Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“We never stopped being together.”

She laughed—light, automatic—ready to tease him for one of his insecure moments. Then she saw his mouth harden. The joke died in her throat. He pressed his lips together; his jaw clicked. He swallowed and stared at the floor like the right words might be hiding in the scuffs.

A thin tension pulled the room taut.

“Belly, when I was in Cabo… I—I thought…” His voice trailed off, buckling under its own weight.

Her pulse quickened. “You thought…?”

“I thought we’d broken up.”

The words floated for a second, empty of meaning, then slammed into her. She let go of his hand as if she’d touched a stove. The space between them widened and cooled.

“I made a mistake,” he said, voice rough and too small for what it held. “I—I was with Lacie.”

The name hit first—solid, sharp. Then the rest of the sentence unfolded and everything inside her went very still. She stared at him. Her heartbeat turned uneven, loud enough to drown the room.

When she found her voice, it came out thin. “You what?”

He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. His guilt was in the slope of his shoulders, the dead weight of his hands.

She waited for the laugh, the I’m kidding, the oh my God I would never. He stayed quiet. The silence told the truth.

“You were with her?” The words shook, half question, half accusation.

He winced. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“Don’t.” It cracked out of her. “Don’t you dare say that.”

He reached for her, as if contact could rewind time; she stepped back before his fingers could ask forgiveness her mouth hadn’t granted. If he touched her, she wasn’t sure which would go first—the part that breaks, or the part that forgives. Both felt impossible.

“I thought we were done,” he said softly, like that could be an alibi.

She swallowed against the sting in her eyes. There was nothing left to explain; explanation wouldn’t put the pieces back.

Her chin lifted. Her hands were shaking but her voice was steady. “Well,” she said, “we are now.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide, but she was already turning. The latch clicked behind her—small, final. She didn’t look back.

The next few days blurred at the edges, like a photo taken with a shaking hand. She must have gone to class—her quiz score said she had—but she couldn’t remember studying. Mostly she lay in her dorm bed, wrapped in a blanket that still smelled like sunscreen and last summer, like a place she couldn’t go back to.

Anika and Taylor brought food and didn’t comment when the fork stayed clean. They sat on the edge of her bed and watched terrible movies, laughing too loudly at the wrong moments, filling the silence so she didn’t have to. When she started routing herself around the dining hall, the quad, the places Jeremiah liked to orbit, they didn’t say a word. They stayed.

Jeremiah called. Taylor told her later she’d intercepted him at the dorm entrance and sent him away. Finch wasn’t big; hiding forever wasn’t an option. The thought of running into him made Belly’s chest cinch tight. Every time she stepped outside, the memory flared—Lacie in the quad, laughing with her friends, looking past Belly with that thin, pitying glance.

She pushed out of the main campus building and froze. There he was, taking the stairs two at a time. Her lungs forgot how to work and then remembered, badly. She made herself keep moving, one deliberate step and then another.

“Belly.” His voice reached her before he did.

Not here. Not on these stairs with people watching. She turned anyway.

“I made the biggest mistake of my life,” he said, eyes searching hers like he could find the version of her that still said yes. “Please. Talk to me. Ask me anything. No more secrets.”

For one beat, she wanted to believe him. She wanted the promise of it to be real. Then Lacie’s name slid back through her, and the past few days—the empty hours, the ache—settled where belief had been.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Jeremiah,” she said, holding his gaze. “I can’t go back. Not after… this.”

He reached for her arm. She stepped out of reach. The tightness in her chest sharpened into something clear.

“Belly… please.”

"How many times?"

"Twice."

"Twice!" Her jaw set. She could have forgiven once. Once was a drunken mistake. But twice? She'd sat at home thinking that it had just been one of their rare arguments, that they'd work it out when he got back. That four years together couldn't be thrown away by a couple words said in the heat of the moment. He'd slept with another girl twice days after. The words found their place and wouldn’t move. “We’re broken up. Officially. I can’t be with you anymore.”

Something twisted in his face—hurt, then anger looking for somewhere to land. “This is because of Conrad, isn’t it?”

Confusion snapped through her. “What?”

“I know about the two of you on Christmas,” he said, voice edged and trembling.

“Nothing happened,” she said, heat flaring in the denial.

“Then why didn’t you tell me he was there? Do you know how stupid I felt when my dad and I went by the house and the neighbor said his car was there the same time you were?”

The string pulled taut and the whole fight before Cabo took on new meaning. The sudden anger. The way he’d pushed, then pulled away.

“You picked that fight,” she said, the realization landing cold. “You were angry before Cabo because of something you decided on your own. You never asked. And now this is somehow my fault?”

Her voice wavered, but beneath it was bedrock. Nothing had happened with Conrad. She hadn’t hidden anything; she’d predicted this reaction and tried to repel it by omission. She hated that she’d been right.

“I’m done, Jeremiah,” she said, steady now even as her throat burned. “We’re over. I can’t do this anymore.”

She stepped past him and walked away. She didn’t speed up. She didn’t look back. Each step felt like choosing herself, even if it hurt.

Chapter Text

Months passed, and Belly and Jeremiah continued to avoid each other. Surprisingly, it wasn’t difficult at all, which only made the truth more obvious: their lives had barely intersected for a long time. Their schedules, their routines, even their interests rarely overlapped. The so-called “mutual friends” they shared were mostly his friends anyway, she hadn't found a reason to talk to any of them once they'd broken up.

Not being pulled into his frat events gave her room to breathe, to explore the clubs and activities she had always wanted to join but never had the chance to while they were together. Slowly, a quiet realization settled over her: she had given up so much of herself for him—her time, her hobbies, even her social life—but he had never done the same in return.

There were moments that still stung, memories of summer nights, laughter, and shared secrets. But those pangs were becoming softer, more distant. With each passing week, she felt lighter, freer, and more certain that walking away had been the right choice. For the first time in a long while, she could see herself clearly—and she liked what she saw.

The next morning, her phone buzzed on the table, Taylor’s face lighting up the screen. Her stomach dropped the moment she heard her best friend’s voice. Without thinking, she shoved her feet into her sneakers and rushed out the door.

The hospital was a blur. The fluorescent lights felt too bright, the smell of antiseptic clinging to everything. Belly’s legs carried her forward on autopilot, her stomach twisting into knots with every step. She barely noticed the people around her—doctors, nurses, visitors.

Her hands trembled as she stared at her phone. The message to Jeremiah sat half-formed. He wasn’t just an ex; he was Steven’s friend since forever, part of her family’s orbit long before she and Jere were a thing. Steven deserved him here. Neither of them had told her brother the truth about the breakup. She paused in the hallway outside Steven’s room, taking a shaky breath. The words she typed—“Jere, Steven got into a car accident.”—felt heavier than anything she had ever sent before. Her finger hovered over the send button, the weight of responsibility pressing down on her. Then, with a decisive exhale, she pressed it.

Seconds stretched like hours. Her phone vibrated almost immediately. Jeremiah’s reply lit up the screen: “On my way. What happened?”

Belly felt her chest tighten, Taylor sitting beside her with a silent, steady presence. Her friend’s calm only highlighted the storm in her own mind. She gripped her phone like it could anchor her, her thoughts racing. 

Of course, Conrad had come through, she was glad that she'd remembered to tell Taylor to call him. The new doctor explained that she’d gotten the call from an old friend at Stanford, and Steven was going to be alright. Relief washed over her in small, jittery waves, though it didn’t erase the lingering fear. Taylor and Jeremiah stood nearby, silent but steady, like pillars of support she hadn’t realized she needed. She had managed to get in touch with her parents; they’d both be here in a couple of hours. For the first time all the day, Belly allowed herself to exhale.

“Walk me out?” Jeremiah asked, tentative.

“Sure,” she said, keeping her voice level.

He fell in beside her, a little too close. Familiar, unsettling.

“Belly…” His voice wavered. She could hear everything he wasn’t saying. She kept her eyes on the automatic doors, not on the guilt and worry she knew she’d find on his face.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly, "for letting me be here."

She nodded. Her throat was tight.

Silence settled. Heavy, not hostile.

“You okay?” he asked, finally.

“I’m okay,” she said. Soft, true enough for now.

He nodded. Something eased between them—like two people agreeing on the same map. The old pull, the ache, the knot of what-if—it was there, but quiet. They weren’t a couple anymore, and the part of her that once reached for him had let go.

"I miss you."

"Jere. I-"

"Not as my girlfriend," he stopped her, "As my best friend. The girl that I spent summers digging for sand crabs with and watched fireworks with on Fourth." He swallowed. "Do you think we can get any part of that back."

Belly smiled at him. "I think we can."

Chapter Text

Summer came, and she and Jere slipped back into their old friendship—texting nonsense, splitting fries, effortless. By Susannah’s garden dedication, it was as if the last three years had faded. She stood with Jere beneath the new hydrangeas when the air changed—sun slipping free of a thin veil.

Conrad. He’d made it.

Belly was suddenly glad she’d put in the extra effort—hair smoothed, the soft dress, the gold hoops. She didn’t examine why.

“Con!” Jeremiah lit up, crossing the path in two strides.

She barely caught the words—only the quick, hard bro-hug, Jere’s shoulders dropping with relief, the thump of palms on backs. Gravel crunched; roses tilted in the breeze. A camera shutter clicked.

Then Conrad turned. “Hi.”

“Hey.” It came out a little giddy. He pulled her in, lifted her off her feet. For a breath the world narrowed to cedar, sun, and the steady drum of his heartbeat against her ear. When he set her down she had to find the ground again.

“Connie’s really glad to have his little sister around again.” Adam, of course—swooping in with the exact wrong line. His smile was easy; the tension it left wasn’t.

Conrad’s mouth flattened. “How’ve you been, little sis?”

“Great. I’ve been great.” She fixed on his tie knot so she wouldn’t think about what his eyes did to her.

“Yeah… it’s been a while,” he said softly.

Laurel materialized with her phone. “Picture. Come on, all four of you.” She arranged them like puzzle pieces: Jere on one side, Conrad on the other, Belly tucked between them. Conrad’s arm settled along her shoulders; the brush of his suit sleeve on bare skin lit every nerve. Smile, click. Smile again. Done.

They caravanned to lunch—Laurel’s sedan leading, Adam’s glossy SUV behind, Jere’s Jeep somewhere in the mix. Belly rode shotgun with Jere.

“What are you thinking?” she asked as they turned onto Ocean Avenue.

“I’m glad Con made it,” Jere said. Eyes on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, the other drumming his knee.

“He didn’t mention he was coming?”

He shook his head. “Last time I talked to him was a couple weeks ago. After Dad blew up about me needing an extra semester.”

Belly winced. “It’s not the end of the world, Jere.”

“Yeah. That’s what Conrad said. Plenty of people take an extra semester.” He lifted one shoulder in a small, helpless shrug, aiming for casual and not quite getting there. “It’s just… it’s never people like him.”

She didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong. With their dad, Conrad seemed to land the things Jere wanted as if they arranged themselves for him. It wasn’t on purpose—Conrad never tried to make Jere look worse; if anything, he tried to avoid drawing attention to himself. That almost made it sting more. No matter how hard Jere tried, he never got the same easy, automatic praise their dad had for Conrad. Wind slid through the open windows, salt threading the air and lifting the flyaways at her temple.

The restaurant hugged the marina. “There you are,” Adam said, standing as Kayleigh approached and took the empty chair beside Jere. “Boys, you remember Kayleigh? We’ve been seeing each other, and I wanted to tell you since this is the first time we’ve all been together in a while.”

"Yeah-," Jeremiah sounded surprised, "Hi." Conrad sat silently.

Belly’s stomach dipped. Years ago: Conrad’s flat voice on the phone, the first time he’d said Kayleigh’s name, the affair. She watched the corner of Laurel’s mouth tighten before she smoothed it away. Across the table, Conrad tipped back his champagne and drained the glass.

“Con’s getting drunk,” Jere joked, trying to loosen the tension. “Now it’s a party.”

Conrad’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. Belly glanced at him sympathetically; he wouldn’t look back.

A waiter appeared with menus. Belly stuffed a roll in her mouth just to do something.

“Could we get the seafood tower?” Adam said, not bothering with the menu. “And can we get that right away? Wouldn’t want Belly to starve while we figure out mains.”

Belly managed an awkward smile. “Thanks, Mr. Fisher.”

“We’re all adults now,” he said with a smile. “You can call me Adam.”

“I’ll try, Adam,” she said, her voice a little thin.

Laurel lifted her glass. “Adam and I wanted to make a toast—”

“Yes, let me kick it off by saying—” Adam sailed right over her. Belly watched her mother’s jaw set. “Thank you, Laurel, for that gorgeous event. I know parties were always Suz’s forte more than yours, but that was a beautiful day to celebrate a beautiful woman.”

“Thanks,” Laurel said—clipped, polite.

“And thank you all for coming. I’m glad we could honor Susannah. To Suz.”

Glasses rose. Belly sipped and felt a small, pang of pity for Kayleigh, who had to sit through a toast to the woman she’d never replace.

Laurel took the room back with a breath. “To Steven—thank you for saving me that last semester’s tuition for Princeton.” Belly watched Jere stiffen as Adam cut him a sideways glance.

“Hold up, Laurel,” Adam said smoothly, pivoting. “Steven’s not the only impressive one here.” He tipped his glass toward Conrad. “To Connie—the future doctor. Smart and selfless. A hell of a combo.”

Conrad’s hand tightened around the stem. Laurel’s eyes found Belly—understanding passed like a note. “And Belly, my sweet girl,” she added, a softer smile. “I remember the first time I traveled abroad and how big with possibility the world felt. To your bright future.”

Adam wasn’t finished. “And let’s not forget Jeremiah—our super senior. Fingers crossed one more semester till the diploma, and then—well, I guess we’ll see.”

Under the table, Belly squeezed Jere’s hand. Let go. Across the linen, Conrad’s gaze went flinty. He flicked a look at Jere—quick read, quick decision—then set his glass down with a soft clink.

“Don’t get too down about it,” he said, casual. “I managed to make it out because I got fired.” 

Jere’s shoulders eased. Adam blinked, recalibrating. “What?”

“I made a mistake,” Conrad said evenly. “A big one. They let me go. I figured I’d come out here and get my head together.”

“Good on you, Con,” Jere said, grateful for the heat shifting off him.

“Agreed,” Adam added quickly.

The waiter set down the tower—oysters on ice, clams and lemon wedges. No one reached for it.

Conrad placed his empty glass on the linen—just the slightest click—then looked at his father, voice light in a way that wasn’t. “So you and Kayleigh… how long has that been going on?”

A stormy silence descended. Kayleigh’s fingers stilled on her napkin. Laurel’s smile turned brittle. Belly felt the whole table tilt.

“We’ve liked each other for a while,” Adam said at last, slipping into the voice he used on clients, “but we decided to give it a shot recently.”

Conrad lifted an eyebrow. “Congrats.”

Jere glanced between them. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Conrad said—eyes on Adam, not on his brother. “Just reminding Dad that we all make mistakes sometimes.” He picked up a lemon wedge he didn’t need and set it back on ice.

“Okay, we’re not doing this here,” Adam said, tossing his napkin onto the table like a flag and raising a hand for the check.

Kayleigh kept her eyes on the oysters. Heat crept up Belly’s neck; the weight of what she knew pressed against her ribs.

Conrad didn’t look away from his father. “Fine by me,” he said lightly.

Jere sat back, jaw tight, confusion buzzing off him like static. The tower sweated between them, untouched.

The check arrived; Adam signed with pen strokes harder than necessary. Chairs scraped; everyone stood. “Thank you for coming,” Adam said to no one and everyone, smoothing his jacket like that could iron the air flat. “We’ll—catch up later.”

Laurel’s smile held. “Of course. We’re going to head back to Philly,” she added, as if this had always been the plan. They’d meant to stay at the beach until the Fourth; plans change.

Jere looked between them, still humming with confusion. “I thought you were coming by the house.”

“Another time, sweetheart,” Laurel said, fond.

“Okay.” He pulled Belly and Laurel into quick hugs. Then to his brother: “Con, you coming back to the house with me?”

Conrad stayed a step back, hands in his pockets, sunglasses pushed into his hair. “I’m heading to the airport. Red-eye back to California.”

“Already?” Jere blinked.

“I’ve got an interview lined up at a lab,” Conrad said, and Belly caught the flicker at the edge of his mouth—that wasn't the entire truth.

Laurel’s gaze softened. “Text when you land.”

“I will.” He gave them both a small smile. “Drive safe.”

Belly slid into her mom’s car. Across the lot, Steven jogged up, calling, “You think you could give me a ride back to Boston?”

“Yeah, man,” Jere said, clapping his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Adam’s SUV pulled away first. Jere and Steven headed for the Jeep. Conrad climbed into a rental and, a moment later, merged into the slow churn of beach traffic, blinked right, and disappeared into glare.

Chapter Text

That night, her phone buzzed hard on the nightstand—one long shiver, then another. 2:30 a.m. The house was dark with the exception of her phone throwing light across the ceiling; Belly fumbled for the screen and saw Jere’s name, the contact photo from some summer half a lifetime ago.

She was upright before she’d answered. Late-night calls never good news, it was the only kind that couldn't be saved until morning. “Jere?”

His voice came low and wrecked, like he’d been yelling. “Bells… my dad cheated on my mom.”

Her stomach dropped; the room sharpened. “What?”

“I came home and asked him what Con meant,” he said, breath snagging. “He told me.”

Through the speaker: tires on wet road, a blink-blink turn signal, the hollow whoosh of the highway. “Jere, where—”

“Dad didn’t know Conrad knew,” he rushed on. “Why wouldn’t Con tell me? Why wouldn’t anyone—”

“Jeremiah.” She cut in, firm. “Where are you?”

A beat of quiet, engine humming. “Driving to Cousins. I can’t stay in Boston tonight.”

“You shouldn’t be alone.” Belly was already moving—duffel yanked from under the bed, charger, sweatshirt, keys. She cracked Laurel’s door, whispered, “It’s Jere—I'm driving to Cousins. He needs me,” got a tight, fully-awake nod in return.

“You don’t have to—” Jere started.

“I want to,” she said, phone wedged to her shoulder, she shoved her feet into the sneakers she never bothered to untie as she locked the door. “Drive safe. I’ll be there in a couple hours.”

The beach house door was unlocked. Salt air and old wood hit her as she stepped inside. A single lamp burned in the family room; Jere was curled on the couch, hoodie sleeves over his hands, eyes rimmed red.

He looked up. “Bells—”

She sat beside him and pulled his head to her shoulder. His breath stuttered, then settled into quiet, shaking sobs. She kept a hand at the back of his neck, thumb tracing small circles until the knot in his shoulders loosened. They slid down the cushions, blanket over their legs.

“Thanks for coming,” he murmured.

“Always,” she said.

They fell asleep like that—couch-warm, lamp low, the ocean a hush behind glass.

Morning pooled on the floor in long rectangles, bright and low. Belly blinked awake on the couch. Conrad stood by the deck doors like a mirage. He looked at her, confused, he obviously hadn't heard them come in last night.

“Conrad?” Her voice came out sleep-rough, eyes squinting against the sunlight.

He startled, then took a step toward her—hesitated when Jere’s head rose over the back of the couch, hair smashed flat on one side.

“Con?” Jere rounded the armrest fast. “What are you doing here? I thought you went back to California. I called you like ten times.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Conrad wrapped a hand around his upper arm, thumb worrying the sleeve hem. His eyes swept over Jere’s red rims and the night on his face and flicked away. “My phone must’ve been on silent.”

Belly heard the lie in the soft place where the truth should have been.

“We need to talk,” Jere said, too steady to be calm.

“Sure.” Conrad shifted his weight, already angling toward the door. “I was just heading out for a run. We can talk when I get back.” The screen door gave a soft slap as he slipped through it.

Jere stared after him, jaw set. “What is he doing here?” He dragged a hand down his face. “Why does everything have to be a big secret with him?”

Belly pushed the blanket aside and sat up, feet finding the cool wood. “He probably thinks he’s protecting you.”

“From what!” The word cracked, more hurt than heat.

“You’ll have to ask him.” She kept her voice even, gentle. “And, Jere—you have every right to be angry. Just… cut Conrad a little slack.”

“I’ll try.” He blew out a breath, pacing once, twice, like he couldn’t fit in his own skin. “It’s just—we promised we’d tell each other everything. Even if it hurts.”

“And have you told him everything?” she asked, quieter now.

“And have you told him everything?” she asked, quieter. She already knew he hadn’t. Conrad still treated Christmas like contraband—he’d even nodded along when Steven joked he hadn’t been home in two years—so Jere clearly hadn’t brought it up. Belly stopped buying the “canceled flight” the moment Jere mentioned he’d bailed on the ski trip; the math didn’t add up. More likely, he’d planned to hole up at the house all break and left early to get away from her. She’d be surprised if Jere hadn’t done the same math—he just hadn’t said it out loud. And after they’d broken up, there wasn’t much reason for them to talk about it.

Jere’s mouth worked, then closed. “It’s complicated.”

“I know.” She stood. Outside, a gull called; somewhere, a board creaked on the deck. “Look—just go surf together. You hear each other better out there.”

Jere’s shoulders dropped, the fight draining to a manageable level. “Okay.”

“Good.” Belly yawned, finally feeling the weight of the night. “I’m going up to my room. You two better not wake me up with one of your fights.”

He managed a ghost-smile. “No promises.”

'“Promise anyway.”

He huffed, softer. “Fine. Promise.”

She started for the stairs, passing the kitchen—a couple mugs abandoned by the sink, a damp towel slung over a chair. Morning kept pouring in, bright and merciless, and somewhere beyond the dunes the water lifted and fell, waiting.

When Belly came downstairs a couple hours later—feeling human after a nap, hair damp from the shower—the house smelled like coffee and toast. Both Fisher boys were at the island, wet-haired and sun-pink, drops tracking from their shirts to the tile.

“Bells,” Jere said, sliding the stool beside him out with his foot.

“Hey.” She sat, taking them in. Conrad’s shoulders had settled; the tight line at his mouth was gone. “Looks like surfing did its job.”

“It did,” Jere said, smiling.

“Good.” She bumped his knee, then looked at Conrad more directly. “So… when are you actually going back to California?”

“I haven’t booked yet,” he said, turning his mug in his hands. “Agnes put in a good word for me at Garth Labs, so if I take it, I’ll need to head back in a day or two for interviews. But… I might not take it and stay out here a bit. It’s probably the last free summer I’ll get. And since Jere’s here, I was thinking I’d stick around too.”

A small pit opened in her stomach—surprise first, then something she wouldn’t name. She hadn’t realized Agnes was still in the picture. She had no claim, not anymore, maybe never. It didn’t stop the sting. got the California version of him—the one Belly didn’t know. She probably knew his coffee order, which lab bench he liked, the playlist he used to study. Probably matched his drive, too.

"Oh," her voice came out a little more high-pitched than she'd like, "And how does Agnes feel about it."

“Agnes thinks it’s wild that Dad brought Kayleigh to lunch after the memorial,” Conrad said, a small, disbelieving huff. “And then I got another lecture about how I need to ‘feel my feelings.’ I really need to hide her self-help books when I get back, but she wasn't wrong. That day at Dr. Namazy's clinic I was so scared that I was going to fuck up. And then I did. Who knows, maybe I'm not cut out to be a doctor.”

Belly pursed her lips. “Maybe not.” She folded her arms, let a smirk tilt. “Or maybe you need to knuckle up and stop being such a little bitch.”

Jere snorted into his coffee. “Didn’t your advisor say most first-years take the summer off before coming back anyway?”

Conrad rubbed the rim of his mug. “Yeah, well, I—was—”

“So then you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be,” Belly said, gentler.

“C’mon,” Jeremiah added, bumping Conrad’s shoulder. “This summer might be the best thing that happens to you.”

"Fine," he smiled at the two of them, "I'll stay this summer."

Belly tore off a corner of toast she didn’t want, crumbs salt-sweet on her tongue. “Anyway… now that you two have each other, I’m heading back to Philly this afternoon.”

Jere’s head snapped up. “What? Already?”

“I came up so that you wouldn't be along. You’re not alone anymore,” she said, nudging his knee with hers. “Mission accomplished.”

Conrad set his mug down with care. “You should stay,” he offered, careful.

“You guys sure?” Belly asked. It might be better to pull herself out of the frame—let them have the house, the quiet, the space to be brothers. First time in years they’d get more than a long weekend, and she knew her tangled history with both of them hadn’t exactly helped them stay close.

Jere shook his head before she could talk herself out of it. “Stay. Please. It’s better with you here.”

Conrad’s gaze flicked up, steady. “I'm sure.” Her pulse did that ridiculous stutter it always did when Conrad’s eyes met hers.

Her pulse did that ridiculous stutter it always did when his eyes met hers. She rolled her shoulders like she could shake it off. “Twist my arm,” she said, smiling at both of them.“Maybe now that you’re both here we can talk Steven into coming down for the Fourth—all the summer kids together. He’s still dodging Taylor. And I need one of them to bring me real clothes; I have no idea what I stuffed in my bag last night.”

Their faces opened to her enthusiasm like flowers to sunlight. Jere was off and running—grill, fireworks, that terrible playlist he still played. Conrad’s mouth tipped at the corner, a quiet yes. For the first time in years, it felt like the old summers had slipped back on: easy, sun-warm, the three of them falling into place.

Chapter Text

Belly woke on her 21st to pale light and and padded into the hall, toes cold on wood. She didn't bother to change out of the oversized T-shirt that she'd found in her drawer. Halfway down the stairs she caught the smell of coffee and something warm-sweet, like butter and vanilla.

Conrad was at the island, sleeves rolled to his forearms, washing a bowl. Button-down, perfectly worn jeans, the watch she’d pretended not to notice all week catching the light when he tipped the bowl to rinse. He looked up with a smile and then seemed to swallow it, eyes dropping, throat working.

Heat rushed to her face. She didn’t have to look down to know why. She was wearing his old shirt—'Cousin's Rowing' emblazoned on the front - soft with a thousand washes. Of all the things to pull on.

“Good morning,” he said, voice a little rough.

“Morning,” she managed. She crossed her arms across her chest as if she could make the shirt less obviously his. “I’m… really glad you’re staying this summer. Jere and Steven are too.”

The corner of his mouth picked up. “Couldn’t give them free reign over the Fourth. Lives could be lost.”

She laughed, which helped. On the table sat a plate of her favorite muffins, still warm, sugar sparkling like they’d been dusted with daylight. He remembered. “Do you bake now?” she asked, delighted despite herself.

He shut off the tap and dried his hands, turning to face her. “Only on special occasions.” Then softer, “Happy birthday, Belly.”

The words landed low and warm. Before she could decide if it was a good idea, she was across the tile and into his arms. He smelled like clean cotton and coffee, something faintly woody in the weave of his shirt. His hold tightened just enough—steady at her waist—and his fingers brushed the ends of her hair. He held her just right; her heart did the stupid slip it always did. She needed it to stop doing that. Conrad had a whole life waiting for him back west, she needed accept the crumbs that he was willing to give her.

“Thank you,” she said into his shoulder, then stepped back.

He cleared his throat, playing it casual again. “I’m doing a grocery run. Anything you want?”

“Besides these?” She broke a muffin, steam curling up. “I'm sure that Jere'll have a list when he gets up."

Something tightened in his gaze. "I guess I'll head to the hardware store first then. Tell Jere to text me his list."

“Conrad—”

“Happy birthday,” he said again, and slipped out, the screen door giving a soft slap behind him.

Chapter Text

A few days later the house was quiet—Jere had driven up to Finch—so Belly slipped outside for a morning swim. Heat pressed at her shoulders as she shrugged off the loose white button-down over her old one-piece, the cotton still cool from the AC. The steady thump of a hammer made her pause: Conrad was on the roof, shirtless, muscles working clean under the sun as he set a shingle, those same worn jeans riding low at his hips. The scene sent heat flushing through her.

“Hey!” she called.

He shaded his eyes and waved. The hammer slipped, clanged hard onto the patio, and pinwheeled to a stop by the chaise. She moved automatically, but he shook his head. “I’ve got another,” he called down. He pulled out his phone, answered the call, then lifted it to his ear. His shoulders drew in as he listened, jaw set, pacing slightly.

Belly slid into the pool and pushed off. The water was cool-lithe around her limbs, the quiet rhythm of breath and stroke doing its best to help her escape. Even so, awareness flickered at the edges when his eyes fixed on her—how the air seemed to change when she flipped at the wall, how the roof creaked and then went still. When she climbed out though the roofline was empty.

Back inside, showered and dressed, she dug through the kitchen drawer for keys—the familiar rattle of batteries and rubber bands, a tape measure. Footsteps thumped down the stairs.

“Conrad, have you seen the car keys?”

He filled the doorway, keys looped casual around a finger, hair pushed back. She felt a little disappointed that his shirt was back on. “I was just heading to the hardware store.”

“Could you give me a ride into town?”

He hesitated, a small hitch that said more than words. “I’ll be real quick.”

Her smile thinned on its own. The moment had the shape of distance: polite, efficient, nothing for anyone to misread. “You can’t just drop me off?”

“Well—I—” The uncertainty frayed the rest.

The little sting settled under her ribs. She stepped past him to grab her tote, keeping her voice even. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take my bike.” 

Belly cursed under her breath as a familiar gray car slowed beside the curb. Of course. The one moment she needed to look like a functioning adult—with her bike wobbling against her hip, grocery bags digging into her fingers, and humidity frizzing every strand of hair—of course Conrad Fisher would appear like a knight in shining armor.

“Come on,” Conrad said, already stepping out, his voice that calm, steady one she hated because it made her heart do things she refused to acknowledge.

Belly straightened, clutching the bags closer to her chest. She should keep her distance. She needed to. He was only offering because he felt bad for her. Because he was Conrad: annoyingly noble, casually thoughtful, perpetually confusing.

“No. The bike won’t fit in the car,” she said, chin lifted.

“The seats are down.”

Of course they were.

She scrambled for another excuse and came up empty. “Fine. Here—take the bags, I’ll get the bike.” She shoved the bags toward him, adding quickly, “I’ll drive.”

He didn’t even acknowledge the offer. Just tugged the bike out of her grip like it weighed nothing and walked it to the back of the car. Typical. 

Belly slid into the passenger seat and buckled in, pretending her pulse wasn’t stuttering at the idea of being in a small enclosed space with him. She adjusted the mirrors she didn’t actually need to adjust, buying herself a second before he got in.

The bike shifted behind them as he climbed into the passenger’s seat. When he looked at her—really looked—he gave her a shy, almost unsure smile. The kind that hit too soft, too tender. She smiled back before she could stop herself.

“Do you mind if we make one more stop before going home?” she asked, forcing cheer into her voice. “Jere promised he’d come with me to Michael’s, but he’s not coming back for a couple days, and I want to use the coupons.” She gave him the big doe-eyed look that had always worked on him when they were younger. Back when everything was simple. Back when she didn’t have to pretend she didn’t feel things for him.

He blinked, his fingers tightening on his knee. “I don’t know…”

“Pretty please.”

He let out a long exhale, shoulders dropping in defeat. “Fine. The coupons expire. Let’s go pillage corporate America.”

“Thank you,” she said, grinning at him.

His eyes flicked to her—and lingered. A second too long, his face golden in the sunlight. Belly looked away quickly, heat rising in her cheeks. She told herself it was just the satisfaction of getting her way.

By the time she pulled into the parking lot, the heat had finally faded from her cheeks. It didn’t help much; her nerves had crept back in anyway. Conrad trailed behind her as she pushed a cart through the aisles, the space between them feeling so much bigger than a couple of feet. She stopped in front of a display of hurricane vases, pretending to be very interested in glass.

“The big one or the medium one?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

He shifted, barely looking at her. “The big one, I guess.”

“Great, that’s what I was thinking.” The familiar flutter stirred in her chest before she could stop it. For a moment, she wondered if this was how it would be if they were together—running errands, debating home decor, moving through the world side by side. For a heartbeat, it almost felt like that version of them could be real.

Then his posture changed. His shoulders tightened, his expression went guarded. Cold slipped under her skin when he reached for the cart, gently but firmly taking it from her hands, like he couldn’t get away from her fast enough.

“We could just be done and pay for this stuff,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes.

Of course he didn’t want to be here with her. He was being polite, that was all—doing the decent thing because that’s who he was. Guilt, habit, obligation. Anything but actually wanting to spend time with her.

“Well, no,” he said, hearing how small her voice sounded. “I mean, we came all this way… and there’s a big sale going on. Let’s take a lap.”

She hesitated, as if weighing how much to push back. “Okay,” she agreed finally.

“Like, look at these. Little fake flowers and the garlands.” He reached for a bunch of white roses, the plastic stems rustling. “Actually, these are really sweet. Maybe for the porch?”

A smile slipped onto her face before she could catch it. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” he said, a thread of hesitation still there, like he was stepping carefully around her.

“Yeah, they’re not bad. Not great, but not bad.”

He smiled back, easy and warm, and she tried not to read into it. She told herself it was just him being kind, just him making sure she didn’t mistake this for anything more than it was: a ride, a favor, a trip to Michael’s with a girl he used to love.

They drove in an easy, quiet kind of silence. Conrad had one hand on the steering wheel, the other tapping lightly against his knee, music humming low from the speakers. Belly let herself sink back into the seat, grateful that he didn’t feel the need to fill every pause with words. It made it easier to pretend things between them weren’t so different now.

A weathered sign for peaches flashed by her window. She only let her gaze linger on it for a second, but it was enough.

“Want to go back?” Conrad asked.

Her heart jumped, caught off guard that he’d noticed. “Nah, that’s okay. We already passed it,” she said, trying to sound casual, like it didn’t matter.

He checked his mirrors anyway and made a U-turn.

The little stand was piled high with fruit. Belly dug in her pocket and slipped a dollar in, and reached for the best-looking peach she could find. Her fingers sank into the soft flesh just a little when she picked it up.

“Aren’t you gonna have one?” she asked, wiping the peach on the hem of her shirt.

“Nah. I’m allergic to peaches,” he said, standing there with the sun behind him, turning the edges of his hair to gold.

She stared. “Since when? I’ve definitely seen you eat a peach before. Or peach pie, at least.”

He shrugged. “Since always. I’ve eaten them before, but they make the inside of my mouth itch.”

A small pang tugged at her as she thought of all the things Agnes probably knew, all the tiny details she had missed. Belly swallowed it down. “Your loss,” she said lightly.

Before she bit into it, she closed her eyes and inhaled. The scent was thick and sweet. Then she sank her teeth in. The peach was so ripe her fingers slipped a little, juice running down her chin and over her knuckles. Sweet and tart all at once, bright in a way that felt like more than just taste—it was the smell, the sticky warmth on her skin, the way the world seemed to narrow to this one perfect moment.

“This is a perfect peach,” she said, laughing a little as she wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “I almost don’t want to have another one, because there’s no way it can be as good.”

“Let’s test it out,” Conrad said. He turned back to the crates and picked another one for her, the fruit looking small and delicate in his palm when he handed it over.

She took a bite, and juice immediately trickled down her wrist.

“Was it as good?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, softer this time. “It was.”

He stepped closer without really seeming to decide to, and before she could react, he reached out and wiped a streak of juice from her chin with the edge of his T-shirt. The touch was quick, almost clumsy, but something in the way he looked at her in that brief second—steady, intent, like the sun was too bright behind her—made her feel suddenly light-headed, unsteady on her feet.

Belly took a small step to the side, breaking the moment before it swallowed her whole. “I’m gonna buy some more,” she said, voice a little too bright. “For Jere.”

“Good idea,” he replied, already backing away. “I’ll go wait in the car.”

Her hands trembled as she turned back to the crates and started piling peaches into a plastic bag. Just one look, one touch, and she was shaking. She told herself it was ridiculous, that he didn’t feel like that anymore, that he was just being nice. But it didn’t stop her heart from racing like she was sixteen again, falling all over him for the first time.

Chapter Text

Belly threw herself into GRE prep to distract herself. She sat at the kitchen table, books and practice tests spread out in front of her. Maybe if she focused hard enough on vocabulary lists and quantitative comparisons, maybe she could quiet the part of her brain that replayed every look, every almost-moment with Conrad on a loop. She was halfway through a reading comprehension passage when she heard the back door ease open. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Conrad limp in.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, flipping through the book in front of her.

“Got cut by my fin,” he said.

“Bad?”

He shook his head. “No, not too bad.”

Something in his voice—too light, too careful—set off alarm bells. Belly waited until she heard his uneven steps on the stairs. When she followed, she spotted the drops of blood on the treads, a thin, ugly trail leading up.

Her heart lurched. She hurried the rest of the way, taking the steps two at a time. She found him in the bathroom off his bedroom, perched awkwardly on the rim of the tub. His board shorts were hiked up on one leg, a white hand towel bunched in his fist, pressed hard against his upper thigh. Red had bloomed through the fabric in an ugly, spreading stain.

“Oh my god, Conrad.”

“It’s already stopped bleeding,” he said.

“Just keep putting pressure on it. I’m gonna find something to clean it.” Her voice came out tighter than she meant it to. She yanked open the drawer, hands fumbling past razors and extra toothpaste until she found a bottle of peroxide. Then she sank down on the ledge in front of him, pulling her hair back with the elastic on her wrist. “Let go of the towel.”

“I’m fine. It’s okay, you can go. I can take care of it. I’m a med student, remember.”

“You are not fine.” Her eyes flashed up to his. “Can you just let me take care of you for once, for fuck’s sake?”

He held her gaze for a moment, something in his expression cracking, and then loosened his grip on the towel, leaning back against the tile.

Belly sucked in a breath as she pulled the towel away. A long, angry gash carved across his thigh, edges raw and ragged. She turned on the tap and tested the water until it was warm, then guided the spray over the cut, rinsing away the blood as gently as she could. She kept glancing up at his face as she moved closer to the wound, checking for any sign she was hurting him.

She shuffled a little closer, and twisted the cap off the peroxide. “Okay,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. She poured the disinfectant over the cut.

He groaned and folded forward, his head dropping onto her shoulder. Belly froze for a heartbeat, feeling his weight against her, his hair damp and cold, soaking through the fabric of her shirt. She wondered if he could hear how hard her heart was pounding.

“Don’t be such a baby, it’s barely a scratch,” Belly said. Her voice sounded strangled to her own ears.

“Uh-huh,” he managed, the vibration of his voice shivering through her.

Goosebumps prickled along her skin. She set the gauze down carefully over the wound, fingers working on autopilot as she reached for the bandage. Every slow, uneven breath he took made the muscle in his thigh flex under her hand. Her face burned as she smoothed the tape over the edges of the bandage, trying to focus on the task instead of the fact that she was sitting between his legs, his body so close to hers she could feel the heat radiating off him.

“There,” she said softly. “See? All better.”

He lifted his head slowly, the loss of his weight almost dizzying. When she looked up, the light from the small window above the tub caught him just right. Late afternoon sunlight spilled over his face, turning his skin golden, highlighting the wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead. A single drop of water slid from the end of one curl and fell, catching the light before it vanished into the faded bathmat between them. “Thank you,” he breathed. His eyes were that impossibly clear color again—sea glass in shallow water. For a beat, he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room.

“Sure,” she said back, barely more than a whisper. Her own voice felt like it belonged to someone else. Her gaze dipped to his mouth. She’d memorized it years ago without meaning to—the soft curve of his top lip, the way the bottom was a little fuller. She realized, with a jolt, that she was already leaning in.

“Belly?” His breath ghosted over her lips.

She kissed him.

She knew she shouldn’t; every rational thought told her not to. But for a moment, every reason she had not to do it emptied out of her head. Her hand slid along his bare shoulder, fingers curling around his jaw. He responded almost instantly, one hand coming up to tangle in her hair, his palm settling at the back of her head. He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, and for a moment everything else fell away. It was just Conrad and the way he still tasted like salt. The way his fingers flexed against her skull, like he’d been wanting this too and hadn’t let himself.

And then, as quickly as it started, it was over.

His hand went still. He broke the kiss, pulling back like the contact had burned him. He cleared his throat and pushed himself up, bracing one hand on the wall. Belly stayed where she was on the edge of the tub, lips tingling, mind scrambling to catch up with what she’d just done. He didn’t look at her as he passed. In a few strides, he was gone, the sound of his uneven steps fading down the hall. Belly stayed seated on the bathroom floor, staring at the open bottle of peroxide and the bloody towel abandoned in the tub. Her heart was still racing, her hands still shaking. The echo of his mouth on hers, his hand in her hair, lingered like a phantom touch she could still feel.

Belly spent the rest of the day feeling sick, a heavy, rolling nausea sitting just under her ribs. She’d ruined it. Of course she had. She shouldn’t have kissed him. She knew better—she knew better—and she’d done it anyway. She’d given herself all the lectures in the world about boundaries and moving on and not reading into things—but the second his eyes locked on her, all that resolve had evaporated.

For one dizzy moment, everything had soared. His mouth on hers, the way he’d pulled her closer—she hadn’t imagined that. He’d kissed her back. That part wasn’t a fantasy. It had been real and hot and desperate enough to make her forget where they were, who they were now, everything that had come between. That tiny fact kept replaying in her head like a cruel little loop.

But then he’d pulled away.

Every time her mind got to that part, she flinched. The way his hand had gone still in her hair. The abrupt absence of his weight. The way his face had shuttered, the silence as he limped out of the bathroom, the soft click of his bedroom door closing—it all churned around inside her until she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.

Fine, she decided. She’d just avoid him. Simple. She could do that. The house was big enough. She could time her showers, time her coffee, hide in her room or on the beach. Jere and the rest of their friends would be in town for the Fourth tomorrow. The house would be noisy and crowded and full of distractions. She just had to hold herself together for one more day - smile when she had to, laugh when it was expected, pretend nothing had happened.

And then she’d leave.

She'd go back to Philly and go to Paris, to streets where Conrad didn’t exist on every corner of her memory. She could become someone who didn’t do reckless, humiliating things like kissing the boy who’d already chosen someone else. He'd go to California and be happy with Agnes. Beautiful, smart Agnes, who was going to be a doctor. Agnes who fit into his new life, who probably knew exactly how to handle med school stress and hospital rotations and the version of Conrad who lived there.

He didn’t need his insane ex-girlfriend hovering around, making things awkward, dragging him backward into a past he’d clearly been trying to outgrow. Belly pictured him telling Agnes about it when he went home—My ex came home for a bit, it was complicated—and her skin crawled. She dragged in a shaky breath and pressed her palms over her eyes until she saw sparks. Just one more day, she told herself.

Chapter Text

Belly breathed a quiet sigh of relief when she pulled the front door open and stepped into the noise.

Her plan to avoid Conrad had become ten times easier once he’d started avoiding her too. It hurt—more than she’d ever admit—but it also made everything simple. No eye contact to dodge, no conversations to navigate. Just empty spaces where he used to be.

Inside, the house was already buzzing. Music floated from the living room, and the air smelled like sunscreen, perfume, chips, and chlorine. Taylor spotted her first, waving her over with a shriek.

“There she is!” Taylor cried, grabbing Belly’s hand and tugging her into the fold.

Anika leaned over from the arm of the couch. “Finally. We thought you’d bailed.”

A couple of Jere’s frat brothers were sprawled in mismatched chairs, retelling some half-coherent story that involved a broken keg and a very angry campus security guard. Their laughter was big and easy, filling up the space in a way that left Belly’s chest feeling a little less tight. She let herself get pulled along by Taylor’s commentary and Anika’s eye rolls, nodding and smiling, grateful for the distraction.

The front door opened again, and Steven came in with a slightly unhinged grin plastered on his face—the kind of look that usually preceded terrible, chaotic ideas. Belly took one look at him and instinctively backed away a step.

“Connie, get in here!” Steven yelled over the music.

Belly barely had time to register the nickname—one she hadn’t heard in forever—before arms wrapped around her from behind.

She squealed as Jere grabbed her around the waist, hauling her off her feet. “Jeremiah!” she yelped, grabbing at his forearms. “Don’t you dare—”

Conrad stepped into the doorway a second later. His eyes swept the room and landed on Jere's arm around her briefly, unreadable, then slid away. His expression was blank, guarded, like there was a sheet of glass between him and everything else.

“C’mon,” Steven crowed, already reaching for one of her legs. “It’s been years since we’ve all been here together. It’s time for a Belly flop!”

“Oh my god, no—Steven, stop, I swear to—”

Her protest broke off in a shout as Steven and Conrad each grabbed an ankle, Jere still locked around her middle. The three of them lifted her easily, Belly flailing helplessly in their grip as the room erupted into laughter and cheers.

“Put me down!” she shrieked, kicking uselessly. Her hair swung in her face, and she caught flashes of amused faces—Taylor cackling, Anika with her phone out, one of the frat boys chanting “Bel-ly! Bel-ly!” like it was some kind of ritual.

They carried her through the hall and out onto the back deck, the world tilting and jostling with every step. The hot air hit her like a wall, the smell of chlorine stronger now. The surface of the pool glimmered up at her, impossibly blue.

“On three,” Steven said.

“Don’t you dare count!” Belly screamed.

“Three!” Jere yelled, and they swung her.

The moment of weightlessness before she hit the water stretched thin and bright. Then she crashed through the surface, cold swallowing her whole. Sound cut out in an instant—no laughter, no chanting, just the heavy muffled rush of water in her ears.

She kicked to the surface, hair plastered to her face, tank top clinging. She sputtered and shoved her hair back, blinking against the sun as she wiped water from her eyes.

Jere and Steven were doubled over laughing on the pool deck, high-fiving like they’d just accomplished something noble and important. Taylor was filming, of course. Anika was shaking her head, hiding a smile behind her cup.

Conrad wasn’t looking at her at all.

He’d already turned away, hands on the grill, fiddling with the knobs, attention fixed on the unlit burners like they were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. From where she treaded water, Belly could see the tense line of his shoulders, the careful way he kept his back to the pool.

The cold of the water seeped into her bones, but under it something hot and sharp twisted in her chest. For everyone else, it was just a joke, just a tradition revived. For her, it was proof of exactly where she stood. The way he was pretending that everything between them was normal. She hauled herself out of the pool and escaped inside for a minute under the excuse of changing, just long enough to drag in a deep breath and force her face back into something that resembled okay. When she came back out, she draped her now-sopping jean shorts over the back of a lawn chair and sat next to Anika on the edge of the pool in her bikini, feet skimming the surface. Taylor floated nearby in an inflatable ring.

“So, who’s single?” Anika asked, eyeing the cluster of boys by the deep end with open interest.

“Well, Blake is Jere’s ex, but Redbird has dibs,” Belly said, squinting toward them. “I don’t know about Jere, though.”

Anika made a face. “That would be messy.”

“Belly doesn't have room to judge,” Taylor chimed in, grinning wickedly. “Both of her ex-boyfriends are here.”

Belly opened her mouth to protest, but Anika was already scanning the yard again.

“You guys never mentioned how good-looking Conrad is,” Anika said.

The reaction in Belly’s chest was instant and completely disproportionate—a flare of jealousy so sharp it almost made her laugh. Completely ridiculous, she reminded herself. She wasn’t allowed to feel like this anymore.

“Yeah, no. Totally. Go for it,” she said, forcing her voice light, casual. “As far as I know, he’s not seeing anyone.”

It was technically true. If he and Agnes had anything official, he wouldn’t have kissed her back—not even for a second. He wasn’t that type. The fact that he’d shut down afterward didn’t change that moment.

Belly fixed her gaze on the ripples in the water, trying to look indifferent. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Taylor shake her head at Anika in a small, warning sort of way.

Out by the grill, the boys had devolved into chaos again. Redbird shoved Jere straight into the deep end, shoes and all. Steven lunged toward Conrad with that same manic grin, but Conrad was faster; he launched himself into the water before Steven could get his hands on him, sending up a huge splash. Belly felt a small, unwilling smile tug at her mouth. For a moment, he looked like the Conrad she used to know—the one who did stupid things just to make his brother laugh, the one who could forget the weight of the world.