Chapter 2: Summer Evenings and Second Thoughts

When I saw the chat flood, I wasn’t surprised at all.

I just let the messages roll past like background noise on a summer evening—crickets chirping, neighbors’ sprinklers hissing. Somebody’s grill smoked two doors down, the air thick with barbecue and cut grass. But I didn’t look back.

Nor did I care to see whether there was any trace of me in Ethan’s eyes.

Group Chat: Why won’t she look back? Just once, Anna!

Group Chat: His eyes are red—he’s about to cry, I swear.

I stayed unmoved.

Honestly, I even felt a bit relieved—for a split second, I wanted to laugh—relief fizzed in my chest, wild and unexpected. My heart was thumping, but it felt more like freedom than loss, like taking off a heavy winter coat after the first warm day in May.

Thank goodness this was only the ninth confession.

But I never expected someone as proud as Ethan Miller to come find me on his own.

He stood at the gate of my family’s house in the suburbs.

His tall, cool figure under the blazing summer sun was impossible to ignore. He looked out of place in our sleepy cul-de-sac, the mailbox with our last name faded, a little flag sticking up for outgoing mail. Sweat dotted his hairline, darkening the collar of his shirt. He was the kind of boy the neighborhood moms would whisper about—handsome, but with a sadness that made you want to look twice.

When he saw me, Ethan handed me the box he was holding.

“These are the things you gave me before. I think I should return them to you.”

The June weather was unbearably hot. Even wearing just a tank top, I felt sticky all over.

I wasn’t in the mood to talk, so I just glanced at the box and took it from him.

His lips moved, like he wanted to say something more. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, knuckles white on the box, like he was holding back a thousand words.

Right then, the chat exploded again.

Group Chat: Anna, you’re killing him in that tank top! Total power move.

No way. Who bundles up at home?

The Midwest heat stuck to your skin like flypaper. My hair clung to my neck, and the air conditioner never quite reached the front door.

Group Chat: He must’ve worked up so much nerve to show up. At least hear him out!

Group Chat: It’s just a status gap now. In a few years, he’ll be the rising star of Chicago.

Group Chat: By then, even her family will need his help, right?

Group Chat: ...

Yeah, yeah, yeah—the chat is always right. I used to think the chat was just my imagination, but their voices always knew the next plot twist before I did.

But that’s only because Ethan’s start-up money came from me.

And my dad was the one who pointed out where to invest.

Dad had the kind of business instincts that made him king of the local real estate scene. He could sniff out a hot zip code like a bloodhound. If Ethan ever made it big, it was only because Dad nudged him in the right direction—stock picks over Sunday pancakes, or a quiet talk on the back porch.