the hall.

Belly heard the door open, Laurel's voice: "Is that my daughter I see through the window? Actually socializing?"

Laurel appeared in the doorway, holding a covered dish, Jeremiah trailing behind her. 

"Mom." Belly stood.

"Belly." Laurel set the dish down and pulled her into a quick hug. Then she turned to Jeremiah with a smile. "And Jere. I'm so glad I made it to this week's dinner. Sorry I've missed the last few—work's been insane."

Laurel often went to Boston or New York; she was always guest-lecturing at various universities while working on her latest books.  

"No worries, Laur. You're here now." Jeremiah grinned. "Plus you brought reinforcements, so you're forgiven."

Laurel laughed, gesturing to the covered dish. "Lemon tart. Heard through the grapevine someone's been craving it."

Jeremiah's eyes lit up. "Mom, you told her—"

"I may have mentioned it," Susannah said innocently from her seat.

"Consider it a thank you for all these dinners," Laurel said, settling into the fourth chair and accepting the plate Jeremiah handed her. She turned to Susannah. "How are you feeling?"

"Good days and bad days. Today's a good one." Susannah gestured to the spread. "As you can see, Jere outdid himself again."

"I can see that. Smells wonderful." Laurel took a bite, eyes widening. "Oh, this is really good, Jere."

The conversation flowed easily after that—Laurel and Susannah falling into their familiar rhythm, Belly and Jeremiah interjecting with commentary. They talked about Steven's new job ("He calls me every day to complain about spreadsheets"), Taylor's latest drama, and the upcoming holidays.

At some point, Belly noticed she and Jeremiah were talking over each other, finishing sentences, falling into jokes only they understood. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this light, this... herself.

Susannah and Laurel noticed too. Belly caught them exchanging a look—not sly, not knowing. Just... pleased. The way moms look when their kids are happy.

When dinner was cleared and the lemon tart appeared—perfect and golden, dusted with powdered sugar—Jeremiah and Belly did dishes side by side, him washing, her drying.

"This was really nice," Belly said, hanging up the dish towel.

"Yeah?" He leaned against the counter, hands in his pockets. "Wasn't too weird?"

"No. It was... it was really good. Thank you. For inviting me."

"You don't have to thank me, Bells. You're always—" He stopped. "You're welcome here. You know that, right?"

She nodded, throat tight again.

"Same time next week?" he asked. Casual, but his eyes were hopeful.

"Yeah. I'd like that."

Laurel checked her watch from the table. "I should head out. Early morning tomorrow." She hugged Susannah, then Belly. "Don't be a stranger, okay? You're always welcome home."

"I know, Mom."

"Walk me out?" Laurel asked Susannah.

They disappeared, leaving Belly and Jeremiah alone in the kitchen. The music had shifted to something quieter—Carole King, maybe.

Susannah and Laurel came back in, both bundled in coats. "I'm walking Laurel to her car," Susannah announced. "You two stay, finish the wine if you want. There's more tart in the fridge."

They left in a flurry of goodbyes and reminders to text when home safe.

The house went quiet. Just Belly and Jeremiah and the soft music.

"I should probably go too," Belly said, not moving.

"Or you could stay. Help me finish this." He held up the wine bottle—still half full.

She shouldn't. She had class tomorrow, PT in the afternoon. But...

"Okay. One more glass."

They settled on the couch—Susannah's couch, worn and comfortable, throw blankets everywhere. Jeremiah poured them both wine, then sank into the opposite end, feet tucked under him.

"Your mom looks really good," Belly said.

"Yeah. She does." He swirled his wine. "The trial worked. Like, actually worked. She still does maintenance treatment—couple times a year, just to be safe. But she's good. Clear scans for three years now."

"That's amazing, Jere."

"It is. It's—" He stopped, throat working. "I know how lucky we are. Every day."

She reached over and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

They sat like that for a while, just talking. About nothing, about everything. Classes and friends and the weird liminal space of senior year. Belly told him about Jillian and Anika, the way they'd become her people when volleyball fell apart. He told her about the BEN guys, the chaos and brotherhood and how sometimes it felt like too much and not enough all at once.

"I'm glad you came," he said eventually. "Tonight. And to the diner. I'm just—I'm glad we're doing this again. Whatever this is."

"Me too." And she meant it.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it—Conrad's name on the screen. A text: Sorry for the radio silence. Drowning in work. Miss you.

The guilt hit immediate and sharp. She was here, on his mom's couch, drinking wine with his brother, feeling more like herself than she had in months.

Jeremiah noticed. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just—" She set her phone face-down on the couch. "Conrad."

"Ah." He took a long drink of his wine, then glanced at her. "Hey, um—you've had some wine. Do you want to just crash here? Conrad's old room. Sheets are clean and everything."

She started to protest. "I've only had like a glass and a half—"

"I know, I know. But it's late and—" He shrugged, suddenly a little uncertain. "I don't know. You don't have to. Just feels safer, you know?"

She looked at the clock. Nearly midnight. Then at her wine glass. She did feel it—not drunk, just warm and loose and honestly? She didn't want to leave. Didn't want to go back to her quiet apartment and overthink Conrad's text.

"Yeah. Okay. If your mom won't mind."

His face lit up. "Are you kidding? She'd be thrilled." He stood, stretching. "Come on. I'll grab you a toothbrush and stuff."

He led her upstairs—past Susannah's studio, past his room with the door half-open (unmade bed, clothes everywhere, exactly how she remembered), to Conrad's room at the end of the hall.

It looked frozen in time. High school trophies. AP Calc textbook on the desk. A faded Cousins Beach parking permit stuck to the mirror.

"Sheets are actually clean. Mom changes them like once a month even though he's never here." Jeremiah grabbed a spare toothbrush from the bathroom, set it on the dresser. "Towels are in the closet if you want to shower. And, uh—I'll be up for a while if you need anything."

"Thanks, Jere."

He paused in the doorway, hand on the frame. "For what it's worth? I'm really glad you stayed. Like, that you're here. Not just for dinner, but... yeah."

"Me too."

He smiled—small, real—and closed the door behind him.

Belly sat on the edge of Conrad's bed, phone in her hand.

A soft knock on the door pulled her from sleep she hadn't quite fallen into yet.

"Belly?" Susannah's voice, gentle. "You still awake, sweetheart?"

"Yeah. Come in."

The door opened, revealing Susannah in her paint-stained robe, hair loose around her shoulders. She carried two mugs, steam rising in the dim light from the hallway.

"Thought you might want some tea. Chamomile. Can't sleep without it these days." She settled onto the edge of the bed, handing Belly a mug. "Old habit from treatment. The nurses used to bring it every night."

Belly sat up, accepting the warm ceramic. "Thank you."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both sipping. The house was quiet around them—just the distant hum of the city, the radiator clicking.

"You know," Susannah said, voice soft, "when Jere told me you were coming to dinner, he tried to play it cool. 'Just Belly, Mom. Don't make it weird.' But I saw his face. Haven't seen him that excited about a Wednesday in months."

Belly's cheeks warmed. "He's been really... he's been a good friend."

"He's been waiting for you to come back." Susannah's eyes were knowing. "Not to me. Not to the dinners. To him."

The words hung there, heavier than Belly expected.

"I didn't mean to—" Belly started. "We just drifted and I—"

"I know how it happened. Time, distance, life getting complicated." Susannah took a slow sip of tea. "Conrad needed you after I got sick. You were there for him. That mattered." She paused. "But Jeremiah—he just shut down. I tried to get through to him, but he just kept on that smile for me."

Guilt twisted in Belly's stomach. "Susannah, I—"

"I'm not blaming you, sweetheart. Please, my love, you have your own life. He needs to find his." She squeezed Belly's hand. "I'm just saying—he's been lonely. The parties, the rush chair thing, all of it... he keeps himself so busy he doesn't have to feel it." She smiled. "But tonight at dinner? That was my Jere. The real one. The one who laughs with his whole chest and lights up a room just by being in it."

Belly thought about the diner, the way he'd deflected every vulnerable moment with a joke. Before I start quoting emo lyrics or whatever.

"He does that thing," Belly said quietly. "Where he makes everything seem fine even when it's not."

"He learned that from me." Susannah's voice held an old ache. "Watching me pretend I was okay during chemo. Thought if he could just keep everyone else happy, maybe it would hurt less." She paused. "When you two were kids—back when the beach house felt like the whole world—he was never performing with you. He was just... Jere. Sticky popsicles and sunburned shoulders and that terrible knock-knock joke phase."

Belly laughed despite herself. "Oh God, the knock-knock jokes."

"Exactly." Susannah's eyes crinkled. "That's what I heard tonight." She reached over, squeezed Belly's hand again. "Whatever this is between you two, you're both still figuring out—don't let another four years pass. You need each other in your lives. Maybe more than either of you wants to admit."

Belly's throat went tight. "But Conrad."

"I know." Susannah's voice held no judgment. Just truth. "And Conrad loves you. I see it every time he talks about you. You deserve to have Jeremiah in your life too. He will understand." She stood, collecting both mugs. "I'm not telling you what to do, sweetheart. I'm just saying—pay attention. To what you feel. To what you need. And maybe... to what Jere isn't saying out loud."

At the door, she paused. "You're always welcome here, Belly. Wednesday dinners, random Tuesday nights, whenever you need somewhere to land. This house is yours too."

"Thank you, Susannah."

"Sleep well, sweetheart."

The door closed softly. Belly lay back down, Susannah's words echoing: Maybe more than either of you wants to admit.

Jeremiah's door was cracked open across the hall. He'd heard his mom's soft knock, the low murmur of their voices. He couldn't make out words, but he didn't need to.

When his mom emerged, she caught his eye through the gap in his door. She didn't smile—just looked at him with that expression that meant I see you, and I know.

He looked away first.

She pulled his door open wider, stepped inside. Sat on the edge of his bed in the dark.

"She's good for you," Susannah said quietly. "You know that, right?"

"Mom—"

"I'm not pushing. I'm just saying—tonight you looked like yourself again. The you I was afraid you'd forgotten how to be."

"It's not like that. She's with Con."

"I know." Susannah brushed the hair off his forehead, the way she used to when he was little. "But she's here. In this house. And you're smiling like you used to. That matters too."

"Why didn't you tell me?" The words came out sharper than he meant. "About her knee. The surgery. Four months, Mom."

Susannah's hand stilled against his hair. "You didn't know." Not a question.

He sat up, jaw tight. "At a party. She just—said it. Like it was nothing. And I stood there like an idiot because nobody thought to mention that Belly tore her fucking ACL and had surgery."

"You're at the same school." Susannah's voice was gentle but pointed. "How did you not know?"

The question hung there. Heavy. True.

He looked away. "I don't know. We just... we don't talk."

"I know." She sighed, the sound carrying years of watching them drift. "I'm sorry, baby. You're right—I should have said something. I kept thinking it wasn't my place, that it was between you two. But maybe I was wrong." She squeezed his shoulder. "You miss her. And she misses you. That's been obvious every single Wednesday you ask about everyone except her."

Something twisted in his chest. She was right.

"You two used to be best friends," Susannah said quietly. "Before everything got complicated. Before Conrad, before the distance, before you both got so good at pretending you were fine." She paused. "That girl came here tonight because she needed her friend back. And I think you need yours too."

"It's not that simple."

"It could be." Susannah stood, kissed his temple. "You don't have to fix everything tonight, Jere. Just—don't let another four years pass. Okay?"

She left him in the dark.

Jeremiah stared at the ceiling for a long time, her words echoing.

You're at the same school. How did you not know?

Like old times, he thought.

But it didn't feel old. It felt like standing at the edge of something he didn't have a name for yet.

Morning light filtered through the curtains. Belly woke disoriented—Conrad's room, Conrad's bed, but not Conrad's Boston.

Her phone showed three texts from Conrad, sent around 2 a.m.:

Conrad: Sorry for the delay. clinic ran long
Conrad: Miss you
Conrad: Call when you can?

She typed back:

Belly: Miss you too. Stayed at your mom's last night after dinner. have class at 10 but i'll call after

Downstairs, the smell of coffee pulled her from the room. She found Jeremiah at the stove, still in sleep-rumpled clothes, hair everywhere, making eggs.

"Morning. Coffee's fresh. Eggs in like two minutes."

"You didn't have to—"

"I was making them anyway. Plus Mom would kill me if I let you leave without feeding you." He slid a plate toward her. "Scrambled okay?"

"Perfect."

They ate in comfortable silence. Susannah appeared halfway through, paint already on her hands, smiling at the sight of them.

She kissed the top of Jeremiah's head, grabbed an apple. "Drive safe, sweetheart."

When she left, Belly checked the time. "I should probably head out. Class at ten."

"Yeah. Me too. Lifeguard shift." He walked her to the door, handed her her jacket. "Thanks for staying. For real."

"Thanks for asking."

He grinned. "Anytime, Bells. Wednesday?"

"Wednesday."

She turned to leave, then looked back. "Hey, Jere?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad we're doing this. Whatever this is."

His smile softened—dimples showing, eyes warm. "Yeah. Me too."

Outside, the air was cold and sharp. But she felt warm all the way to her car.

Chapter Text

The second Wednesday felt different.

Belly stood outside the Fisher house with a paper bag from the Italian bakery on Newbury, the one Susannah used to love. Inside: cannoli, still cold from the walk over, and a loaf of their rosemary focaccia that smelled so good she'd almost eaten it on the train.

She hadn't planned to bring anything. But Tuesday night, lying in bed, she'd thought about showing up empty-handed again and it felt... wrong. Like she was still a guest instead of—

What?

She didn't have a word for it yet.

The door opened before she could knock.

Jeremiah stood there in joggers and a faded Finch Swimming tee, hair damp like he'd just showered, barefoot. He looked surprised, then pleased, then tried to hide both behind that easy grin.

"You're early."

"I brought bribes." She held up the bag. "In case you were thinking of uninviting me."

"Bells, you know Mom would literally never forgive me." But he stepped aside, letting her in. "What'd you bring?"

"Cannoli from Vittorio's. And focaccia."

He stopped walking. Turned to look at her. "You went to Vittorio's?"

"Is that weird?"

"No, it's just—" His throat worked. "Mom used to get cannoli from there. Every time she had a good scan, that's where we'd go."

"I know." Quietly. "She told me once. I just... I thought maybe..."

She trailed off, suddenly unsure. Maybe it was too much. Maybe she was overstepping. They'd had one dinner, one late-night diner trip, and now she was showing up with memory-laden pastries like she belonged here.

But Jeremiah's expression had gone soft. Real. The grin was gone, replaced by something that looked almost like relief.

"Thank you," he said. "Really. She's gonna lose her mind."

The kitchen smelled like ginger and garlic. Susannah was already at the island, sketching something in charcoal, hands covered in black smudges. She looked up when they entered.

"Belly! You're here." Then her eyes landed on the bag. "Is that from—"

"Vittorio's," Belly confirmed, setting it on the counter. "Thought we could have dessert that wasn't pie."

Susannah's eyes went bright and glassy. She crossed the kitchen in three steps and pulled Belly into a hug that smelled like turpentine and lavender.

"You sweet girl," she murmured into Belly's hair. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to."

When Susannah pulled back, she was smiling. "Jere, you better make something good enough to deserve those cannoli."

"Already on it." He was at the stove, pulling ingredients from the fridge. "Thought I'd try something new tonight. Korean short ribs. Belly's been stuck eating dining hall food all week."

"How did you—"

"Anika texted me." He didn't look up from the marinade he was whisking, but his ears went pink. "She said you've been living off cereal and those protein bars that taste like cardboard."

Belly's stomach did something complicated. "Anika has your number?"

"She asked for it last week. Said someone needed to make sure you were eating." He glanced over his shoulder, grinning now. "Direct quote: 'Your girl is turning into a goblin. Intervene.'"

"She did not say that."

"She absolutely did. I have screenshots."

Susannah was watching them with barely concealed delight, charcoal still smudged across her cheek.

"Well," she said lightly, settling back onto her stool. "Sounds like Anika's got good instincts."

They fell into the rhythm easier this time.

Belly chopped vegetables while Jeremiah worked the stove, Susannah providing commentary on absolutely nothing useful. The music was different tonight—Japanese Breakfast, something dreamy and layered that made the kitchen feel smaller, warmer.

"So," Susannah said, not looking up from her sketch. "Thanksgiving's next week."

Jeremiah's hand stilled for half a second on the wooden spoon.

"Yeah," Belly said carefully. "My mom's doing the big thing. Turkey, the whole deal."

"Conrad's coming home." Susannah's voice was casual, but her eyes flicked to Jeremiah.  

"Yeah, he just booked last night," Belly said, even though something in her chest tightened.  

Jeremiah said nothing. Just stirred the marinade with slightly more force than necessary.

"You're coming, right, Jere?" Susannah continued. "Laurel invited us. Said it wouldn't be Thanksgiving without the Fishers."

"Wouldn't miss it," Jeremiah said. Too bright. Too easy.

Belly caught his eye across the kitchen. Something passed between them—acknowledgment, maybe. Or dread. She wasn't sure which.

Dinner was perfect.

The short ribs fell apart under her fork, sweet and savory and so tender she made an embarrassing sound on the first bite. Jeremiah tried to look modest and failed completely.

"Okay, this is ridiculous," Belly said, pointing her fork at him. "When did you get this good?"

"I've always been this good. You just weren't paying attention."

"Last time you cooked for me you burned Shin Ramyun."

"That was one time, and the stove was broken."

"The stove was not broken, Jere."

Susannah was watching them over her wine glass, that same pleased expression from earlier. Like she was watching something she'd been waiting for.

"So, Belly," she said. "How's school? PT going well?"

"Yeah. My physical therapist says I'm ahead of schedule, actually." She pushed rice around her plate. "Which is good. I mean, I won't be playing this season, but... maybe next year."

"That's wonderful news, sweetheart."

"It is. It's just—" She stopped. "I don't know. I keep thinking about what comes after. Like, what if I can't play at the same level? What if—"

"Then you figure it out," Jeremiah said. Simply. "You're not just volleyball. You're like—so many other things."

She looked at him, something warm spreading through her chest.

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Definitely." He held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then looked away, clearing his throat. "Anyway. You're gonna be fine."

Susannah was watching them again, that soft expression back on her face.

After the cannoli had been devoured and Susannah had gone upstairs to paint, Belly and Jeremiah did dishes side by side.

"Thanks for tonight," she said, handing him a plate to dry. "For cooking. For... all of it."

"You brought cannoli. Pretty sure that makes us even."

"Still."

He was quiet for a moment, focused on the dish in his hands.

"Thanksgiving's gonna be weird, huh?"

She glanced at him. "Probably."

"When's the last time you saw him? Conrad."

"September. Right before my surgery." She scrubbed at a pot harder than necessary. "He came down for it. Held my hand in pre-op, stayed the whole day." She paused. "We promised we'd FaceTime every day after. Maybe make up for all the time apart."

"And?"

"We lasted about a week before it went to once a week. Now it's like... whenever he has time. Which is basically never."

Jeremiah's jaw tightened.

"I still can't believe I didn't know that." His voice went flat. "He didn't—" He stopped. Set the dish down with deliberate care. "He didn't tell me he was coming."

The words hung there. Heavy.

Belly looked at him. Saw the hurt he was trying to hide behind that careful neutral expression.

"Jere—"

"It's fine." But his hands had gone still. "Makes sense. He was busy. Quick trip."

"I'm sorry. I thought—I assumed he would've—"

"Yeah. Me too." He picked up another dish. Dried it too hard. "Anyway. That sucks, Bells."

He turned to face her, leaning against the counter, dish towel still in his hands. "You know you don't have to just... accept stuff, right? You're allowed to be mad. Or sad. Or whatever."

"I'm fine, Jere."

"You keep saying that. That's the problem."

The words hung there between them, too honest, too close to something neither of them was ready to name.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Conrad's name on the screen.

Conrad: Can't wait to see you next week. Miss you.

She stared at it. Her thumb hovered over the screen—that familiar pull to respond, to be the girlfriend who always answered. The glow reflected in the water still sitting in the sink, casting ripples of light across her wrist.

Then she locked the screen without responding.

Jeremiah dried the plate in his hands. Too hard. The dish towel squeaked against the ceramic. He didn't know why. Maybe he did.

"You should probably answer that," he said. Not looking at her.

"I will. Later."

He nodded, but something in his expression shifted when he finally glanced up. Relief, maybe. Or guilt. He couldn't tell which one felt worse.

"Same time next week?" he asked.

"Yeah. Same time."

But next week there would be Conrad. And everything would be different.

She just didn't know how different yet.

After Belly left, Jeremiah stood in the kitchen alone, the dish towel still in his hands.

He'd been avoiding this conversation since that first night talking to Belly, but a part of him needed his brother to know that he should have been told.

Okay, he should have paid closer attention, but still.  

His phone sat on the counter—Conrad's name in his contacts, right there, one tap away.

He picked it up. Typed: heard you were in town in september

Deleted it.

Tried again: belly told me about the surgery

Deleted that too.

Finally, something simpler: you good?

He hit send before he could overthink it.

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then disappeared. Then nothing.

Jeremiah set the phone down. Stared at the screen. Waited.

Still nothing.

"Jere?" Susannah's voice came soft from the doorway. "You okay, honey?"

He turned, forcing a smile. "Yeah, Mom. Just cleaning up."

But Susannah always knows. She crossed the kitchen, wrapped her arms around him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder the way she used to when he was small.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about."

"Mm-hmm." She squeezed once, then let go. "Well. When there is something, you know where to find me."

She kissed his temple and disappeared upstairs, leaving him alone with the dishes and his silent phone.

Belly was in the athletic training room, knee propped on a foam roller, when her phone lit up.

Not a text. An email.

Subject: Study Abroad Spring Semester - Status Update

Her heart stopped.

Anika was beside her, stretching into a split that looked painful. "You good? You just went like, ghost white."

"I—" Belly's thumb was already swiping. "It's from the study abroad office."

"Wait, Paris?" Anika sat up. "Open it!"

The email was short. Clinical. The kind of language that tried to sound warm but was really just bureaucratic efficiency:

Dear Ms. Conklin,

We are pleased to inform you that a spot has become available in our upcoming Spring Paris program. Due to a recent withdrawal, we are able to offer you admission. Please confirm your acceptance within 48 hours...

The rest blurred.

Belly read it again. Then again.

"Oh my god." Her voice came out small. "I got in."

Anika shrieked. Loud enough that the athletic trainer looked over, annoyed.

"You got IN? Belly, that's huge!" Anika was already on her feet, pulling Belly up. "When do you leave?"

"I—" Belly scrolled. "January 15th. Spring semester."

"That's like, eight weeks. Holy shit, you're going to Paris."

Belly should've been screaming. Should've been calling her mom, texting Taylor, doing something other than standing there with her knee half-wrapped, staring at the words like they might disappear.

Please confirm your acceptance within 48 hours.

Forty-eight hours to decide if she was leaving. Leaving Finch. Leaving PT. Leaving—

Her phone buzzed again. Conrad.

Conrad: Call me when you can? Want to hear your voice.

She locked the screen.

"I need to—" She grabbed her bag. "I need to think."

"Think? Belly, this is Paris. What's there to think about?"

Everything. There was everything to think about.

She didn't go back to her apartment. Didn't text Taylor or Conrad or call her mom or do any of the logical things a person should do when their life just shifted sideways.

Instead, she found herself walking. Campus to the edge of town, past the coffee shop where she and Conrad used to meet before he left for med school, past the bookstore, past everything familiar until she ended up—

At the natatorium.

The building was all glass and cold November light. She could see the pool through the windows, that chemical blue, a few swimmers doing laps.

And there, at the far end, whistle around his neck, was Jeremiah.

She stood outside for a minute. Just watching. He was talking to a freshman who looked terrified, probably got caught running on the deck. Jeremiah's posture was casual, hands in the pockets of his red lifeguard shorts, but she could tell from the tilt of his head he was being firm. The kid nodded, apologized, walked away carefully.

Then Jeremiah turned. Saw her through the glass.

His whole face changed.

He said something to the other guard on duty, grabbed his hoodie from the chair, and jogged toward the door.

"Bells?" He pushed through, letting in a rush of warm, chlorine-thick air. "What are you—are you okay?"

"I got off the waitlist."

He went still. "For Paris?"

"Yeah." She couldn't read her own voice. "Email came through like an hour ago. I have forty-eight hours to decide."

"Belly." His eyes were bright, intense. "That's—that's incredible. That's what you wanted."

"Yeah."

"So why do you look like someone just told you bad news?"

She let out a laugh that wasn't really a laugh. "I don't know. I just—" She wrapped her arms around herself. "It's January 15th. That's so soon. And I'm finally getting back into shape, and my mom's gonna freak out about the logistics, and Conrad—" She stopped.

Jeremiah's jaw tightened. Just barely. "What about Conrad?"

"He wanted to take me. That was the whole plan. And now I'm going without him and I don't know if that's—if he'll—"

"Bells." He stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell chlorine and that cedar cologne he always wore. "Do you want to go?"

"I—yeah. I think so. I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Come on."

"What?"

"Come with me. I'm off in like ten minutes. Let me grab my stuff."

"Jere, you don't have to—"

"I know." But he was already heading back inside. "Just wait here."

He drove her to the overlook.

The one with the view of nothing and everything. This time it was daylight—gray November sky, bare trees, the faint shimmer of water in the distance.

They sat on the hood of the Jeep, shoulders touching, breath making small clouds in the cold.

"Okay," Jeremiah said. "Talk."

"About what?"

"About why you're freaking out over something you've wanted since like, forever."

She picked at a loose thread on her jacket. "What if I can't handle it? What if my knee—"

"Your PT said you're ahead of schedule."

"Yeah, but—"

"But what?"

"What if Conrad needs me and I'm not here?"

Jeremiah went very quiet. When he spoke again, his voice was careful. Measured. "Bells, when's the last time Conrad actually needed you?"

The question landed like a slap.

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" He turned to face her. "I'm not trying to be a dick. I'm just—when's the last time he made time for you? Like, really made time?"

"He's busy. Med school is—"

"I know what med school is. But you've been here. Waiting. And he's been there. And I just—" He stopped. Rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't want you to give up Paris because you're scared he'll be mad you didn't wait for him to take you."

"That's not—"

"Isn't it?"

She didn't answer. Because maybe it was.

"Look." He shifted, angling toward her. "You told me at the diner that he promised to take you. And I'm sure he meant it. But Bells, he's not taking you. He can't. And that's okay—his life is insane right now. But you can't put yours on hold waiting for his to calm down."

Her throat went tight. "What if I go and everything changes?"

"Then it changes." Simply. Like it was that easy. "But you'll be in Paris. And you'll have done something just for you. Not for volleyball. Not for your mom. Not for Conrad. Just you."

The wind picked up, rattling the trees. She pulled her jacket tighter.

"I'm scared," she admitted. Quietly.

"I know."

"What if I'm not ready?"

"You are."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do." He bumped her shoulder. "You're the girl who played an entire volleyball game on a bum ankle because you didn't want to let your team down. You're the girl who learned French just because you thought it sounded pretty. You're—" He stopped. "You're Belly. You've been ready for this your whole life."

Something in her chest cracked open.

"What about Wednesday dinners?" Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to.

He was quiet for a second. Really quiet. Then: "I know how he feels."

She looked up at him, confused.

"Conrad. About you being far away." His jaw worked. "Even if he's already far away, if you're far away too... it'll feel like he's losing you. I get that." He turned to face her, eyes serious. "And if I were him? A part of me probably wouldn't want you to go either. That's—that's okay. That's perfectly human."

He paused. Let the words settle.

"But no one should stop you from what you want, Belly. Not him. Not me. Not anyone."

Her throat went tight. "Jere—"

"Go to Paris." Firm now. Final. "I'm not letting you give this up because you're scared. You deserve it. More than anyone I know."

She looked at him. Really looked. At the way his eyes held hers, steady and sure. At the set of his jaw, the way his hands were shoved in his hoodie pocket like he was physically restraining himself from saying more.

"We'll figure out Wednesday dinners if you really want," he added, softer now. "FaceTime. Carrier pigeon. Whatever."

"Okay," she whispered.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll go."

His smile was instant. Huge. But there was something underneath it—relief and loss tangled together.

He laughed, pulled her into a hug, and spun her around. "I'm proud of you."

"I haven't done anything yet."

"You said yes. That's everything."

She pulled back just enough to see his face. "Thank you. For this. For—"

"Don't." He shook his head. "You would've gotten there on your own."

"Maybe. But it helped. Hearing you say it."

They sat there a while longer. Not talking. Just the wind and the gray sky and the knowledge that in eight weeks, everything would be different.

Her phone buzzed. Conrad again.

She looked at it. Then at Jeremiah.

"You should probably tell him," Jeremiah said. Carefully neutral.

"Yeah. I should."

But she didn't reach for the phone. Not yet.

"He'll be happy for you," Jeremiah added. He knew Conrad would say the right things; he'd support her. 

"Yeah. He will."

The words hung there. Both of them knowing they were probably true. Both of them wondering why that didn't feel like enough.

That night, Belly sat on her bed, phone in her lap, the acceptance email still open on her laptop.

She called Conrad.

It rang four times. She was about to hang up when—

"Hey, babe. Sorry, just got out of rounds. What's up?"

"I got off the waitlist." She said it fast. Before she could lose her nerve. "For Paris. Spring semester."

Silence. Then: "Wait, seriously? Belly, that's incredible!"

His voice lifted—genuine excitement breaking through the exhaustion. "When do you leave?"

"January 15th."

"That's so soon. Wow." A pause. She could hear him moving, maybe sitting down. "I'm so proud of you. This is what you wanted, right? You're excited?"

"Yeah. I am. I'm also kind of terrified."

"You're gonna be amazing." Warmth there, real warmth. "God, I wish I could've taken you myself. That was the plan." A beat. "But you shouldn't wait for me. You know that, right? My schedule's—it's not getting better anytime soon."

"I know."

"This is better. You'll get the full experience. No med student dragging you to the one café with decent wifi so I can finish notes." He laughed, but it sounded tired. "You're gonna love it, Belly."

Probably better.

The words still sat in her chest like stones. Not because he was wrong. Because he was right.

"I'm gonna miss you," she said. Quietly.

"I miss you now." Honest. Sad. "But this is good. This is really good for you."

Another pause. She could hear voices in the background, someone calling his name.

"Listen, I gotta run. Early shift tomorrow and I still need to review labs. But seriously, Belly—I'm really happy for you. We'll FaceTime before I come home, okay? I want to hear all about it."

"Okay."

"I love you."

"Love you too."

The call ended.

She sat there, staring at the screen. He'd said all the right things. He meant them. She knew he did.

But somewhere in the spaces between his words, in the background voices and the exhaustion and the "gotta run"—she felt it. The distance would only get worse. 

Her phone buzzed. Jeremiah.

Jere: did you tell him?

Belly: yeah

Jere: and?

Belly: he's happy for me

A pause. Then:

Jere: good. he should be

Jere: you still freaking out?

Belly: a little

Jere: want me to come over? i'll bring food

She smiled despite herself.

Belly: i'm okay. but thanks

Jere: okay. but if you change your mind

Belly: i know

Jere: proud of you bells

Jere: see you wednesday. and thanksgiving

Right. Thanksgiving. When all three of them would be in the same room for the first time in months.

She locked her phone. Opened her laptop. Clicked the acceptance button before she could overthink it.

Congratulations! Your spot in the Spring Paris program has been confirmed.

Done.

In eight weeks, she'd be gone.

Chapter Text

THE NIGHT BEFORE

The Fisher kitchen smelled like cinnamon and something burning.

"Mom—Jesus, what the hell?" Jeremiah waved smoke away from his face, coughing. "Are we cooking or committing arson?"

"I'm fine! It's fine!" Susannah's voice came from somewhere in the haze. "I was just making those little cheese puff things for tomorrow."

"The ones I literally already said I'd make?"

"Well, I wanted to practice."

Jeremiah found her by the oven, hair pulled back with a paintbrush, oven mitts on both hands, staring at a tray of what might have once been phyllo dough but now looked like charcoal sculptures.

"Mom." He took the tray, set it on the counter. "This is literally a fire hazard."

"It's avant-garde." She kissed his cheek, leaving a smudge of flour. "Besides, you're the one who's good at this stuff. I'm just here for moral support."

"Your moral support almost burned the house down."

"Details." She waved a mitt at him. "Now, are you going to tell me why you've been stress-cooking since Tuesday, or do I have to guess?"

"I'm not stress-cooking. I'm just—you know, prepping for tomorrow. The dinner at the beach house that I volunteered to cook half of?"

"Mm-hmm. Stuffing, two pies, green beans, and those cheese things I just ruined? That's a lot of 'prep,' honey."

He scraped the cremated cheese puffs into the trash, avoiding her eyes. "I just want everything to go smoothly, okay? Is that so crazy?"

"It will." She leaned against the counter, watching him with that look—the one that saw too much. "Conrad's excited to be home. He called this morning asking what he should bring."

"Cool. That's fine."

"Isabel's coming to game night tonight."

"I know. I invited her."

"And Taylor. And Steven."

"Also invited by me."

"Jere."

He finally looked up. "What?"

Susannah studied him for a long moment, then smiled. "Nothing. Just... it'll be nice. All of us together tomorrow. At the beach house. Like always."

The doorbell rang before he could respond.

"That's them!" Susannah was already heading for the door, calling back, "And Jere? Maybe open a window. It smells like a pizza oven exploded in here."

"Thanks, Mom. Super helpful."

But he opened the window anyway.

Belly stood on the porch holding a bakery box, Taylor beside her scrolling through her phone. Steven's car pulled up just as Susannah opened the door.

"Perfect timing!" Susannah said, beaming. "All my favorites at once."

Steven jogged up the steps. "Susannah, you look amazing. Love the scarf."

"Oh, this old thing?" Susannah touched the silk at her neck, pleased. "Come in, come in. Jeremiah's in the kitchen having a mild breakdown."

"I can hear you!" Jeremiah called.

"Perfect!" Susannah ushered them all inside. "He needs intervention."

Taylor pocketed her phone. "What kind of breakdown? Scale of one to Conrad-during-finals?"

"Somewhere between perfectionist and unhinged," Susannah said. "I'll let you assess."

Steven was already halfway to the kitchen. "This I gotta see."

Belly followed, still holding the pie box. Taylor grabbed her arm.

"Five bucks says he remade something at least twice."

"I'm not taking that bet," Belly said. "I know him."

"Smart girl."

They headed toward the kitchen together, Susannah trailing behind with wine glasses.

The kitchen was cleaner than it should've been—every surface wiped down, mise en place containers lined up like soldiers, three different cutting boards drying by the sink. A handwritten list sat on the counter: Stuffing. Green beans. 2 pies. Cheese things Mom will try to make and I'll have to redo.

Jeremiah stood at the island, one hand braced against the counter, the other adjusting containers that didn't need adjusting.

Steven walked straight to the stove, lifting every lid. "Dude. What the hell is all this?"

"Tomorrow's food. Don't touch shit."

"It's Wednesday night." Steven grabbed a spoon before Jeremiah could stop him. Tasted it. "Holy shit. This is—what is this?"

"Test batch of the stuffing. And get the fuck out of there, I mean it."

"No, seriously." Steven took another bite. "This is insane. When did you get good at cooking?"

"YouTube. And spite." Jeremiah grabbed the spoon away. "Now stop sampling before there's nothing left."

"That's the most honest answer you've ever given me." Steven set the spoon down, studying him. "But for real—you all right? You're acting weird."

"I'm fine. Just want everything to work tomorrow."

"It's Thanksgiving, man. Conrad comes home, we eat too much, your mom and Laurel cry during the toast. Same as every year." Steven clapped his shoulder. "You don't need to stress."

Belly knocked on the doorframe, Taylor right behind her. "Hey."

Jeremiah looked up. His shoulders eased slightly. "Hey, Bells."

Steven glanced between them but said nothing. Just grabbed the bakery box from Belly's hands.

"Is that pie?" He opened it. "Wait, you actually remembered to bring something? Character growth."

"Shut up, Steven."

"I'm serious. Last time you showed up empty-handed and ate half my mom's appetizers."

"That was one time!"

"Three times." Steven examined the pie. "Apple. Fisher also made apple. You just bought his competition."

"It's not a competition," Jeremiah said.

"Everything's a competition." Steven pointed at the lattice crust. "Hers has this fancy weave thing. Yours doesn't."

"Because lattice is pretentious."

"Or because you can't do it."

"I can absolutely do lattice."

"Then why didn't you?"

Jeremiah opened his mouth, realized he'd been baited, and closed it. "You're the worst."

Steven grinned. "And you're neurotic. What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on." He stopped himself. "It's Thanksgiving. That's all."

"It will be fine. It's literally just Thanksgiving." Steven was already heading toward the living room. "Now stop spiraling and come hang out before Taylor declares herself game queen without opposition."

"Too late!" Taylor called from somewhere. "Already happened!"

Steven disappeared. Taylor grabbed a carrot stick from the counter.

"He's right. You do seem extra tonight."

"I'm not extra."

"Your mom said you reorganized the spice cabinet."

"It needed it."

"Mm-hmm." Taylor grinned. "Anyway, I'm going to destroy everyone at Cards Against Humanity. You two coming, or are you gonna keep doing whatever this is?" She gestured vaguely at the kitchen before following Steven.

Silence settled.

Belly grabbed a carrot stick. "Come on. Before Taylor declares martial law."

He followed, grabbing the tray of cheese and crackers on his way out.

The living room had been transformed. Susannah's coffee table was covered in board games—Monopoly, Settlers of Catan, Cards Against Humanity, and something that looked suspiciously like a drinking game.

Steven was already sprawled in the armchair, one leg hooked over the arm. Taylor sat cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, shuffling cards with the focus of a Vegas dealer.

"All right, house rules," Taylor announced. "Losers do dishes tomorrow. Winners get first dibs on leftovers. And if anyone flips the board, they're banned for life."

"That was one time," Jeremiah protested, dropping onto the couch.

"You threw a hotel at Steven's head."

"He bought Boardwalk!"

"That's literally the point of Monopoly!"

"See?" Taylor pointed at Steven. "Even he agrees it was unhinged."

"Don't drag me into this," Steven said. "I'm Switzerland."

"Since when?" Taylor's voice had an edge. "You're never neutral about anything."

Steven's jaw tightened. "Taylor—"

"What? It's true." She went back to shuffling, sharper now.

The air shifted—just slightly. Jeremiah caught it, glanced at Belly. She'd noticed too.

Jeremiah pulled Belly down beside him on the couch, breaking the moment. "This is why we don't play Monopoly anymore."

"What are we playing then?"

Taylor held up the black box. "Cards Against Humanity. Mom-friendly edition."

"There's a mom-friendly edition?"

"No, but Susannah is cool, so we're gonna pretend there is."

Susannah appeared with glasses and a bottle of wine. "I've heard worse at book club. Deal me in."

"You're my hero," Taylor said, already pouring.

Steven reached for his glass. Taylor moved the bottle just out of reach. "Say please."

"Are you serious right now?"

"Manners, Princeton."

He snatched the bottle. "You're impossible."

"And you're predictable." But she was smiling now—sharp-edged, complicated.

Jeremiah caught Belly's eye. She bit back a grin.

The game devolved quickly—Taylor accusing everyone of cheating, Steven documenting "evidence," Susannah winning rounds she shouldn't have.

Twenty minutes in, Belly laid down her cards. "The secret to a lasting marriage: Ryan Gosling riding in on a white horse."

Taylor choked on her wine. "Belly!"

"What? It's true!"

Steven was already laughing. "That's not even an answer, that's just wish fulfillment."

Jeremiah leaned over to read her cards, close enough that she could smell his soap—something clean and cedar. "That's not even how the game works."

"It works if it's funny."

"Is it funny though?"

"Funnier than your answer."

"My answer was 'being rich.'"

"Exactly. Boring."

"Practical."

"Soulless."

He bumped her shoulder. "You're ruthless, Conklin."

"I'm winning, Fisher."

Taylor leaned back, grin widening. "This is painful to watch."

"We're playing a game."

"You're having entire conversations with your eyes. I forgot how you two can be."

Jeremiah's ears went pink. He grabbed another card without looking at Belly.

Steven was watching his sister and Jeremiah with an expression Belly couldn't quite read. Then he looked at Taylor, who was pointedly not looking back.

Three rounds later, Taylor played a card that made everyone groan.

"That's not even clever," Steven said. "That's just shock value."

"Says the guy who played 'dead parents' last round."

"That was strategic!"

"It was tasteless."

"You're just mad because you didn't think of it first."

Taylor threw a pillow at him. He caught it, grinning, and for a second the tension cracked—just two people who knew each other too well, fighting because it was easier than not fighting.

Then Taylor's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, expression flickering.

"Davis?" Steven's voice was too casual.

"None of your business, actually."

"Just asking."

"Well, don't." She stood, grabbing her wine. "Bathroom break. Don't cheat while I'm gone."

When she left, the room went quiet.

Steven stared at his cards. Jeremiah cleared his throat. "Dude—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay."

Belly reached for the chips, breaking the silence. "Your turn, Susannah."

Forty minutes later, Jeremiah was in the kitchen making more snacks. Belly helped him clean up after Taylor rage-quit Catan, stacking cards while he collected glasses.

Steven and Taylor's voices drifted from the living room—not arguing, exactly. Something quieter. More careful.

"They're a mess," Jeremiah said, loading the dishwasher.

"Yeah. They are."

"You think they'll ever figure it out?"

Belly thought about it. "I don't know. Maybe they're not supposed to."

He looked at her then, something complicated in his expression. "Yeah. Maybe."

The November air was sharp. Belly pulled her jacket tighter, breath misting. Steven and Taylor were already in his car, still arguing.

"Thanks for tonight. I needed this."

"Yeah? PT kicking your ass?"

"That, and... I don't know. Just everything." She leaned against her car. "It's nice, being here. With you guys."

"It is."

She studied him for a moment. The porch light caught the side of his face, shadowing the rest.

"Goodnight, Jere."

"Night, Bells."

He watched her taillights disappear, Steven's car following close behind. Then he stood there a while longer, breath clouding in the cold, before heading inside.

He went upstairs, fell into bed, and stared at the ceiling until his phone buzzed.

Belly: thanks again for tonight. see you tomorrow 💙

He typed back: anytime bells. sleep well

Set his phone down. Closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, Conrad would be home.

THANKSGIVING MORNING

Jeremiah woke up to his phone buzzing at 6 a.m.

Conrad: landing at 2. need a ride from airport?

He stared at the text. The smart thing—the self-preservation thing—would be to say he was busy. Already committed to helping at the beach house. Let Conrad take an Uber or ask Steven. 

But that wasn't how this worked. That wasn't how they worked.

Jere: yeah man. text me when you land

Conrad: thanks bro

Jeremiah set his phone down and scrubbed his hands over his face.

Two hours round trip to Logan. Then back to Cousins. Talking about med school, probably. And Belly. Definitely Belly.

"Shit," he muttered to the empty room.

But he'd do it anyway.

Because that's what you did for family. Even when it hurt.

Downstairs, Susannah was already up, humming something off-key while she wrestled with Tupperware containers.

"Morning, sunshine." She didn't look up. "Sleep all right?"

"Fine." He grabbed coffee, doctored it with too much cream. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep. Too excited." She finally got a lid to snap into place, triumphant. "I love Thanksgiving. All of us together, eating too much, laughing—"

"Mom."

"What?"

"The cheese puffs from last night are still in the trash. Maybe let me handle the cooking today?"

She threw a dish towel at him. "I'm helping with the cranberry sauce and you can't stop me."

"The cranberry sauce comes from a can."

"Exactly. Foolproof."

He caught the towel, grinning despite himself. This was the Susannah he loved—chaotic, warm, refusing to let anything dim her light. Even when that light flickered sometimes, when she got tired too fast or her hands shook just slightly when she thought no one was looking.

"Conrad texted. He's landing at 2. I'm gonna go grab him from Logan."

"Oh wonderful." Her whole face brightened. "I was worried he'd get stuck in airport traffic. You're such a good brother, you know that?"

He shrugged, grabbing the first Tupperware container. "I'm gonna start loading the car. We need to be at Cousins by nine if I'm gonna get everything in the oven on time."

"Jeremiah Fisher, master of Thanksgiving logistics." She kissed the top of his head. "Thanks for driving. I know you hate holiday traffic."

"I'd drive through hell for you, Mom. Morning traffic's nothing."

The Cousins beach house kitchen was fucking gorgeous—way bigger than the one back in Boston, with that massive island in the center where Jeremiah had spent half his childhood. Pale wood everywhere, white cabinets stretching up to the vaulted ceiling with those exposed beams Susannah loved. Open shelving on one side, filled with her collection of mismatched bowls and pretty dishes she'd picked up over the years.  

He'd been here a thousand times. Every summer since he could remember. Winter breaks when Susannah wanted to paint the off-season light—said it was sharper, clearer, like the cold stripped everything down to what mattered. 

But today it felt different. Charged somehow.  

Laurel was already at the sink—Susannah's sink, technically, but Laurel had been cooking Thanksgiving here for years—sleeves rolled up, attacking a turkey with the kind of precision usually reserved for her novels.

"Morning, Laur." Susannah hauled in another container, still holding the beach house keys in her other hand. "We brought reinforcements."

"Thank God." Laurel looked up, hair escaping from its clip, reading glasses sliding down her nose. "I love this bird, but it's the size of a small child and I'm questioning all my choices."

"That's the Thanksgiving spirit." Jeremiah set his containers on the counter, already scanning the space. "Where do you want me?"

"Anywhere that's not in my way." But she was smiling. "Seriously though, Jere, thank you for doing this. I know it's a lot."

"Nah. I like cooking. It's like chemistry but, you know, you can eat the results and shit."

"And fewer explosions," a voice added from the doorway.

Jeremiah turned. Steven stood there, holding a bottle of wine, looking older somehow—expensive watch, button-down that probably cost more than Jeremiah's entire wardrobe, hair styled in that effortless way that definitely wasn't effortless.

"Steven! You're early." Laurel crossed the kitchen to hug him.

"Traffic wasn't bad coming down. Denise slept most of the way." He grinned at Jeremiah. "Plus, Jere is cooking. Had to make sure he didn't burn the place down."

"Dude, it was your fault."

"How was it my fault?"

"You distracted me during the crème brûlée torch situation."

"By asking a question!"

"A dumb question."

"There are no dumb questions, only dumb—"

"Boys." Laurel didn't look up from the turkey. "If you start fighting in my kitchen, you're both banned. Susannah, back me up."

"I'm staying out of it. I raised one of them, I know when to retreat."

Steven laughed, setting the wine on the counter. "Denise is grabbing stuff from the car. She'll be in in a sec." He turned to Jeremiah. "She's still nervous about meeting your mom. I told her Susannah's the least intimidating person on the planet, but—"

"She'll be fine. Mom loves everyone."

"Yeah, but you know. First big family thing."  

Before Jeremiah could respond, the back door opened.

Denise stepped in—dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, burgundy sweater, that same sharp confidence Jeremiah remembered from his birthday dinner. Her eyes swept the kitchen, taking everything in.

"Hey." She spotted him immediately. "There's the birthday boy. Twenty-one treating you well?"

"Can't complain." He grinned. "It's great to see you again."

"You too. And in your natural habitat." She gestured at the stove, the mise en place. "Steven said you'd be running the show today."

"Trying to, anyway."

"See? Told you." Steven draped an arm around her shoulders.

"This looks pretty legit. What are we working with?"

"Green beans with almonds, homemade stuffing, couple pies."

"Homemade." She raised an eyebrow. "Ambitious."

"Or stupid. Depends how it turns out."

She laughed—quick and real. "I respect the confidence. Last time I tried to cook for Steven, I set off three smoke alarms."

"The eggs," Steven and Jeremiah said in unison.

"Oh my God, you told him?" Denise turned to Steven, mock-offended. "That was supposed to stay between us."

She pointed at him. "But for the record, I've gotten better. I can now make toast without incident."

"Progress."

"This is Susannah." Laurel gestured. 

"Hi." Denise immediately shifted gears—warmer, more careful. "Thank you so much for having me. I know it's last minute—"

"Don't be silly." Susannah pulled her into a quick hug. "Any friend of Steven's is family. And anyone who can make my son laugh like that is already winning."

Denise's shoulders dropped slightly—relief. "Well, he makes it easy. Your son's pretty funny."

"He is." Susannah's eyes were soft with pride. "Though he works very hard to make it look effortless."

"Mom—"

"What? It's true." She turned back to Denise, still smiling. "Wine? You look like you could use some."

"God, yes. Thank you."

As Susannah poured wine, the back door opened again. Taylor's voice carried in first—loud, bright, unmistakable.

"We come bearing gifts! Well, Belly does. I just drove."

Belly appeared behind her, holding a bakery bag, cheeks pink from the cold. She was wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.

"Morning." She smiled at the room. Her eyes found Jeremiah's immediately. Then she crossed to Laurel, hugging her mom quick before bumping Steven's shoulder—habitual sibling greeting.

"Hey, Bells." Something in his chest eased. "Made good time."

"Told you I would." She set the bag on the counter. "Taylor drove like a maniac, but we're here."

"I drove the speed limit," Taylor protested, already grabbing a wine glass. "It's not my fault you're a nervous passenger."

"You took that turn on two wheels."

"Dramatic."

Laurel looked up from the turkey, amused. "Taylor Jewel, terrorizing passengers since she got her license."

"Mrs. Conklin, I'm an excellent driver. Your daughter just doesn't appreciate my skills."

Steven snorted from across the kitchen. "Your 'skills' got you two tickets last year."

"One was a speed trap. The other was... also a speed trap."

"Both were you going twenty over."

"Allegedly."

Denise was watching this exchange with clear entertainment, wine glass halfway to her lips. "I like her already."

"Don't encourage her," Steven said, but he was grinning.

Jeremiah moved to the counter, closer to where Belly stood. "What'd you bring?"

"Rosemary rolls. From that bakery on Newbury you like."

He looked at her, something warm flickering in his expression. "You remembered."

"Of course I did." She shrugged, but she was smiling. "Plus, you've got pie covered. Figured we needed bread."

"Smart thinking." He took the bag, peeked inside. "These are perfect." 

Her face went a little pink. "It's just bread, Jere."

"Yeah, but you drove out of your way. That's not nothing."

"Taylor didn't mind."

"Still." He bumped her shoulder. "Thanks, Bells."

"Anytime."

Steven's voice cut through: "Are we having a moment over here, or can I steal one of those rolls?"

"Touch them and die, Conklin," Jeremiah said, not looking away from Belly.

"So aggressive."

Belly laughed, soft and familiar. Close enough now that he could smell her shampoo—something citrusy. "Need help with anything?"

"You offering to cook?"

"I'm offering to not get in your way. There's a difference."

"Good call." He gestured toward the green beans. "You can trim those if you want. Keeps you busy, makes you look useful."

"Wow. Such a privilege."

"I know, right? I'm very generous."

She rolled her eyes but grabbed the cutting board anyway, settling in beside him at the counter. Taylor had already migrated to Susannah and Denise, the three of them clustered by the wine, voices blending into easy conversation.

The kitchen felt fuller now. Good-full. The kind of chaos that meant family, even when family was complicated.

Jeremiah grabbed his wooden spoon—the one with the burned handle—and went back to stirring the pot on the stove.

Belly glanced at it, a small smile tugging at her lips. "That's the famous spoon, huh?"

"The one and only."

"Steven told me about the crème brûlée incident."

"Of course he did." But he was grinning. "This spoon's been through hell."

"And you still won't replace it."

"Why would I? It's got character."

"It's a safety hazard."

"It's a conversation starter." He bumped her shoulder lightly. "And clearly it works."

She shook her head, still smiling, and went back to trimming green beans.

For a second, it was just the two of them—surrounded by noise and people and Thanksgiving chaos—but somehow separate from it. Easy. Right.

Then Steven's voice cut through: "Fisher! You got a game plan for timing all this, or are we winging it?"

Jeremiah turned, wooden spoon still in hand. "I've got timers. And a vague sense of when shit needs to come out of the oven."

"That's... not reassuring."

"It'll be fine."

"Will it though?"

Laurel looked up from the turkey, a small smile on her face. "Jere's been helping with Thanksgiving here for years. He knows what he's doing."

"Helping, sure," Steven said. "But running half the show?"

"We walked through it. He's got this."

Jeremiah's ears went a little pink. "See? Laur has faith in me."

"I have faith you won't burn the beach house down. Beyond that, we'll see."

Steven grinned. "Wow. Such a ringing endorsement."

"Look, worst case, we order pizza. Best case, I'm everyone's hero. Either way, we're eating."

Denise laughed. Susannah was smiling into her wine glass.

Belly looked up from the green beans, caught his eye, and bit back a grin.

Yeah. This was going to be a long day.

But maybe that was okay.

An hour into the organized chaos, the front door opened.

"Hello? Anyone home, or did the turkey stage a coup?"

John Conklin's voice carried through the house—warm, teasing, exactly the energy needed to cut through kitchen tension.

Laurel looked up from basting. "In here! And the turkey's winning."

John appeared in the doorway, holding a bakery box and a bottle of something that looked expensive. He'd dressed up—button-down, nice jeans, the kind of effort that said I'm trying without screaming it.

"John!" Susannah crossed the kitchen to hug him. "You made it."

"Wouldn't miss it." He handed her the bottle.

John set the bakery box on the counter. "Pecan pie. Because apparently we can never have too much pie in this house."

Steven grabbed the box, examining it. "Nice. Thanks, Dad."

"Figured I should contribute something other than my sparkling personality." John clapped his shoulder, then moved through the kitchen, hugging Belly, shaking Denise's hand with the kind of easy charm that Steven had clearly inherited.

"Denise! Steven's told me all about you. Well, not all. He's annoyingly vague about the important stuff."

"Dad—"

"What? I'm just saying. 'She's great, Dad. You'll like her.' That's not a profile, that's a fortune cookie."

Denise laughed, relaxing immediately. "It's great to meet you, Mr. Conklin."

"John. Please. Mr. Conklin makes me sound like I have my life together." He gestured at the chaos. "Which, clearly, I don't."

"None of us do," Susannah said. "That's why we're all here."

"Amen to that."

The kitchen settled into a new rhythm. John stationed himself at the island, helping Laurel with side dishes while trading barbs with Steven. Denise and Susannah were deep in conversation about art—Denise mentioning a gallery opening, Susannah lighting up at the chance to talk about painting again.

Taylor had migrated to the stove, bothering Jeremiah.

"So when do you have to leave?" she asked, stealing a piece of bread.

"Around one-thirty. Gotta get to Logan, then back here."

"You're really driving all the way up there to get Conrad?"

"Yeah. Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Seems like a lot. He couldn't just Uber?"

"He asked me," Jeremiah said. "It's not a big deal."

"If you say so."

"I do."

Taylor studied him for a moment, then stole another piece of bread. "You're a good brother, Jeremy."

She grinned, bumping his shoulder before wandering back to the wine.

Belly replaced her at the stove a minute later, hands full of trimmed green beans.

"These good?" she asked.

"Perfect." He took the bowl, set it aside. "Thanks, Bells."

"Anytime." She leaned against the counter, watching him work. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one you get when you're thinking too much."

He glanced at her, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm fine. Just trying to make sure everything's timed right, you know?"

"It will be." She said it with such certainty that something in his chest loosened. "You've got this, Jere."

He bumped her hip with his. "Stop being supportive. It's throwing me off."

"Never."

By noon, the kitchen had hit its stride. Jeremiah moved between the stove and oven with the kind of focus that came from YouTube tutorials and too much caffeine. Laurel had finally wrestled the turkey into submission. John was chopping vegetables with surprising competence. Steven and Denise were taste-testing everything within reach.

Susannah's phone rang.

She glanced at the screen, then stepped into the hallway. "Adam! Hi—yes, we're at the beach house. Everything's going great."

Her voice faded as she moved toward the front of the house.

Jeremiah's shoulders tensed slightly. Belly noticed—she always did—but didn't say anything. Just stayed close, trimming the last of the green beans.

A few minutes later, Susannah reappeared, phone still in hand, expression harder to read.

"Everything okay?" Laurel asked.

"Fine. Adam's stuck at the office. Said he'll try to make it for dessert, but..." She trailed off, then smiled—bright, practiced. "More pie for us, right?"

It was a two-hour drive from Boston on a good day. Thanksgiving traffic? Three, maybe four. They both knew he wasn't coming.

"Right," Jeremiah said, voice flat.

Susannah crossed to him, squeezed his shoulder. "He wanted to be here, honey. Work just—"

"I know, Mom. It's fine. Really."

"Jere—"

"It's fine." He didn't look up from the pot.

The kitchen went quiet for half a beat. Then John cleared his throat.

"Laurel, where'd you hide the good carving knife? This one's duller than my sense of direction."

The tension broke. Laurel pointed to a drawer. "Second one down. And don't cut yourself. I don't have time for a hospital run."

"No promises."

At 1:30, Jeremiah wiped his hands on a towel and checked his phone. Conrad had texted fifteen minutes ago: landed. grabbing bags.

"I gotta head out."

"Wait—" Steven set down his wine glass. "I can grab him. You've been cooking all day."

"Nah, man. I'm good."

"Seriously," Belly added, looking up from the green beans. "I don't mind. You should stay and—"

"He asked me," Jeremiah said, already grabbing his keys. "I got it. Just—seriously, don't burn my shit while I'm gone, okay?"

Steven raised his hands. "I got it, Jere."

"I'm serious, Conklin. If my stuffing's ruined, we're fighting."

He was out the door before anyone could argue.

The arrivals area was chaos—families reuniting, rideshares honking, someone's suitcase exploding open near the curb.

Jeremiah pulled up to the pickup zone, scanning the crowd.

And then he saw him.

Conrad stood by the baggage claim doors, duffel slung over one shoulder, looking exactly like he always did—tired, serious, like the weight of the world lived permanently in his jaw.

But when he spotted the Jeep, his face softened. Just a little. Just enough.

Jeremiah leaned over, popped the passenger door open. "Hey, man. Welcome home."

Conrad's whole expression shifted—something like relief. He tossed his bag in the back, climbed in. "Thanks for doing this. I know it's out of your way."

"Are you kidding? It's Thanksgiving." Jeremiah pulled back into traffic. "Besides, Mom would kill me if I let you Uber."

Conrad laughed—quiet, but real. "True."

Jeremiah merged onto the highway. Silence settled—not uncomfortable exactly, just... there. He turned up Fleetwood Mac, then immediately turned it back down.

"So. Flight sucked, I'm guessing?"

"Long. Some guy behind me coughed for three straight hours."

"Fucking nightmare."

"Pretty much."

Jeremiah drummed his fingers on the wheel. "School's good?"

"Yeah, it's—" Conrad stopped, like he was deciding how much to say. "It's good. Busy. Mom said you're cooking today?"

"Yeah, well. Someone's gotta feed everyone, and Laur asked, so." He shrugged. "Figured I'd help out."

"That's cool. She appreciates it."

"Yeah."

More quiet. Jeremiah's thumb tapped the steering wheel. He wanted to ask about the surgery.

Then Conrad said, "So, uh. Belly's ACL."

Jeremiah's grip tightened slightly on the wheel. "Yeah. I heard. That was—fuck, man. That was really bad."

"Yeah." Conrad scrubbed a hand over his face. "I should've called you when it happened. Let you know. I wasn't trying to shut you out, it just—everything happened so fast. One minute she's playing, next thing I know she's in the ER and they're talking surgery and—" He stopped. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. She told me about it." Jeremiah kept his eyes on the road. "I'm glad you were there for her."

"She'd ask about you all the time, you know. Wanted to know how you're doing. I'm glad you guys are talking again. I mean it."

"Yeah, well. Thank god for Wednesday dinners then. Been busy. Rush chair shit, lifeguarding, you know, all that."

"Rush chair? That's a big deal."

"Someone's gotta herd the freshmen." Jeremiah shrugged.  

"You're probably good at it."

"Better than you'd be. You'd scare them all off."

"I absolutely would."

They drove in silence for a beat. Then Jeremiah let out a short laugh.

"What?" Conrad asked.

"Dad called last week." Jeremiah's voice went flat. "Wanna guess what he said?"

"Do I want to know?"

"Asked if I was still, quote, 'wasting time with that frat nonsense.'" Jeremiah did a pitch-perfect impression of their father—that fake regretful tone that didn't quite land. "Said I should focus on real opportunities. Whatever the fuck that means. Like he has any clue what I'm actually doing."

Conrad winced. "Sounds about right."

"Yeah, well. Then he hit Mom with the Thanksgiving excuse. Work emergency. Very sorry. Can't make it. The usual bullshit." He changed lanes harder than necessary. "Mom tried to act like it was fine. Did that whole 'he wanted to be here' thing."

"She always does."

"I know." Jeremiah's grip tightened on the wheel. His voice went quieter. "Doesn't make it less shitty."

Conrad was quiet for a long moment. "You remember when he missed your birthday? Sophomore year?"

"Which time?"

"Exactly." Conrad let out a breath. "I'm sorry, Jere. I know I'm not around much either. Med school's just—"

"It's different. You're actually doing something. He's just—" Jeremiah stopped, shook his head. "Forget it."

"No, I get it. He's never gonna change."

"Nope."

They sat with that for a minute. The highway stretched ahead, familiar and endless.

"How is Mom?" Conrad asked, voice quieter now. "Like, really."

Jeremiah thought about it. The good days and the hard ones. How she'd been painting again lately, which was good. But also how she got tired faster than she used to. How sometimes her hands shook when she thought no one was looking.

"She looks good, though. Stronger. Excited for today. Loves having everyone—" He stopped. "She's good, Con. I promise."

Conrad studied him, like he was trying to read between the lines. "You'd tell me if she wasn't, right?"

"Yeah. I would."

Conrad didn't look convinced, but he let it drop. "I worry about her. And you. Being there alone with her while I'm at school."

"I'm not alone. She's got friends, the art classes, all that." Jeremiah changed lanes. "And I'm fine. We're fine. I see her every Wednesday. Sometimes Sundays."

"Okay." Conrad looked at him for another beat, then nodded. "Okay."

The music filled the silence again. Jeremiah exhaled, hands loosening on the wheel.

"Thanks for picking me up," Conrad said after a while. "I know you had a lot going on today."

"Yeah, well. You're my brother." Jeremiah kept his eyes on the road. "That's what you do."

Conrad nodded. "Mom staying at the beach house tonight?"

"Yeah. I'm heading back to Finch after dinner."

"That's a long day."

"I'll survive." Jeremiah glanced over with a slight grin. "Wouldn't miss the chance to make you suffer through my cooking."

Conrad almost laughed. "Looking forward to it."

They fell quiet after that, letting the music and the road do the talking.

"Mom mentioned you're still thinking about what to do after graduation?"

"Yeah. Still figuring it out."

"Dad's still pushing Breaker?"

"Pretty much. He's got this whole plan. Me and Steven, taking over eventually. The Fisher-Conklin dream team or whatever."

"And you don't want that."

Not a question.

"Would you? If you actually had a choice?"

Conrad was quiet for a long moment. "Honestly? No. I'd hate it. The corporate thing, the suits, all of it." He paused. "But you've got options, Jere. You're talented at stuff. The cooking thing—Mom says you're really skilled."

"It's just cooking with mom."

"She doesn't think it's just cooking. And neither do I." Conrad looked at him. "You could do something with that. If you wanted."

"Yeah, maybe."

They were getting close to Cousins now. Jeremiah could see the familiar roads, the signs for the beach.

"Hey," Conrad said. "I'm serious though. Thanks for picking me up. And for... you know. Everything."

"Yeah, man. Anytime."

Conrad grinned. "It's great to be home."

"It's great to have you back, Con."

As Jeremiah turned onto the beach road, he could see the house in the distance through the bare November trees—white clapboard, blue shutters, string lights Susannah insisted on leaving up year-round even though half of them were burned out. The boardwalk was empty. The ocean looked mean and gray beyond it.

Windows glowing warm, cars already crowding the gravel driveway. He thought about Belly inside, probably at the sink, laughing at something Taylor said. Normal. Easy. The kind of scene he'd been holding together all day.

But as he pulled into the driveway, shells crunching under the tires, he couldn't shake the feeling that nothing about this was going to be fine.

They pulled up. Belly was already moving down the porch steps before they'd even cut the engine.

The second Conrad saw her, his whole face changed—the one that meant Conrad had finally found something worth caring about.

Conrad was out of the car before Jeremiah could say anything, taking the steps two at a time.

"Hey—"

She crashed into him, arms tight around his neck. He pulled her close, face buried in her hair, holding on like he'd been underwater and she was air.

Jeremiah grabbed the duffel from the back. Took his time with it. The porch light buzzed overhead—probably needed replacing—and inside someone was laughing. His mom, maybe. Or Laurel.

He stood there like an idiot, watching Conrad hold Belly like she was the only solid thing in the world.

This is how it goes, he thought. Con comes home, Belly lights up, everyone's happy. That's the script. You know the fucking script.

Knowing it didn't make it easier.

He shouldered the bag and made himself walk up the porch steps.

Conrad pulled back just enough to look at her. "Missed you."

"Missed you too." Belly's hand came up, brushing hair off his forehead. Automatic. Tender.

"You look like shit," she said, but her voice was soft.

"Thirty-hour shift. I'm fine now, though." Conrad kissed her—quick, sweet, like muscle memory.

Jeremiah made it to the porch. "Got your stuff."

Conrad turned, still close to Belly. His expression shifted—grateful, warmer. "Thanks, man. Seriously. I know you had—"

"Don't worry about it." Jeremiah set the duffel down, managed a grin. "Just don't tell me about every trauma case you saw on your shift. I'm trying to keep food down today."

Conrad almost smiled. "You got it, Jere." 

Belly stepped back from Conrad just enough to look at Jeremiah. "Drive okay?"

"Yeah. Smooth. Your boy here fell asleep ten minutes in, so I had full DJ control."

"Bullshit," Conrad said. "I closed my eyes for like two seconds."

"You were drooling on the window, Con."

"I don't drool."

"You absolutely drool." Jeremiah looked at Belly. "Back me up here. He drools."

She bit back a smile. "I plead the fifth."

"Traitor," both brothers said at the same time.

For half a second, it almost felt normal. The three of them standing there, the old rhythm trying to find its footing again.

Then Susannah burst through the door. "Conrad! Oh, honey, let me look at you."

Conrad moved toward his mom. Belly followed, her hand finding his without looking.

Jeremiah stood there one more beat—duffel at his feet, porch light still buzzing overhead.

He'd driven hours. Cooked since dawn. Held everything together.

And somehow, he was still the one on the outside looking in.

He picked up the duffel and followed them inside anyway. 

Chapter Text

The Cousins beach house kitchen was chaos in the best way.

Jeremiah stood at the massive island, arranging his dishes alongside Laurel's turkey and the side dishes everyone else had brought. Steam rose from half a dozen platters. The counters were covered—casseroles and serving bowls and that weird Jello mold John Conklin insisted on making every year even though nobody touched it.

"The Jello survived the drive," John announced, setting the wobbly green monstrosity on the counter with visible pride. "Didn't lose a single layer this time."

"Dad, nobody eats that," Steven said from across the kitchen.

"Your grandmother loved this recipe."

"Grandma also thought mayonnaise was a food group."

"Mayonnaise is delicious and I won't hear otherwise." John adjusted the Jello's position, tilting his head like he was framing a photograph. "There. Perfect."

Jeremiah caught Belly's eye across the kitchen. She pressed her lips together, fighting a smile.

"Jere, the stuffing goes next to the turkey," Laurel called, wrestling with a gravy boat threatening to overflow.

"I know where stuffing goes, Laur."

"You put it by the cranberry sauce last year and your mother almost had a stroke."

"That was a creative choice."

"It was a crime against Thanksgiving," Susannah said, appearing at his elbow and stealing a piece of bread from his basket. "I stand by my reaction."

"You're both dramatic."

"We're both right." She kissed his cheek, leaving a faint smudge of lipstick. "Now stop fussing. Everything looks beautiful."

Through the doorway, Jeremiah could see everyone migrating toward the dining room. Conrad sat on the couch with Belly tucked against his side, showing her something on his phone—actually showing her, not checking it. She laughed at whatever it was, that real laugh, and Conrad's whole face softened.

That was the thing about Conrad. When he was present, he was so present it almost hurt to look at.

His phone buzzed. Conrad glanced down, jaw tightening, and the moment evaporated.

"Need to take this quick," he murmured, kissing Belly's temple as he stood. "Two seconds."

First one of the night. Wouldn't be the last.

Denise appeared beside Jeremiah, reaching past him for the stack of cloth napkins. "Those go on the table?"

"Yeah. Thanks." He watched her fold them efficiently, creating neat triangles. "You don't have to help, you know. You're a guest."

"I like helping. Feels weird just standing around." She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Besides, my gran-gran always said you can tell a lot about a family by how they move in the kitchen. Whether they work around each other or through each other."

"Yeah? What's the verdict?"

She smiled, something warm in it. "You work around. It's nice. My family's more of the 'through' variety—lot of elbows, lot of yelling."

"Your family's not doing Thanksgiving?"

"They are. My parents went upstate to my sister's place—she's got three kids under five, so it's kind of an all-hands situation. I couldn't get enough time off to make the trip worth it." She shrugged, but something flickered across her face. "Steven didn't want me sitting alone in my apartment eating takeout, so."

"That was nice of him."

"He's a nice guy." She said it simply, like it was obvious. "Don't tell him I said that. He'll get insufferable."

Susannah swept past them, pausing to squeeze Denise's arm. "Sweetheart, you're an angel for helping. Come sit—you've been on your feet all morning."

"I really don't mind—"

"Sit. That's an order." Susannah's voice was warm but firm. "Jere's got the kitchen handled. Don't you, baby?"

"Apparently."

Susannah herded Denise toward the dining room, throwing a look back at Jeremiah that he couldn't quite read. Knowing, maybe. Or just tired.

She'd been on her feet for hours. He'd noticed her leaning against the counter when she thought no one was looking, pressing a hand to her lower back. The good days were more frequent now, but they still cost her.

Conrad reappeared, sliding his phone into his pocket. "Sorry. Where do you need me?"

"Grab the turkey?" Laurel gestured toward the massive bird. "Your brother's got his hands full with sides."

"On it."

For a moment, it was just the two of them in the kitchen—Jeremiah arranging his stuffing, Conrad hoisting the turkey platter.

"Smells incredible, Jere." Conrad paused beside him. "Seriously. This spread is insane."

"It's just Thanksgiving."

"It's not just anything. You've been cooking for like three days." Conrad's voice was quieter now, sincere in that way he usually saved for important things. "Mom told me. About the Wednesday dinners, all the meals you make her. I know I'm not around much, and I just—thanks. For taking care of her."

Jeremiah's throat went tight. "She's my mom too."

"I know. But you're here. Every week. And I'm—" Conrad shook his head. "Anyway. Thanks."

He was gone before Jeremiah could respond, carrying the turkey toward the dining room like it weighed nothing.

~*~

The long farmhouse table was set with Susannah's good china—the blue-and-white pattern from her grandmother, the one that only came out for holidays. Candles flickered in mismatched holders down the center, scattered between small gourds and fall leaves.

"Okay, everyone!" Laurel's voice cut through the noise. "Find your seats!"

The migration was chaotic in the way of all large family gatherings—too many people, not enough clear assignments. Steven pulled out Susannah's chair with exaggerated formality that made her swat his arm. John hovered near Laurel, uncertain whether helping was welcome or intrusive.

"John, just sit down," Laurel said, not unkindly. "You're making me nervous."

"I was going to—"

"Sit."

He sat, catching Steven's eye with a rueful shrug. Steven grinned.

Taylor slid into a chair near the middle, deliberately not looking at Steven as he settled across from her. Denise took the seat beside Steven, her hand finding his briefly under the table.

And Conrad and Belly, still orbiting each other, took the two seats near the window. Conrad's hand rested on her lower back as she sat, familiar and possessive.

Jeremiah ended up between his mom and Taylor. Good sightlines to everyone. Not that he was looking.

"Before we eat," Laurel said, raising her wine glass, "I'd like to say something."

"Mom, no speeches," Steven groaned. "I'm starving."

"Steven James Conklin, I pushed you out of my body. I get to make speeches."

"She's got you there," Denise murmured, and Steven's ears went pink.

"I want to second that," John added. "I was in the room. It was very dramatic."

"Dad—"

"What? It was. I almost passed out."

"Can we not discuss my birth at Thanksgiving dinner?"

"You brought it up," Taylor said, the first thing she'd said directly to him all night.

Laurel waited, wine glass still raised, until the laughter subsided.

"To Susannah," she said, her voice going soft. "Who's still here. Still fighting. Still making us all better just by existing."

Susannah's hand found Jeremiah's under the table. Squeezed hard.

"Three years cancer-free," Laurel continued. "Three years of Wednesday dinners and terrible art puns—"

"My art puns are excellent."

"They're objectively terrible and we love you anyway." Laurel's eyes were bright now. "To many more years. To family—the one we're born into and the one we choose. To everyone at this table, and everyone we're missing."

A brief silence. Adam Fisher's absence hung in the air, unacknowledged. Nobody mentioned it.

"To family," everyone echoed.

"Very nice speech," Halmoni said, already reaching for the turkey. "Now we eat."

Jeremiah drank. Watched his mom wipe her eyes with her napkin. Watched Conrad reach for his phone, catch himself, and deliberately set it face-down on the table.

Belly noticed. He saw her notice—the slight softening around her eyes, the way she leaned into Conrad's shoulder. Grateful for the effort, even if it wouldn't last.

"Okay, enough emotions," Steven announced. "Pass the turkey before I start gnawing on the table."

"Steven." Laurel's voice carried a warning.

"What? Emotional speeches make me hungry. It's biological."

"That's not how biology works," Conrad said.

"How would you know? You're not a doctor yet."

"I'm literally in medical school—"

"Key word: school. Still a student. Still not a doctor."

"I've done more rotations than you've done—what exactly do you do at Breaker?"

"I move numbers from one spreadsheet to another spreadsheet. Very important work."

John cleared his throat. "Speaking of Breaker—"

"Dad, can we not?" Steven's voice tightened.

"I was just going to say—"

"Turkey's getting cold," Steven interrupted, grabbing the carving knife. "Who wants a leg?"

Jeremiah caught the look that passed between Steven and Denise—quick, loaded with something he couldn't read. Denise's expression smoothed out almost instantly, but her shoulders had tensed.

Interesting.

~*~

Twenty minutes into the meal, the table had settled into its rhythm. Conversations overlapped, plates got passed, wine glasses emptied and refilled.

The front door opened, bringing a rush of cold air and a familiar voice.

"Aigoo, why is nobody helping me with the door?"

"Halmoni!" Belly was up from her seat instantly, nearly knocking over her water glass.

Laurel's mother appeared in the doorway, small and immaculate in a wool coat, her silver hair pinned back neatly. She carried a large covered dish that smelled incredible—sesame and garlic and something rich and savory.

"I told you not to bring anything," Laurel said, already crossing to take the dish. "You're supposed to be resting."

"Resting is for dead people." Halmoni waved her off, but let Laurel take the dish. "I made japchae. The store-bought kind is terrible."

"Halmoni, Jere makes japchae all the time for Susannah," Steven said, grinning.

The old woman turned her sharp gaze to Jeremiah, assessing. "You cook Korean food?"

"I try. Laurel taught me some basics, and I've been practicing—"

"We'll see." But there was a hint of approval in her voice. She let Belly help her out of her coat, patting her granddaughter's cheek. "You're too thin. Are you eating?"

"I'm eating, Halmoni."

"Not enough." She turned to Steven next. "And you. When are you going to get a real job?"

"I have a real job—"

"Pushing papers for that man." She made a dismissive sound. "You're smarter than that."

Steven's ears went red. Denise pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.

"Mom," Laurel said, a warning in her voice. "It's Thanksgiving."

"What? I'm thankful he's smart. He should use it." Halmoni settled into the empty chair beside Susannah, who immediately poured her a glass of wine. "Susannah. You look good. Strong."

"I feel good." Susannah squeezed her hand. "It's good to see you."

"Three years now, yes? Cancer-free?"

"Three years."

Halmoni nodded once, firmly. "Good. You keep fighting." She picked up her chopsticks—she'd brought her own, Jeremiah noticed—and surveyed the table.

"Jere, this stuffing is incredible," Denise said, closing her eyes on a bite. "What's in this? Is that fennel?"

"Yeah, and Italian sausage. Secret's in the bread—you have to dry it out overnight, otherwise it gets mushy."

"My gran-gran would love you. She always said the best cooks treat bread like it's alive. You have to respect its timeline."

"She sounds like she knows what she's talking about."

"She ran a little Italian place in the North End for thirty years. Retired when she was seventy-five, and only because my mom made her." Denise smiled, something soft and distant in it. "She'd love this whole thing. The noise, all the different dishes, people talking over each other. She always said the best meals are the loud ones. Too quiet means nobody's comfortable enough to be themselves."

"That's beautiful," Susannah said. "We should invite her next year."

"She doesn't travel much anymore, but I'll tell her you said so. She'll be thrilled."

Belly leaned forward. "Is she why you got into—" She stopped, glancing at Steven. "Sorry, I don't actually know what you do."

"Oh, um." Denise's smile flickered. "I work in finance. At Breaker, actually. Same as Steven."

"That's how we met," Steven added, a little too quickly. "Office romance. Very scandalous."

"It wasn't scandalous at all," Denise said. "We got coffee. Then more coffee. Very boring, honestly."

"Speak for yourself. I was extremely nervous."

Conrad snorted. "You? Nervous?"

"It happens occasionally. When someone's way out of my league."

Denise elbowed him, but she was smiling. "Stop it."

"Never."

Jeremiah watched them—the easy back-and-forth, the way Steven's whole demeanor shifted around her. Quieter, somehow. Less jokes.

And then he caught Taylor's face. Just for a second—a flash of something raw before she looked away, reaching for her wine glass.

"So Denise," John said, leaning forward with the earnest intensity of a dad trying to connect, "Steven mentioned you're working on something. An app? Aside from the finance stuff?"

The table went slightly still.

Steven's fork paused mid-air. Denise's smile froze, just for a beat, before recalibrating into something casual.

"Oh, it's nothing really," she said lightly. "Just a side project. Something I tinker with."

"He said you've got investors interested. That sounds like more than tinkering."

"Dad." Steven's voice had an edge now. "Maybe not the best time—"

"What? I'm interested!" John looked around the table, confused by the sudden tension. "It sounds exciting. You're building something of your own. That takes guts."

"It's really not that interesting," Denise said, reaching for her water glass. "Just some productivity software. Very niche market."

"Well, I think it's great." John was undeterred, warming to his subject. "Steven, you know what I've been saying—you should do what you love. You've been miserable at Breaker, I can see it every time you call. Maybe you two could combine forces. You've always had those video game ideas—"

"Dad—"

"I'm just saying, there's more to life than spreadsheets. When I was your age—"

"John." Laurel's voice was quiet but firm. "Maybe let the kids eat their turkey."

John blinked, looking around the table like he was just noticing the strained smiles. "Right. Sorry. Got carried away." He raised his glass with a self-deprecating grin. "Divorced dad energy. I'm told I have a lot of it."

A few awkward laughs. Steven's shoulders slowly unclenched. Under the table, Jeremiah saw Denise's hand find Steven's, squeezing once before letting go.

"Aigoo, enough about work," Halmoni said, waving her chopsticks dismissively. "It's Thanksgiving. Eat."

"She's right," Susannah added, raising her glass. "No more shop talk. That's an order."

"Thank God," Steven muttered, and Denise squeezed his hand again.

~*~

The meal continued, but Jeremiah kept watching.

Conrad's phone buzzed twice more. Both times he checked it under the table, thumb swiping quickly before returning to his fork. Both times Belly's attention drifted to the window for a moment, like she was steeling herself for something.

But there were good moments too. Conrad leaning over to cut Belly's turkey when her knife slipped, murmuring something that made her laugh. His hand finding the back of her neck briefly, thumb brushing her hair.

When he was there—really there—you could almost forget the rest.

The problem was the gaps between.

Across the table, Belly took another bite of green bean casserole. Then paused, looking down at her plate.

"No mushrooms," she said, almost to herself.

Jeremiah didn't look up from his own plate. "You hate mushrooms."

"You remembered."

"Bells, you've been complaining about mushrooms since we were twelve. Not exactly a secret."

But she'd seen the other dish further down the table—mushrooms visible, dotted throughout. He'd made two versions. One without, just for her.

She didn't say anything else. Just kept eating.

Conrad was texting under the table again. Missed the whole thing.

"Earth to Jere." Taylor's voice, low, beside him. "You're staring."

"What? No I'm not."

"You've been watching them for like ten minutes. It's creepy."

"I'm not—I was just—" He stabbed at his green beans. "Shut up, Taylor."

"Compelling defense." She took a sip of wine, then bumped his shoulder. "So. Beer Olympics. December 8th. You ready to lose?"

"Lose?" He turned to look at her, momentarily distracted. "Tri Phi hasn't beaten BEN in three semesters."

"That's because I wasn't social chair for three semesters." She grinned, sharp and competitive. "I've been training my girls. Flip cup drills. Pong accuracy exercises. We're coming for you, Jeremy."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not, Jeremy?"

"Because it's not my name and you know it pisses me off."

"Exactly why I do it." She stole a roll from his plate. "Face it, Fisher. Your reign is over."

"You're delusional. And that was my roll."

"Consider it a preview of December 8th. Tri Phi takes what we want."

He couldn't help it—he laughed. "Yeah, okay. I beat you in beer pong like two weeks ago."

"You haven't really partied in ages, Jere. That doesn't count—it was water."

"Fine. Game on, Hurricane Taylor."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not? It's accurate. You blow through, leave destruction in your wake—"

She shoved his shoulder, but she was grinning. "I'm going to destroy you."

"Looking forward to it."

She nodded toward his plate. "The stuffing really is good, you know. Like, actually impressive."

"Thanks."

"Have you ever thought about—I don't know. Doing something with it?"

"With stuffing?"

"With cooking, dumbass. Like, culinary school or whatever."

Jeremiah laughed, the sound coming out sharper than he meant. "Can we not do this right now?"

"I'm just saying—"

"And I'm just saying I don't want to talk about it." He grabbed his water glass, took a long drink. "It's Thanksgiving. Let's just eat."

Taylor held up her hands. "Fine. Dropped." But she was still watching him with that look—the one that said she wasn't really dropping anything, just filing it away for later. "Just saying—you're the only frat house that serves actual appetizers at parties. Like, on plates. With toothpicks. That's not normal, Jere."

Before he could respond, Conrad's phone buzzed again. This time he pushed back from the table.

"Sorry, I really need to—" He was already moving toward the door. "Five minutes. I promise."

"Doctors," Halmoni muttered, shaking her head. "Always busy. Never present."

Susannah's smile flickered but held.

He was gone for twelve.

Laurel found him in the hallway on his way back, phone still in hand, shoulders tight.

"Hey, Connie." She kept her voice soft. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Work stuff. I'm sorry, I know I keep disappearing."

"You don't have to apologize to me." She reached up, smoothed down a piece of his hair the way she'd done since he was small. "But your mom's been looking forward to this all week. Maybe put it away for pie?"

Something in his jaw loosened. "Yeah. Okay."

"That's my boy." She patted his cheek once, then headed back toward the kitchen. "Now come on. Your brother made three desserts and someone needs to tell him they're good or he'll spiral."

Conrad almost smiled. "He does do that."

"He learned it from Susannah. Don't tell either of them I said so."

~*~

After dinner, the house split along predictable lines.

Laurel and Susannah claimed the kitchen, shooing away offers of help with the practiced efficiency of mothers who'd been doing this for decades. "Coffee and dessert in twenty minutes," Laurel announced. "Everyone out."

John stationed himself by the Jello mold, which remained untouched, as if his presence might somehow inspire someone to try it.

"The secret is to let it warm up slightly," he told no one in particular. "Brings out the flavor."

"Dad, there is no flavor," Steven said. "It's literally just Jello and regret."

"Your grandmother—"

"Loved it, I know. Grandma had unique taste."

"She had refined taste."

"She put ketchup on eggs."

"That's a regional thing!"

The bickering faded as Jeremiah stepped onto the back porch, beer in hand. The November air hit him like a slap—cold enough to see his breath, carrying the brackish smell of the marsh beyond the lawn.

Steven was already out there, leaning against the railing, his own beer half-finished.

"Escaping?" Jeremiah asked, settling beside him.

"Surviving." Steven took a long drink. "If my dad mentions Breaker one more time, I'm going to walk into the ocean."

"That bad?"

"It's—" Steven shook his head. "It's fine. It's a good job. Good money. Good connections. Everything I'm supposed to want."

"But?"

"But I sit in meetings about quarterly projections and I want to claw my own eyes out." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Don't tell anyone I said that. Especially not your dad."

"My dad's not exactly someone I confide in."

"Yeah, well. He signs my paychecks, so."

The door opened behind them. Conrad stepped out, phone finally absent from his hand, three beers dangling from his fingers.

"Figured you'd be out here." He handed one to each of them, keeping the third. "Hiding from the dishes?"

"Hiding from life," Steven said. "But sure, dishes too."

They stood in silence for a moment, three guys who'd grown up together, watching the sun sink toward the water. The dock stretched out into the marsh, the gazebo at the end empty this time of year. No boats, no summer crowds. Just the still water and the distant cry of gulls.

"Feels weird," Conrad said eventually. "Being back. Everything looks the same, but—"

"But we're different?" Steven finished.

"Something like that."

Jeremiah said nothing. He was too aware of the contrast—Conrad at Stanford, saving lives. Steven at Breaker, making money. And him, standing between them, with nothing but a frat position and a lifeguarding gig to show for four years of college.

"So, Jere." Conrad turned to him. "Rush chair. That's a big deal."

"It's just organizing parties and babysitting freshmen."

"That's not what Mom says. She says you basically run the house."

"She exaggerates."

"Does she though?" Steven raised an eyebrow. "Because I've heard things. Very impressive things."

"Like what?"

"Like you talked three legacies out of hazing pledges. Like you overhauled the whole rush process so it's actually about finding good fits instead of just whoever can shotgun the most beers."

Jeremiah shrugged, uncomfortable. "Someone had to."

"Yeah, but it was you. That matters."

"It's not—" He stopped, not sure how to articulate what he meant. "It's not like what you guys are doing. It's not a career. It's just... I don't know. Filling time until I figure out what I actually want."

The words hung there, more honest than he'd meant them to be.

"Hey." Conrad's voice was serious now. "The cooking thing. That's not nothing."

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because it's true. That stuffing in there? That's not just 'filling time.' That's real skill."

"It's stuffing, Con. It's not exactly saving lives."

"Not everything has to save lives. Some things just have to make them better." Conrad took a drink, looking out at the water. "Believe me, after thirty-hour shifts of telling people their loved ones are dying, I'd kill for someone who could just make something beautiful and put it on a plate."

"Yeah, well." Jeremiah didn't know what to say to that. "Easy for you to say. You've got the path figured out."

"You think I've got anything figured out?" Conrad laughed, but it sounded tired. "I'm barely holding on most days. The only thing I know for sure is that I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Could've fooled me."

"That's the trick, isn't it? Fool everyone else long enough and maybe you start believing it yourself."

Steven raised his beer. "I'll drink to that. The 'no idea what we're doing' club, official meeting in session."

They clinked bottles. Drank.

"Seriously though," Steven said, turning to Jeremiah. "Don't compare yourself to us. That's a losing game."

"I'm not—"

"You are. I can see it on your face." Steven's voice was gentler now, stripped of its usual sarcasm. "Look, I graduated early and got a fancy job and you know what I've learned? It sucks. I spend fifty hours a week doing work I don't care about for people I don't like. Conrad's saving lives but he never sleeps and my sister barely sees him." He gestured at Jeremiah with his beer. "You cook for your mom every Wednesday. You drove to pick up Conrad from the airport because that's just what you do. Don't act like that's less important."

"It's not the same—"

"No, it's not. It's probably better. At least you're not miserable."

Jeremiah looked away, throat tight. Through the window, he could see Belly and Taylor in the kitchen, laughing at something. Belly's head was thrown back, her whole face bright.

"How's she doing?" Conrad asked quietly. He'd followed Jeremiah's gaze. "Really, I mean. Not what she tells me on the phone."

Jeremiah hesitated. "She's, uh—she's okay. The PT's going well. She misses playing, but she's—she's dealing with it."

"And the Paris thing?"

"She's excited. Nervous, but excited."

Conrad nodded, still watching Belly through the window. "She talks about those Wednesday dinners a lot, you know. Texts me after every one. Says they're the best part of her week."

Something twisted in Jeremiah's chest. "She's easy to cook for."

"Yeah." Conrad turned to look at him, something unreadable in his expression. "She is."

For a moment, the air between them felt charged. Like Conrad was seeing something Jeremiah didn't want him to see.

Then Steven's phone buzzed and he swore, the moment breaking.

"Shit. Denise is looking for me." He drained the last of his beer. "Probably time to be a good boyfriend. See you guys inside?"

He disappeared into the house, leaving Conrad and Jeremiah alone on the porch.

"I should check in with Belly," Conrad said after a moment. "She's been patient tonight, and I've been—"

"Busy."

"Yeah." He grimaced. "That obvious?"

"Little bit."

"She deserves better." He said it quietly, almost to himself. "I keep telling myself it'll get easier. After residency, after—but that's years away. And she's already been waiting so long."

Any response felt like a trap—agree and he was trash-talking his brother's relationship, disagree and he was lying.

"You're both trying," Jeremiah said finally. "That counts for something."

Conrad looked at him for a long moment. Then he clapped a hand on Jeremiah's shoulder, squeezing once.

"Thanks for today. For the food, for picking me up, for—all of it. I know I'm not around much. But I see what you're doing for Mom. For everyone. It matters."

He was inside before Jeremiah could respond.

~*~

In the kitchen, Belly was elbow-deep in suds, washing the platters that wouldn't fit in the dishwasher. Taylor sat on the counter beside her, legs swinging, a half-eaten piece of pie balanced on her knee.

"I'm just saying," Taylor was saying, "if he can't even text me back within twenty-four hours, what is he even doing?"

"He's busy. Went home to see his family or whatever."

"Everyone's busy. That's not an excuse."

Belly scrubbed at a stubborn spot on a casserole dish. "Can we not? I don't want to spend Thanksgiving talking about Davis."

"Fine. It's over anyway." Taylor shoved a forkful of pie into her mouth. "Let's talk about something else. How's the physical therapy?"

"Good. Ahead of schedule."

"And Paris?"

"Six weeks." Belly rinsed the dish, setting it in the drying rack. "I still can't believe it's actually happening."

"You don't sound excited."

"I am excited. I'm also terrified." She grabbed another plate. "What if I hate it? What if my French is terrible and I fail all my classes and I have to come home after one semester?"

"Belly. You've been taking French since middle school. You're not going to fail."

"You don't know that."

"I know you." Taylor pointed her fork at her. "You're one of the most annoyingly competent people I've ever met. You'll be fine."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one leaving everything behind."

"Everything?" Taylor's voice was careful. "Or just Conrad?"

Belly's hands stilled in the water.

"Both," she said quietly. "All of it. My mom, you, the Wednesday dinners—"

"Wait, wait." Taylor held up a hand. "Wednesday dinners? At the Fishers'?"

"Yeah. Jere's been cooking for Susannah every week. I started coming a few weeks ago."

"You and Jere. Alone?"

"Susannah's there too."

"Uh-huh." Taylor's eyes narrowed. "And how's that going?"

"It's nice. He's a good cook."

"That's not what I asked."

Belly grabbed a dish towel, drying her hands with more force than necessary. "I don't know what you want me to say, Tay. We're friends. We hang out. That's it."

"Do you talk to him more than Conrad?"

"That's not fair."

"It's a yes or no question."

"Conrad's in med school. He doesn't have time to—"

"So yes."

"Taylor—"

"I'm not judging." Taylor set her pie down, her voice gentler now. "I'm just asking. Because you light up when you talk about those dinners. And I haven't seen you light up about Conrad in a while."

Belly stared at the sink, not speaking. The water had gone cold, soap bubbles dissolving.

"I love Conrad," she said finally. "I've loved him for as long as I can remember."

"I know you have."

"But sometimes—" She stopped. "Sometimes I feel like I'm waiting for him to come back. Even when he's standing right in front of me."

Taylor was quiet for a moment. Then she hopped off the counter, crossing to stand beside Belly.

"Have you told him that?"

"I don't want to add to his stress. He's already stretched so thin."

"Belly. If you can't tell him what you're feeling, what's the point?"

"The point is we've been together for four years. The point is we survived his mom's cancer and him leaving for Stanford and everything else. The point is—" Her voice broke. "I don't know. I don't know what the point is anymore."

Taylor pulled her into a hug, sudden and fierce.

"You don't have to figure it out tonight," she said into Belly's hair. "Just—don't disappear on yourself, okay? Whatever's happening with Conrad, whatever happens in Paris—don't get so busy taking care of everyone else that you forget to take care of you."

"That's rich, coming from you."

"Hey, I'm a cautionary tale. Learn from my mistakes."

Belly laughed despite herself, pulling back. "Speaking of—how's my brother?"

The smile vanished. "What about Steven?"

"I don't know. You've barely looked at him all night."

"I look at him all the time."

"Taylor."

"I don't want to talk about Steven." Taylor grabbed her pie, shoving another bite into her mouth like a shield. "It's complicated and stupid and not worth discussing."

Belly studied her for a moment. "You know you can tell me, right? Whatever it is."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"I said okay."

They stood in silence, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between them. Through the window, Belly could see the porch—empty now, the boys presumably back inside. The sun had set while they were talking, leaving the sky a deep purple fading to black.

"Paris is going to be amazing," Taylor said suddenly. "You're going to have croissants for breakfast every day and meet some hot European guy and forget all about your problems."

"I'm not going to forget my problems."

"You should. Problems are overrated." Taylor licked her fork clean. "And when you come back, you'll have perspective. Everything will look different from the other side of the ocean."

"You think?"

"I know." Taylor grinned. "Now come on. There's more pie and I refuse to eat it alone."

~*~

Steven found Denise in the living room, curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, scrolling through her phone. The house had that post-dinner quiet—dishes done, leftovers packed, everyone scattered to different corners.

"Hey." He dropped onto the cushion beside her. "You good?"

"Mm-hmm." She didn't look up. "Your dad's Jello is still untouched, in case you were wondering."

"Shocking absolutely no one."

She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "It was a nice dinner. Your family's... a lot. But nice."

"That's one word for it." He reached for her hand, threading their fingers together. "Sorry about my dad. The whole startup interrogation thing."

"It's fine. He means well."

"He means something. 'Well' is debatable."

She finally looked at him, something searching in her expression. "You okay? You've been weird all night."

"Weird how?"

"I don't know. Distracted." She tilted her head, studying him. "You keep looking at the door."

His stomach tightened. "No I don't."

"Steven."

"I'm just—it's been a long day. Lot of family stuff."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she set her phone down, turning to face him fully.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Taylor." She said the name carefully, like she was testing it. "What's the deal there?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you two have been avoiding eye contact all night. And every time she talks, you get this look on your face like—" She stopped. "I don't know. Like it hurts."

"That's—" He laughed, but it came out wrong. "That's crazy. Taylor's just Taylor. We've known each other forever. She's Belly's best friend."

"That's not an answer."

"There's nothing to answer. We're friends. That's it."

Denise held his gaze for a long moment. Something flickered across her face—not anger, exactly. Something sadder.

"Okay," she said finally. "If you say so."

"I do."

"Okay."

But she pulled her hand back. Reached for her wine instead.

Steven's chest ached. He wanted to say something—something true, something that would fix whatever was breaking between them. But the words wouldn't come.

"I'm gonna get some air," he said, standing. "Clear my head."

"Sure." She was looking at her phone again. "I'll be here."

He was halfway to the door when her voice stopped him.

"Steven?"

He turned.

She was still looking at her phone, but her jaw was tight. "Whatever you're figuring out—just be honest with me, okay? I can handle a lot of things. But I can't handle being lied to."

The words landed like a punch.

"Yeah," he managed. "Okay."

He stepped outside before she could see his face.

~*~

The driveway was dark except for the porch light, casting long shadows across the gravel.

Taylor leaned against her car, arms crossed, watching the stars. She wasn't sure why she was still out here—everyone else was inside, doing final cleanup, eating more pie than any reasonable person should consume.

But the quiet was nice. The cold air sharp in her lungs, clearing out the fog of too much food and too much wine and too many loaded glances across the dinner table.

She heard the door open behind her but didn't turn around.

"Hey."

Steven.

"Hey."

He stopped a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets. "You're missing the pie."

"Already had three pieces."

"There's still pie."

"Steven." She finally looked at him. "What do you want?"

He was quiet for a moment. The porch light caught the angles of his face, made him look older somehow. Or maybe that was just what a year at Breaker Capital did to a person.

"I don't know," he said finally. "I saw you come out here and I just—I don't know."

"Great. Really articulate. That MBA really paying off."

"I don't have an MBA."

"Same energy."

He laughed despite himself—that surprised laugh, the one she'd been pulling out of him since they were fourteen. "God, you're mean."

"You like it."

"Yeah." He wasn't laughing anymore. "I do."

The air between them shifted. Taylor felt it like a physical thing, like the temperature had dropped another ten degrees.

"You should go back inside," she said. "Denise is probably wondering where you are."

"Denise knows where I am."

"That supposed to make me feel better?"

"Taylor—"

"Don't." She pushed off from the car, facing him fully now. "We're not doing this. You have a girlfriend."

"And you just broke up with Davis."

"That's none of your business."

"It is, though." He stepped closer. "Because I'm the one you called after. Every time you two fought. Three AM, Taylor. You'd call me at three AM and I'd answer. Every single time."

Her chest hurt. Actually physically hurt, like something pressing against her ribs.

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fair." Another step. "I've been doing the right thing for four years. Dating other people. Pretending I don't—" He stopped, jaw working. "I'm tired, Tay. I'm really fucking tired."

"So what do you want me to do about it?" Her voice came out sharper than she meant. "Blow up your relationship? Start something we can't finish again because we've already proven we don't work?"

"We never tried."

"We tried plenty."

"We kissed once. Right before you got with Davis. Right after I broke up with Mia. And then you panicked and we spent the next year pretending it never happened."

"Because it shouldn't have happened."

"Why not?"

"Because—" She couldn't breathe. "Because you're Steven. You're Belly's brother and you're Steven and if we tried and it didn't work I'd lose you. Forever. And I can't—"

She didn't finish the sentence.

She didn't have to.

Steven closed the distance between them and kissed her.

It wasn't like last time—sloppy and uncertain, tasting like cheap beer from someone's basement party. This was different. This was a year of pretending, a year of 3 AM phone calls and "just friends" and watching each other date the wrong people.

Taylor kissed him back. Couldn't help it. Didn't want to.

And then she remembered.

Denise. Inside. Wrapping leftovers. Being kind.

She pulled back so fast she nearly fell.

"We can't." Her voice was wrecked. "Steven, we can't. Not like this."

He was breathing hard, eyes still closed. "I know."

"You have a girlfriend."

"I know."

"A really good one. Who doesn't deserve—"

"I know." He opened his eyes. Stepped back. The space between them felt like miles. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—that was wrong."

Taylor pressed her hands against her face, trying to stop the trembling. "We should go back inside."

"Yeah."

Neither moved.

"She deserves better," Taylor said finally. "Denise. Whatever happens—you need to be honest with her."

"I will be."

"Promise me."

"Tay—"

"Promise me, Steven."

He met her eyes. Something broken in his expression, something she recognized because she felt it too.

"I promise."

They walked back inside separately. Five minutes apart. Like that mattered. Like anyone looking couldn't see it written all over both their faces.

Steven found Denise in the kitchen, drying the last of the serving platters. She looked up when he walked in, and he watched her expression shift—the way she catalogued something in his face, filed it away. She'd always been too smart for him.

"Hey," she said carefully. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Fine." The lie tasted like ash. "Can we talk?"

She nodded, but her eyes didn't leave his face. And he knew—whatever came next, she already had her answer.

~*~

The beach was freezing.

Belly pulled her jacket tighter, watching the waves crash against the shore in the darkness. The moon was half-hidden behind clouds, casting silver light across the water whenever it appeared.

Conrad walked beside her, close enough to touch but not touching. She couldn't remember the last time he'd reached for her hand first.

"Sorry about dinner," he said eventually. "The phone stuff. I know it was—I know."

"It's okay."

"It's not. But I don't know how to—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "They're understaffed. Everyone's out for the holiday. And there's this patient, this kid, she's only eight and her liver's failing and I just—I can't stop thinking about whether I missed something on her labs."

Belly stopped walking. "Conrad."

He stopped too. Looked at her. Even in the darkness, she could see the exhaustion carved into his face—the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw that never quite released anymore.

"You're a good doctor," she said. "Everyone says so."

"I'm not a doctor yet. I'm just—"

"You're going to be. A great one. Because you care this much." She paused, gathering courage. "But..."

"But?"

She didn't know how to say it. Didn't know if she should say it.

"When's the last time we actually talked?" The words came out anyway. "Not texted. Not scheduled FaceTime calls where you're half asleep. Actually talked?"

Conrad was quiet.

"I feel like I'm waiting for you to come back," she continued, voice smaller now. "But you're already here. You're standing right in front of me and I still feel like I'm waiting."

"Belly—"

"Are we okay, Con? Like, really okay? Because sometimes I think we are, and then I see you and it's like—" She pressed her palms against her eyes. "I don't know. It feels like we're going through the motions. Playing a part. And I don't know when that started or how to fix it."

The waves kept crashing. The wind cut through her jacket like it wasn't there.

"I love you," Conrad said finally. "You know that, right? That's never—that's not the issue."

"Then what is?"

"I don't know. Time. Distance. The fact that I can barely keep myself together most days, let alone be what you need." He looked out at the water, jaw tight. "Sometimes I think you'd be better off without me. Without this. Without having to wait for phone calls that never come at the right time."

"Don't say that."

"It's true though. You're thriving, Belly. Paris, your PT, figuring out what comes next—you're doing all of it. And I'm just... here. Exhausted. Holding on by my fingernails."

"So let me help. Let me in."

"I don't know how." He finally looked at her, something raw in his face. "I've been doing this alone for so long. Taking care of Mom when she was sick, then Dad leaving, then med school—I don't know how to let someone else carry any of it."

Belly stepped closer. Took his hands. Cold, both of them, but she held on anyway.

They started walking again. Slower. Her hand in his. Both trying to hold on to something slipping through their fingers.

"Remember when we first got together?" Conrad said after a while. "After Mom—after everything. You came to see me at Stanford. October. We just walked around campus for hours. You made me show you every building, every statue, the fountain that's supposed to be lucky if you throw in a quarter."

She smiled despite everything. "You said it was freshman superstition."

"It is. But you made me do it anyway." He squeezed her hand. "And I remember thinking... this is it. This is the person I want to do stupid things with."

"We can still do stupid things."

"Can we? When's the last time we just... existed together? Not on a phone screen, not rushing between obligations. Just us."

She thought about it. Really thought.

"Your birthday," she said finally. "September. When you came down for my surgery."

"Three months ago."

"Yeah."

The math was damning.

"Maybe Paris will help," she said, not sure if she believed it. "Time apart. Or—I don't know. Maybe it'll just give us both space to figure out what we want."

"I want you. That's not the question."

"Then what is?"

He squeezed her hands. Drew her closer. Rested his forehead against hers.

"Whether wanting is enough."

They stood like that for a long time, foreheads touching, the wind pulling at their clothes. Above them, the clouds shifted, and Belly found herself waiting for the moon to reappear—for the light to break through and make everything clearer.

It never did.

~*~

The house was quieter when Jeremiah finished cleaning up.

Most of the cars were gone—Taylor's first, then Steven walking Denise out to wait for her ride. Conrad and Belly had come back from the beach quietly, said their goodnights, and disappeared upstairs to his old room. Belly had hugged Susannah for a long time before going up, something desperate in the way she'd held on.

John had packed up his Jello with wounded dignity, extracting promises from everyone that they'd try it at Christmas. Halmoni had already claimed Jeremiah's old room for the night—Laurel was staying too, driving her mother back in the morning. But not before Halmoni had cornered him in the kitchen.

"Your stuffing," she'd said, fixing him with that sharp gaze. "Not bad. The bread was good."

"Thanks, Halmoni."

"But you should learn Korean food too. Come to my house. I'll teach you properly." She'd patted his arm once, brisk but warm. "You have good instincts. Don't waste them."

It was the closest thing to a compliment he'd ever gotten from her.

Steven had walked John out, their voices carrying back in fragments—something about work, about expectations, about doing what makes you happy.

"You heading out, honey?" Susannah appeared in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in the big cardigan she'd had since he was a kid.

"Yeah. Long drive back to Finch."

"Stay tonight. The roads are dark and you've been on your feet all day."

"Can't. Got a shift tomorrow."

"On Black Friday?"

"Pool doesn't close for capitalism, Mom."

She smiled, but he could see the tiredness around her eyes. She'd been on her feet for hours, and he knew what that cost her even if she'd never admit it.

"I can cancel," he said. "Stay tonight, drive back early—"

"Don't you dare. I'm fine. Laurel's here, and Halmoni's taken your room anyway." She crossed to him, cupped his face in her hands. "You did good today. The food was beautiful."

"It was just Thanksgiving."

"It was love. That's what cooking is, baby. Love made edible." She kissed his forehead. "I'm so proud of you. You know that, right?"

"Mom—"

"I'm always proud of you. Even when you don't see it in yourself."

He hugged her instead of answering, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume and the turpentine that never quite washed out of her clothes.

"Drive safe," she murmured. "Text me when you get home."

"I will."

He was almost to the door when Steven appeared, looking—wrecked was the word. Like he'd been gut-punched and hadn't recovered yet.

"Hey." Jeremiah paused. "You good?"

"Yeah. Fine." Steven shoved his hands in his pockets, not meeting his eyes. "Um, Denise needs a ride back—and I was wondering—"

"I can take her." An Uber from Cousins on Thanksgiving would be insane anyway. But that wasn't why Steven was asking. Something was definitely wrong.

"You sure? It's out of your way."

"Finch isn't that far from Quincy. It's fine."

Steven nodded, something complicated in his expression. "Thanks, Jere. I owe you."

He disappeared before Jeremiah could ask what was wrong. But he had a guess. The way Taylor had avoided looking at Steven when she'd left. The way Steven had stood on the porch watching her taillights disappear.

Something had happened in that driveway. Something that wasn't his business.

Denise was waiting by the door, overnight bag at her feet. She looked up when he approached, that quiet smile already in place, but her eyes were red-rimmed. Like she'd been crying and trying to hide it.

"Steven said you might be able to give me a lift?"

"Yeah. If you don't mind the Jeep. Heat's unreliable and I will snack. Loudly."

"We just had a full meal."

"I'm a growing boy."

"You're literally six feet tall."

"Six-two, actually. Maybe I'll hit six-five."

"That's not how growing works. You're twenty-one."

"You don't know. Late bloomer. Could happen."

She almost smiled. Almost. "Fine. Snack away. But you're sharing."

They loaded into the car, Denise's bag on the backseat. Jeremiah reached behind his seat and produced a tote bag that clinked with promise.

"Okay, we've got options." He started pulling things out. "Swedish Fish, Sour Patch Kids, gourmet popcorn from that place in the North End, fancy chocolates my mom puts in my stocking every year that I hoard like a dragon, and—" He held up the final bag triumphantly. "Gummy bears. The good German ones."

Denise stared at the spread. "This is unhinged."

"This is preparedness. There's a difference."

"You have a snack emergency kit."

"For road trips. And emotional emergencies. And Tuesdays." He shook the gummy bears at her. "Don't judge me."

"I'm absolutely judging you." But she grabbed the Swedish Fish. "I'm also participating."

"That's the spirit."

The engine coughed to life, heater sputtering, and Jeremiah pulled out of the driveway, shells crunching under the tires.

Mariah Carey's voice filled the Jeep immediately—"All I Want for Christmas Is You" at full volume.

Denise turned to stare at him. "Already?"

"It's after Thanksgiving. It's legally Christmas season now."

"It's been after Thanksgiving for like three hours."

"Three hours of wasted Christmas music time." He turned it up slightly, grinning. "I have the whole Michael Bublé album queued up after this."

"Of course you do." But she was smiling, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm festive. There's a difference."

They drove in silence for a few minutes, Mariah giving way to Kelly Clarkson's "Underneath the Tree." Denise stared out the window, and Jeremiah didn't push. Whatever had happened between her and Steven—it wasn't his place to ask.

"We broke up," she said finally, still looking out the window. "Steven and me. Just now."

"Shit. Denise, I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "It was the right call. For both of us."

The highway stretched ahead, dark and mostly empty. Jeremiah let the silence sit.

"What happened?" he asked eventually. "If you want to talk about it. You don't have to."

She was quiet for a long moment. "You know how you can tell when someone's not all the way there? Like, they're with you, but part of them is somewhere else?"

"Yeah."

"It was like that. All night." She pulled her sleeves over her hands, a self-soothing gesture. "And then I saw the way he looked at Taylor when she left, and I just... knew. I was never going to be the person he looked at like that."

Jeremiah's grip tightened on the wheel.

"So I asked him," Denise continued. "Point blank. And he couldn't lie to me. I'll give him that, at least."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "It's a shitty feeling. Being someone's almost. Their good-enough-for-now."

They drove in silence for another mile. Then Denise turned to look at him, something careful in her expression.

"Can I ask you something? And you can tell me to mind my own business."

"Sure."

"Belly. Is she your Taylor?"

The Jeep didn't swerve this time. But only because he was ready for it.

"I'm not—" he started, then stopped. Denise was looking at him with that patient expression, like she had all the time in the world for him to stop bullshitting. And after what she'd just told him, she deserved honesty.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I think maybe she is."

"Does she know?"

"No. And she's not going to. She's with Conrad."

"I know."

"He's my brother."

"I know that too."

"So what am I supposed to do? Pine forever? Make a move on my brother's girlfriend?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "There's no good option here. Just because she's my Taylor doesn't mean I'm her Steven."

"Maybe not." Denise was quiet for a moment. "For what it's worth—I don't think it's simple for her either. She loves Conrad. I could see that too. But there's something underneath. Something she's maybe not letting herself look at."

Jeremiah's chest ached. "That almost makes it worse."

"Yeah. It does." She turned to look at him, really look, and something shifted in the air between them. "You're a good guy, you know that? Most people wouldn't even be having this conversation. They'd just... take what they wanted."

"I'm not most people."

"No. You're not."

The moment stretched. Denise's eyes caught the light from the dashboard, and he noticed for the first time how pretty she was—not in a distant way, but in a present way. Here, in his car, being honest with him.

"We're kind of a mess, aren't we?" she said softly. "Both of us. Wanting people we can't have."

"Seems that way."

She held his gaze for another beat. Something flickered there—possibility, maybe. Or just two lonely people recognizing each other.

Then she looked away, and the moment passed.

"For the record," he said, "Steven's an idiot."

She laughed—surprised, real. "You're his best friend."

"Doesn't mean he's not an idiot. He's a huge idiot. I've known him since we were kids. Trust me on this."

"Okay." She was smiling now, wiping her eyes again but for a different reason. "I'll trust you."

"Good. Because you're—" He gestured vaguely at her. "You're smart and you're funny and you call people on their bullshit. That's rare. Steven's loss."

"Are you trying to make me feel better?"

"Is it working?"

"A little, yeah."

"Then yes. Absolutely. That's exactly what I'm doing."

She shook her head, but she was still smiling. "Who takes care of you, Jeremiah? While you're taking care of everyone else?"

The question hit him somewhere deep. A place he didn't usually let people see.

"It's just—I don't know. It's what you do, right?" he said finally. "Family. Friends. You just... show up."

"And what happens when you need someone to show up for you?"

"I don't—" He stopped. Really thought about it. "I don't know. Hasn't really come up."

"Maybe it should."

They drove in silence after that. The highway stretched ahead, dark and endless, headlights cutting through the night.

"For what it's worth," Denise said eventually, "I don't think you're a bad person. For feeling what you feel."

"No?"

"No. Love doesn't follow rules. It just happens." She paused, something shifting in her voice. "What you do about it—that's where character comes in. And you're clearly not doing anything. You're being loyal, respecting her relationship. That's not nothing."

"Feels like nothing. Feels like watching."

"Sometimes watching is all you can do. Until something changes."

"And if nothing changes?"

"Then you decide how long you're willing to wait." She smiled, something bittersweet in it. "Or you decide you deserve someone who's available. Who can love you back without complications."

He thought about that. About Belly at the sink, shoulder brushing his. About Conrad's hand on her back. About the way she'd looked at him when she said I'll miss this.

"Six weeks," he said quietly.

"What?"

"She leaves for Paris in six weeks. Spring semester. By the time she gets back—" He shrugged. "Maybe things will be different. Maybe I'll be different."

"Maybe."

He dropped her off at her building in Quincy—a converted triple-decker, Christmas lights already blinking in someone's window. She grabbed her bag from the back, then paused at his window.

"Hey, Jeremiah?"

"Yeah?"

"You know, Steven told me you were going to work at Breaker this summer. Your dad's firm." She tilted her head, studying him. "And I thought, here we go. Another nepo baby, coasting on Daddy's name."

"Ouch."

"But you're not that guy." She said it simply, like a fact. "The snack hoard, the cooking, the way you just spent an hour making sure I was okay when you didn't have to—you're someone I'd actually want to know."

Something in his chest loosened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She motioned toward his phone in the cupholder. "Can I?"

He handed it over. She typed for a second, then handed it back. Her number, saved under Denise (not a nepo baby fan).

"For when you need someone to talk to," she said. "Who isn't wrapped up in all the Belly stuff. Or the Conrad stuff. Or any of it."

"You just broke up with my best friend."

"I know. Gives me perspective." She smiled—small, but real this time. "Text me sometime. If you want."

"I will."

She started toward the steps, then turned back. "And Jeremiah? Don't lose yourself in the waiting. That's no way to live."

She was gone before he could respond. Up the steps, through the door, a light flickering on in a third-floor window.

Jeremiah sat there for a moment. Engine idling. Heat finally working.

Six weeks until Paris. Six weeks until everything changed.

He just didn't know yet what that change would look like. Or who he'd be on the other side of it.

He put the Jeep in drive and headed toward Finch, the highway empty and dark ahead of him.

~*~