Chapter 1. Prologue

The motel's vacancy sign hummed with static, blue and red lights flickering against the cinderblock and chipping stucco. A cicada chorus ratchets in the humid air so loud it's like summer trying to drown out itself. Conrad stands outside the room, hands tucked deep in the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie even though the air is too thick for sleeves. He stares at the slatted window where a cheap curtain glows with the gold-pink of the rising sun.

Inside, they're talking again—Belly's voice, insistent and breathy, and Jeremiah's softer, sometimes muffled. Conrad's not eavesdropping, exactly. It's more like listening for the tornado siren in a thunderstorm, waiting to see if disaster is coming or just more rain. He's bracing himself for the kind of moment that shifts tectonic plates.

He shuffles his sneakers on the gritty sidewalk, trying to focus on the salt tang in the air instead of the undertow in his gut. His chest tightens until he feels like he's holding a fistful of stones inside him. One step forward, he tells himself. One step, and it's done.

Conrad steps into the room, the humid air instantly thick, carrying the faint chemical sting of air freshener and the lingering heat of summer. Jeremiah is leaning against the wall by the window, arms crossed, eyes darting between Conrad and Belly like he's measuring the storm before it hits.

"Hey," Jeremiah says, forcing a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I'll, uh... grab us some breakfast. Don't wait up."

Conrad blinks, surprised by how quietly Jeremiah slips out. There's no argument, no dramatic exit—just a careful retreat. He can feel the tension loosen slightly, but only barely. The door clicks softly behind Jeremiah, leaving a hollow quiet in the room, like a held breath.

Conrad exhales, a long, shuddering release he hadn't realized he was holding in. His hands dig deeper into his pockets. The room feels smaller now, suffocating even, but in a different way: the walls seem to lean in, focusing everything—the air, the light, the heat—on Belly.

He swallows, forcing his voice forward. "Can we uh...talk?"

Belly froze on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting the hem of her oversized hoodie until the threads threatened to snap. "Yeah... I—I wanted to talk too."

Conrad shifted, sneakers scuffing against the threadbare carpet. "I'll go first. About last night." He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze locked on a yellowed water stain above.

"I was furious—seeing you and Jere together. I tried to ruin it. I'm sorry. I don't want to be that asshole standing between you two anymore. Whatever I said... I didn't mean it. We're cool. Friends."

"Friends," Belly echoed, voice brittle as cracked glass. She wouldn't meet his eyes.

He took a step toward the door; keys jingled like warning bells in his hand. "I'm heading out."

"Okay," she managed, staring at the fraying carpet.

Conrad let the silver infinity necklace slip through his fingers. It landed on the rumpled bedspread with a dull thud, the light catching its looping metal. "Take it. It's yours."

Belly's hair swung across her face as she shook her head. "No."

"I don't want it anymore." His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching like a trapped insect beneath his cheek.

She exhaled—a long, rattling sigh that seemed to hollow the room.

The door slammed open. Jeremiah burst in, too-bright smile plastered on his face, clutching a paper bag. "Breakfast?"

Conrad recoiled, pressing himself against the doorframe. "No. I'm leaving. There's a bus at 8:30. I'm going back to Cousins."

"Are you sure?" Jere's confident mask cracked, his voice faltering. "I have to swap cars anyway..."

"Take mine," Conrad said flatly. "I'll get yours back to Boston."

Silence fell like a shroud, thick with every unspoken fight, every tear shed in this room.

Conrad cleared his throat. "See you at the Fourth of July?"

"Yeah," Jere whispered, eyes flicking between Conrad and Belly like wounded birds.

"I wouldn't miss Susannah's favourite holiday," Belly added, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, blinking as if to clear the sting of tears.

Conrad slipped past Jeremiah into the hallway, pausing at the threshold. "Make sure she gets home safe, okay?" His voice cracked, then the door closes softly behind him. The latch clicked. His cologne—woodsy, lingering—haunted the stale air.

He couldn't tell if he was supposed to feel lighter, now that it was all over, or if he was just hollow. The cicadas still droned, the motel sign flickered, and the storm outside rolled on, indifferent to the pieces of his heart he was leaving behind.

He walks the length of the lot, slow, each step feeling heavier than the last. The bus stop is two blocks down, past a closed-down arcade and an ice cream stand that's still open, lines of kids sticky-faced and shrieking. He drags his duffel, the wheels rattling over every crack.

At the corner, he pauses to look back. Conrad's car is still idling. In the passenger seat, Belly rests her forehead against the window, eyes closed, and Jeremiah's hands are white-knuckled on the wheel.

Conrad thinks about what comes next—about Stanford, about the rooms in the beach house, a void waiting to be filled, about how he's supposed to make a whole new life out of pieces that never really fit to begin with. The thought makes his chest ache.

The bus arrives in a wheeze of diesel and air brakes. The driver barely glances at him as he boards, scanning his pass with a bored flick of the wrist. Conrad slumps into the last row, tucks his knees up, and stares out the foggy plexiglass window as the world starts to slip sideways.

He doesn't watch the motel fade. He doesn't look for Belly or Jeremiah in the rearview. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets the salt and the sound of cicadas dissolve everything behind him.

Maybe this is what moving on feels like: Not a relief, not a release, just the slow, silent certainty that you're never going back.

***

The beach house is a mausoleum of this past summer: blinds drawn, inflatable furniture everywhere, graffiti dripping down pale blue walls. Conrad drops his duffel in the foyer, the echo ricocheting through the stripped rooms. The ocean's close—so close the windows sweat with it—but this afternoon the waves are a backdrop, not a presence.

He stands a long time in the living room, hands hanging useless at his sides. The air inside seems musty, tinged with old sunscreen, lemon cleaner, and a ghost trace of cinnamon from the muffins Laurel bought before heading home. For the first time since he can remember, the house feels like nobody's waiting for him in it.

He finds the painting supplies in the garage, a list in his father's handwriting still taped to the wall: "Primer, eggshell, rollers, blue tape." Adam's voice, clipped and thorough, nags at him from a distance, but Conrad follows the directions anyway. Drop cloths first, furniture stacked in the centre of each room like islands. He peels blue tape in clean lines along the baseboards, pushing down the edges with his thumbnail. The whole process is deliberate, ritualistic—the kind of task you could do blind and still feel in your bones.

He starts in the den, the same colour the walls have always been. He rolls on primer in long, controlled strokes, covering up years of handprints, scuffs, faded Sharpie smiley faces. The brush squeaks against the wall. He tells himself he's not erasing anything important, just restoring order. He works until the sweat stings his eyes and his shoulder burns. It's easier than thinking.

He moves to the hall, a smaller roller for the trim. He doesn't let his mind wander. He won't think about the way Belly used to run her fingers along this wall, trailing after her as she chased Jere up the stairs. He won't think about his mum's laugh echoing from the kitchen, or the time he and Jere tracked sand in and got grounded for an entire August. He's not sentimental, never has been. This is just a job.

He's sorting through a left behind box in the garage when something tumbles out from the pile of old fabric. At first he thinks it's trash—a scrap of white plush and cotton stuffing—but then he recognizes the faded black nose and the uneven stitching where one ear had been reattached.

Junior Mint. Belly's bear. The one she clutched that summer she broke her arm falling from the tire swing, the summer they spent three rainy days playing Monopoly while the storm raged outside. Conrad had won the bear at the boardwalk. She'd named it on the spot, chocolate smeared across her chin. Jere made fun of her for weeks, and Conrad pretended to be annoyed when she left it in his room, but he'd always put it back on her pillow. For years, it migrated between their beds, a silent little dare.

He picks it up. The fur is still soft, matted in places, a little musty. Beneath the glasses one glass eye is slightly looser than the other, giving the bear a permanent wink. Conrad turns it in his hands, thumb brushing over the worn patch on its belly where the white had been loved away to the backing. He remembers her laugh, unguarded and ugly, the way she used to tip her head back so the sound could escape easier.

He grips Junior Mint a little too tight, and for a second, the anger is sharp enough to cut. He wants to throw it across the room, wants to rip it in half, wants to call her and ask why the hell she left it behind. Instead, he walks it upstairs, slow, every step echoing in the emptiness. He opens the door to her old room, half expecting her voice to spill out, bright and clumsy, filling the space.

It's just a room. No mattress, just an old table cloth dumped in the centre. He opens the wardrobe and gently props Junior Mint against corner of the shelf, smoothing its fur like he's tucking in a child. He leaves the door cracked open and doesn't look back as he returns to the painting.

The work goes faster now. He rolls paint with more force, hands slick with sweat and specks of white. He knocks the tray over, swears, then laughs at himself for the first time in days. The house fills with the smell of latex and mineral spirits, sharp and artificial. Every wall gets two coats, sometimes three.

When he finally finishes, it's after midnight. He peels the tape, folds the drop cloths, and lines the brushes up on the kitchen counter to dry. He stands in the entryway, surveying the blank, perfect walls, waiting for some wave of satisfaction to break over him.

Nothing comes. The silence is heavier than it was before, pressing against his ears, seeping into his chest.

One by one, he flips off the lights, letting the dark swallow each room whole. Tomorrow, the movers will arrive with everything. The house will snap back into place, as though this summer had never happened at all.

By mid-afternoon the following day, the scent of primer and sun-warmed wood hangs in the air. A breeze threads through every open window, tugging at the plastic drop cloths in the hall and casting a soft shimmer across the kitchen counter, where three glasses stand clean and upside-down. Conrad sits at the breakfast bar, knuckles tight around a takeaway cup of coffee long gone cold. The movers had been and gone, leaving the house orderly, pristine, but somehow emptier—its stillness echoing the quiet left behind in his chest.

He should be hungry, but all he feels is a sick, restless energy.

The empty suitcase on the floor of his room is a dare. He fills it with methodical precision: T-shirts rolled, jeans stacked, socks bunched in tight, neat rows. He empties the drawers one by one, tossing the contents—phone charger, battered notebook, Stanford admissions folder—onto the bed before slotting each item into place. It's a packing job Adam Fisher would be proud of.

He doesn't let himself slow down. There's a rhythm to the work, a comfort in the small exertions. He strips the beds, folds the sheets, wipes down the bathroom counters with bleach wipes. He can't leave anything undone.

When he's finished, the rooms look like hotel suites, unlived-in and anonymous. The walls gleam, blank and unmarked. He stands in the entryway, suitcase upright beside him, and lets the hush settle.

The floorboards groan as he moves to the living room, a sound that used to mean chaos—feet pounding, music blasting, three bodies wrestling for the remote. Now it's just him and the echo. The mantle is empty except for the brass clock and a faint ring where a photo frame once stood. He touches the spot, thumb tracing the circle, then wipes it away.

He moves through the house, checking every window latch, every faucet. Upstairs, he glances into Belly's old room. Conrad doesn't go in, but he lets the sight linger. Maybe someone will come for Junior Mint someday, or maybe it'll live here forever, a small relic in a shrine of blue wallpapered walls.

Back in the hall, he pauses at the threshold to his own room. It's the most unchanged: same desk, same twin bed, same sticky residue from the lamp decal he peeled off when he was thirteen. He takes it in—one last time, like a dare—then pulls the door shut, listening for the click.

At the front door, he stops. The breeze is cool, spiked with sea salt and something sharp from the fresh paint. He closes his eyes and inhales, trying to pin the moment down. He's not sure he'll ever come back, but if he does, he wants to remember the house this way: empty, clean, unburdened.

He steps outside, locking the door behind him. The key is heavy in his palm. He hesitates, then shoves it into his pocket. For a second, he stands on the porch, staring at the yard—dry grass, sand tracked up the steps, the tire swing hanging perfectly still.

"Never again," he says, barely above a whisper. His jaw aches. "I'm done with Cousins. Done with her." He waits for the words to echo, but the street is too quiet for that.

The walk to Jeremiah's car is quick, the weight of his bag cutting a groove in his shoulder. The keys feel foreign in his palm—heavier than his own, with that stupid tiki bar bottle opener Jere refuses to remove after swiping it as a dare one night. Conrad tosses his suitcase in the trunk, slams it harder than necessary. Inside, the car smells like Jeremiah—mint gum and that cologne their dad bought them both last Christmas. He adjusts the seat back, fingers hesitating over the stereo preset buttons labelled in Jere's messy handwriting.

He pulls out of the driveway without looking in the rearview. The GPS says six hours to Boston. Conrad switches it off, already knowing the route. He keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead as the neighbourhood blurs past: driveways, mailboxes, the glint of water at the end of the block.

As Cousins slips behind him, there's no rush of regret or relief—just a long, level line of feeling, steady as the hum of tires on asphalt. He lets it fill him up, a slow, blank peace.

Conrad drives with the windows up until sunset, when the world outside is just a reflection of himself, staring back through the glass.