Chapter 19

Conrad wakes to a dull ache at the base of his skull, the kind that comes from too many cheap beers and not enough water. For a moment, he lies still, eyes closed, head sinking into the pillow. The apartment is washed in pale light, blinds crooked, the muffled sound of traffic leaking in from the street below.

Then it hits him.

The kiss.

It crashes over him like a wave. Amelia's mouth on his, her fingers fisted in his shirt, the taste of sugar and vodka on her tongue, the solid press of her body against his. His chest tightens at the memory, not with dread, but with something almost electric.

For a few dizzy seconds, he feels... elated. Like the months of stolen glances and near-misses had finally snapped into place, like he'd finally let himself want something without calculation or restraint. He can still feel the ghost of her lips, still hear the rasp of her voice when she asked if they were going to pretend last night hadn't happened.

And she hadn't flinched.

When he admitted, drunk and reckless, that he'd been thinking about the possibility of them for months, she hadn't pulled away. She hadn't laughed. She'd stayed.

But the high doesn't last.

It never does.

Because alongside the heat is the familiar weight. The whisper that he ruins things. That good never lasts with him. That Amelia—bright, warm, the axis around which his last year has quietly spun—deserves someone steady, someone who isn't fractured at the seams.

He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, groaning softly. God. What if I screw this up? What if I already have?

The sheets suddenly feel suffocating. He throws them back, swings his legs to the floor. His body feels wired, restless, like he's trapped in a loop of his own making. He paces to the desk, then back to the window, then out to his kitchen. His mouth is dry, but when he fills a glass from the tap, the water tastes metallic. He dumps it into the sink and scrubs a hand over his jaw, like he can wipe the whole night away.

In the mirror above his bathroom sink, his reflection stares back at him: hair mussed, circles under his eyes, lips a little raw. It's a face that looks guilty, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't.

He rakes both hands through his hair and mutters under his breath, "What the hell am I doing?"

The answer doesn't come.

He tries the shower. Hot water slams against his shoulders, but it doesn't calm him. His mind keeps circling—Amelia's laugh, Amelia's lips, Amelia's voice daring him. By the time he gets out, he's towelling off too hard, pulling a sweatshirt over damp skin, still restless. He scrolls absentmindedly through his phone, sees a text from Theo, So... last night. You alive? Conrad grimaces. He wants to reply, I don't know what I'm doing with my life, but instead, he leaves the phone face-down, staring out the window. He can still feel her—her hand on his arm when the devil-costumed girl tried to edge too close, the pressure of her body as they moved toward the quiet corridor. He shivers at the memory, lips pressing into his palm as if trying to ground himself.

His textbooks are stacked neatly on the desk, but the sight of them makes his chest seize. He doesn't want to read, doesn't want to study, doesn't want to sit still. He wants—he doesn't even know what he wants. To go back to last night? To redo it? To never have let it happen in the first place?

He sinks into his desk chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His chest feels tight. He's been here before, this place where good moments turn sour in the pit of his stomach, where fear outweighs joy. And every time, he tells himself to push it down, lock it away, deal with it later.

But maybe later isn't working anymore.

His phone lies face-up on the desk, screen dark. He stares at it until his vision blurs, then grabs it like it might burn him. His thumb hesitates only a moment before he pulls up Dr. Hale's number.

If anyone can help him untangle this mess—Amelia, his father, Belly, everything he's shoved down for years, it's Hale.

His voice is hoarse when the receptionist picks up. "Hi, this is Conrad Fisher. I was wondering if Dr. Hale had any cancellations today. Something last minute."

The office smells faintly of cedar and coffee, like it always does. The blinds are half-drawn, throwing pale slats of light across the leather armchairs. Conrad sinks into his usual spot, hands shoved into his sweatshirt sleeves. He feels like he's been peeled open before he's even spoken.

Dr. Hale watches him with that steady patience Conrad has never been able to look at for too long. "So," Hale says, voice even. "You sounded urgent on the phone. Want to tell me what's going on?"

Conrad exhales, long and shaky. His knee bounces, and he has to still it with his hand. "I—" His throat tightens. He tries again. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Hale tilts his head slightly. "That's a broad start. Narrow it for me."

Conrad scrubs a hand over his jaw. His skin still feels raw, like last night is imprinted there. "Every time something good happens... I find a way to ruin it in my head before it even has the chance to exist. I—last night, I kissed Amelia. My friend. My best friend. And it wasn't—God, it wasn't just a kiss. I've been thinking about it for months. Wanting it. And for once, it actually happened. And instead of just... letting myself feel good about it, I woke up convinced I'm going to screw everything up. Like I always do."

Hale doesn't move, doesn't flinch. "Why do you believe you always ruin things?"

Conrad's laugh is bitter, low. "Because I do. My mom's gone. My dad—" He stops, shakes his head. "He's... I don't even know what he is anymore. I heard about him having an affair the same time I found out my mom had cancer. I was seventeen. And instead of telling anyone, I just—kept it. Locked it away. Tried to be the one holding everything together while it was already falling apart. And now it's like..." He gestures vaguely, fingers flexing. "Now it's like I don't even know how to hold anything good without waiting for it to break."

Silence settles for a beat. Hale leans forward slightly. "Conrad, you're not your father. His choices are not yours. But what you just described—carrying that secret for so long—it makes sense that you struggle to trust joy. You're still living in the shadow of someone else's mistake."

Conrad's chest squeezes. He digs his nails into his palms through the fabric of his sleeves. "But it's not just that. It's—" He swallows hard. "Why is it every time I think I'm over Belly, she shows up in my head again? Like—what the hell is that? How am I supposed to even think about starting something with someone else when my brain won't shut up about the one girl who already broke me?"

Hale nods once, measured. "Tell me about what comes to mind when you think of Belly. Be specific."

Conrad hesitates. The images come unbidden anyway. Belly in summer light, straddling his lap in her guest room, pressing kisses against the infinity necklace he'd given her. Then the image fractures—Belly in Jeremiah's arms, the sound of her voice when she told him she wanted to be with someone else.

His throat closes. "It's not... I don't want it to be love. Not anymore. It's memories. Ghosts. Every time I think of her, it just drags me back to those summers, to everything I lost at once. My mom, my dad's affair, her. I can't separate them in my head."

Hale's voice is calm, anchoring. "So when you think of Belly, what you're really revisiting is grief. Grief for your mother. Grief for your family. Grief for first love. But grief and love are not the same thing. One lingers long after the other is gone."

Conrad's breath stutters. He grips the armrest, holding on like the words might pull him under.

"You said it yourself," Hale continues gently. "It isn't about still loving her. It's about what her absence represents. You're not stuck on Belly—you're stuck in summers where every piece of your life came apart."

Conrad's head drops into his hands. The weight of it, the precision of it—it feels too accurate. Like Hale has reached in and named something Conrad's been circling for years. And beneath the heaviness... is a flicker of relief.

"So I'm not..." His voice comes out hoarse. "I'm not still in love with her?"

Dr. Hale shrugs gently. "Only you can honestly answer that. But, in my opinion, you're not. You're carrying hurt. Old hurt. But hurt is not love. And if you let yourself believe it is, you'll keep denying yourself what you deserve now."

Conrad sits back slowly, chest rising and falling. For the first time, the thought of Belly doesn't make his stomach lurch. It just makes him tired.

Maybe he is done with her. Maybe he has been for a while, and it just took someone else saying it for him to believe it.

Hale studies him for a beat longer. "So the question isn't whether you're still in love with Belly. It's whether you're ready to stop punishing yourself for wanting something better."

The words land heavy, but true. Conrad nods once, silent. And in the silence, his thoughts feel a little less suffocating.

The phone feels heavy in his hand as he walks back across campus. His feet move on autopilot, but his mind is still back in Dr. Hale's office, the words replaying: hurt isn't love. You're not stuck on Belly—you're stuck in the grief.

He scrolls through his contacts, thumb hovering. He hasn't called Laurel in... months. Texts here and there, mostly about school. Nothing real. Nothing close.

But today, his chest is tight, his throat aching. He needs someone who won't let him choke on silence.

Before he can overthink, he hits call. The ring feels endless until her voice answers, warm but surprised. "Connie?"

His grip on the phone tightens. "Hey, Laurel." His voice cracks and he hates it.

There's a pause. Then, "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

He swallows. Hard. "I... I don't know where to start."

"Start anywhere."

He stops walking, leaning against the trunk of a bare-limbed oak. The autumn wind lifts his hair, sharp against his skin. His chest caves before he gets the words out. "I can't keep it in anymore. About Dad. The affair."

Silence, then the sound of Laurel's inhale. "Oh, Connie. When did you find out?"

His jaw clenches. "The same night I overheard him and Mom talking about the cancer. The same night everything shifted. I was standing in the hall, and I heard it all. That whole summer—it wasn't just about her health. I mean, it was. Of course it was. But in my head it was both. Mom dying and Dad... destroying everything else."

Her voice is steady, but low. "You carried that by yourself all this time?"

Conrad tips his head back against the bark, eyes stinging. "I didn't know how to say it. I didn't want to make it worse. I just—tried to hold it together. But sometimes I wonder if that's why Jeremiah hates me so much. Dad favours me, always has. And Jere... he looks more like Mom, acts more like her. It's like he got to keep the best of her. And I—" His voice breaks. "I feel like I got stuck with the parts of Dad I don't want."

Laurel's silence isn't judgment. It's weight. Presence. Finally she says, "Conrad, you are nothing like your father. Nothing. Don't let his failures convince you that you're destined for the same mistakes."

His throat burns. He swipes his sleeve across his face, unseen. "I want to believe that."

"You can." Her tone softens, maternal and firm all at once. "You've always been so hard on yourself, Connie. Always carrying everyone else's weight. But you don't have to carry this alone."

His chest pulls tight again, and before he can stop himself, the words tumble out. "It wasn't just Dad and Mom that summer. It was... Belly. And Jeremiah. Everything between us. It was so—" His breath hitches. "So messed up. "I knew I fucked up with Belly at her prom. She deserved better than me drowning in grief. But the summer after, when we were all trying to save the house—I thought, finally. This is where I can be happy. I passed the exam, knew I was going to Stanford, and I thought I had the girl of my dreams within reach. That we'd healed enough to try again. But then I walked outside and saw her wrapped around my brother." "Oh, Connie." Laurel's inhale caught. "I knew they got together eventually, but I didn't realize it was back then." He swallowed hard. "No.. I just— I shouldn't be saying all this anyway. She's your daughter and I didn't mean to unload all of that onto you if she hasn't told you herself." A pause stretched between them before Laurel asked gently, "What brought this all up today?" He hesitates, walking towards a bench nearby. His pulse kicked up. "There's... you know Amelia, yeah? She's been... she's—" He let out a laugh, shaky and disbelieving. "I think I'm falling for her." Laurel's smile was almost audible. "From what I saw when I visited last year, and from your texts and calls since, I'd say Amelia is good for you. And she clearly cares for you." His throat went dry. "What if she doesn't feel the same?" "That's what you're afraid of?" He surprised himself with his honesty. "No. After last night, that's not the concern." "Oh?" Laurel's tone lilted. "And what happened last night?" Conrad went still. "Uh—" "Connie, I was young once. I'm not going to die of shock if you tell me you had sex." His face burned. "No—God, no. It wasn't that. We... kissed. We'd been drinking, went to a party, and—there's been this tension for weeks. It just—happened." "Like a peck?" He groaned. "No. It wasn't just a peck, it was... yeah. A lot." Laurel chuckled softly. "You know your mother would be grilling you even harder right now." His chest ached at the mention of his mum, but it was softened by the warmth of Laurel's teasing. "So if you're not worried about her feelings," she continued, "what is it you're afraid of?" Conrad's voice dropped. "Anytime something good happens, I feel like I'm just waiting for it to break. Like I'm trapped in a cycle where happiness only means something's about to get destroyed." "Have you told Dr. Hale that?" "Yeah. Actually... I just came from a session." "And what did he say?" Conrad swallowed. "That I need to stop carrying old hurts, because they're keeping me from seeing what I deserve now. Which is happiness." "Smart man." Laurel's voice softened again. "So what's your plan with Amelia?" He let out a hollow laugh. "I don't know. Maybe ignore it until it solves itself?" Conrad could hear Laurel's eye roll. "How about," she said dryly, "not doing that?" For the first time in hours, Conrad almost smiled.

Laurel's sigh came through the line, warm but firm. "You can't keep hiding behind that wall of yours, Connie. Amelia isn't a puzzle that's going to solve itself. You like her, she clearly likes you—so talk to her."

Conrad rubs the back of his neck, staring at the grass between his sneakers. "And say what, exactly? Hey, sorry I've been emotionally constipated for months, but by the way, last night wasn't just the beer talking?"

Her laugh was quick, sharp, fond. "That wouldn't be the worst start. At least it's honest."

He groaned. "I don't want to scare her off. She's... the most important person in my life. If I lose her—"

"You won't." Laurel's voice softened. "You don't give Amelia enough credit. From everything I've seen, she doesn't scare easy. And if she cares about you half as much as I think she does, honesty is the only thing that's going to keep you steady."

Conrad leaned back against the bench, eyes closing. "I'm good at ruining things."

"No," Laurel corrected, gentle but firm. "You're good at overthinking things. There's a difference. Tell her what you told me. That you've been carrying too much, that you want to stop waiting for everything to fall apart. That she matters to you. Simple as that."

His chest ached, both heavy and lighter all at once. "What if I mess it up?"

"Then you try again. Or you listen to her and let her tell you what she needs. That's what an adult relationship is, Connie. Not perfection. Just two people choosing each other, every day."

He was quiet, absorbing her words. The truth of them sat warm and sharp in his chest.

Laurel's voice softened one last time, carrying the kind of certainty he couldn't yet summon for himself. "You've spent so long denying yourself happiness because you were afraid it wouldn't last. Maybe it's time to be brave enough to let yourself want it. And Amelia? She's sounds like the type of girl it's worth being brave for."

Conrad pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, a quiet laugh escaping that sounded dangerously close to a sob. "God, Laurel. What would I do without you?"

"You'll never have to find out," she said simply.

Conrad exhaled slowly. "So I talk to her."

"Yes." Laurel's certainty rang through the line. "Talk to her. Today. No excuses."

He let the silence stretch, then finally said, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay," he repeated, more firmly this time.

"Good boy." Her voice was smug, and he rolls his eye, a small smile spreading across his face.

They said their goodbyes, and when the call ended Conrad sat there for a long while, phone heavy in his palm. His pulse wouldn't settle, but his mind felt settled.

He didn't want to lose Amelia. And for the first time, he understood that the way not to lose her was to be honest, even if it scared the hell out of him.

By the time he was on his feet, the decision had already been made.

The hall outside her door smelled faintly of coffee and someone's overcooked bacon. Conrad's palms itched against his jeans as he stood there, trying to gather enough breath to knock. His heart hammered in his chest—loud, insistent, terrified. When the door swung open, Amelia stood there barefoot, drowning in one of his sweatshirts he must have left behind weeks ago. The sight knocked the wind clean out of him—the worn grey cotton, stretched at the cuffs, unmistakably his. She tugged the hem lower like she suddenly remembered, but it was too late. His chest ached. "Conrad?" she asked, surprise softening into something unreadable. "I didn't know if you wanted to see me or not," he said, voice low, rough. Her lips twitched into a small, incredulous smile. "You big doofus. A kiss isn't going to ruin anything." Conrad's pulse is still thrumming when Amelia steps aside, his mind focused on the oversized sweatshirt hanging loose on her frame. He swallows hard, trying to focus on something else—anything else—but his chest tightens anyway. She's wearing his sweater, his scent faint on the fabric, and for a fleeting second he imagines reaching out just to breathe it in.

She flops onto the couch, legs stretching out, and without thinking, he slides next to her. They don't talk immediately; they just exist in the same space, the familiar hum of the city outside muted by her apartment walls. And somehow, almost instinctively, they gravitate closer. His shoulder brushes hers, her thigh presses gently against his. It's subtle, tentative, but enough to make his stomach flip.

"I know how you are, Conrad," she says softly, reading his hesitation like a map. "I'm not going to be offended if you want to say last night didn't mean anything. That it was just... the alcohol talking."

"No," he says immediately, voice low, firm. "God, no. That isn't... that isn't what I want." His hands subconsciously move closer to hers, resting lightly on her knee, his thumb brushing against her wrist. She exhales, a small, relieved sound, her shoulders loosening just a fraction.

"So," she teases, voice lighter, trying to cut the tension, "what do we do then? Ignore it? Pretend it didn't happen? Run away into the sunset on a horse?"

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know. I just—"

"You're overthinking this," she interrupts gently, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "This isn't middle school. A kiss doesn't suddenly make us boyfriend and girlfriend."

He lets out a quiet chuckle. Slow and steady, he thinks, letting the words settle over him like a balm. "So... slow and steady?"

"Slow and steady," she echoes, "We'll take each day as it come. No need for grand announcements. We don't have to tell Theo or anyone else yet. But we also don't hide it. We'll just... do whatever feels natural."

Natural. The word lingers in his mind, foreign yet promising. He watches her, studying her in the soft light of the apartment, every detail etched into him—the curve of her lips, the soft slope of her shoulder, the way her eyes meet his without flinching. It's like they're both testing the waters, feeling out the possibility without words.

He swallows, voice quiet but determined. "Can I... take you on a proper date?"

Her brow lifts, amused. "Conrad, we've been on a lot of dates. Coffee runs, study breaks, late-night diner trips..."

"Those were friend dates," he interrupts, voice firmer, pulse climbing. "You deserve more. You deserve to be treated well. I want to do this, Amelia. Really do this. It's something I've wanted for a long time."

Her teasing falters, eyes softening. "If you really want to..." She hesitates, then nods. "Okay."

The air thickens around them. They sit a heartbeat too long, neither looking away, both aware of how dangerously close they are to that line they almost crossed last night. Her eyes flick to his lips, a spark of invitation there, and his stomach twists.

"Where are we going?" she asks, playful, masking the undercurrent of tension.

He smirks, a little wickedly. "Nope. Secret. Just... be ready by seven."

She narrows her eyes, teasingly suspicious, but her lips curve into a small, anticipatory smile. "Fine. Seven."

They sink back slightly into the couch, thighs brushing, shoulders touching, subtle sparks flying with every accidental touch.

She tips her head to the side, hair cascading over her shoulder. Her hands drift toward his arm, fingertips brushing lightly, almost unconsciously. "You know," she murmurs, eyes steady on his, "we could skip the dating stage and just see how good our chemistry is."

Conrad swallows hard, throat suddenly dry. He lets his gaze drift to her lips, remembers last night in the corridor, the kiss that had set his blood on fire. Boldness rises, heat pooling in his chest. "Mm, we could," he murmurs.

His hand hovers near her neck, itching to feel her skin, to trace the curve of her jaw. But instead, he lets his fingers linger on the collar of the sweatshirt, tracing the soft fabric. Amelia shifts, her body moving almost as if expecting more—a subtle invitation—but he stops short, keeping the moment just out of reach. "This," he murmurs, thumb brushing the cotton, "this sweater... it suits you." His eyes flick down briefly, to her lips, before he forces himself to look away, heart thudding.

Her breath hitches, body leaning subtly toward his, waiting, daring. He swallows, heart hammering, and finally pulls back with a grin. "But no. I want to do this right. I'll see you at seven."

He stands, every step leaving a trace of desire and anticipation behind him, heart still racing. Her warmth, the brush of her hands, the electric closeness—they stay with him as he heads back to his apartment.

By the time he reaches his place, his thoughts are a jumble of teasing touches, soft laughter, and the ghost of her lips. He sits at his desk, notebook open, mind spinning with ideas for the date. Slow and steady, he thinks. But this... this is going to be good.

The anticipation coils in his chest, heady, tantalizing, intoxicating. He can almost feel her leaning toward him again, hands brushing, the warmth between them. The first date will be deliberate, meaningful... but he knows, deep down, that nothing—nothing—can ever quite erase the magnetic pull between them.