to our driveway just as a motorcycle pulls in, and I can’t help the pleased laugh that escapes me. “Well, well, well. This feels like déjà vu.” We’d been sitting in this exact spot the first time Nate ever came to our house. I pluck at Bronwyn’s sleeve as she full-on beams out the window, watching Nate take off his helmet. “What’s going on?”
“I called him after you told me what happened at Cooper’s baseball game. Hearing how he’d been there for you. Everything he and I had been arguing about seemed so pointless after that. We’ve been talking every night since. And watching movies.” Her gray eyes are bright as she stands up, smoothing down the front of her shirt. “It’s almost like he’s right there with me, even with the distance. I haven’t felt that way since I left.”
“Hmm, interesting.” I tap a finger against my chin, trying to look thoughtful while fighting off a grin. “So basically, if I’m understanding you correctly, my fake leukemia brought the two of you together? You’re welcome.”
A brief frown interrupts Bronwyn’s glow. “That’s not the correct conclusion to draw from this.”
I nudge her sneaker with mine. “Look who’s been keeping secrets now, Bronwyn. And here I thought we were supposed to tell one another everything.” My voice is teasing, though, because I couldn’t possibly be less mad at her.
Color rises higher in her cheeks, and she doesn’t meet my eyes. Mostly, I think, because she can’t tear hers away from the window. Nate’s still on his motorcycle, waiting patiently. He doesn’t bother coming to the door; I’m sure he knows exactly where we are. “It’s only been a few days,” she says. “I guess I didn’t want to jinx it.”
“You know he’s crazy about you, right?” I ask. “More than ever? I was practically dying in front of him and all he could think about was you.”
Bronwyn rolls her eyes. “You were not dying.”
“Well, Nate didn’t know that, did he?”
“I really love him,” she says quietly.
“News flash: we know. You haven’t been fooling anyone.” I give her hip a gentle shove. “Enjoy the ride. I’m assuming you and Nate have plans once dinner prep is over, so I’ll see you guys at the afterparty.”
She leaves, and I stay at my window seat until I see her emerge onto the driveway. Nate gets off his motorcycle just in time to catch Bronwyn as she goes flying toward him. Her arms wrap around his neck as he spins her around, and I turn away with a smile so they can have their reunion kiss in private. “Endgame,” I say to the empty room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Maeve
Friday, March 27
“Is there a word for stalking your friend’s stalker?” Knox asks in a low, musing voice.
“Congenial pursuit,” I say without looking up from my laptop.
“That’s two words. And terrible.”
It’s almost eight thirty on Friday night, and we’re settled into a window table at a coffee shop in Rolando Village. Bronwyn is with Nate, Luis is working, my parents are at a charity event, and I couldn’t stand rattling around my house alone for two hours while I waited for the afterparty at Ashton and Eli’s rehearsal dinner to start. So I called Knox. Neither of us could talk about anything except Intense Guy. Talking turned into driving, and here we are.
The coffee in this place is awful, but the view is ideal. We’re almost directly across from the house we followed Intense Guy to from Callahan Park.
“There’s something comforting about knowing he’s at home,” Knox says. The driveway was empty when we got here, but the blue car pulled up a few minutes later, and we watched Intense Guy enter the small ranch house alone. He hasn’t left since.
“I know,” I say absently, my eyes on my laptop screen. I brought it along so I could keep working on opening the documents I pulled from Knox’s mother’s computer. Knox has his computer too, and he’s been using it to Google “David Jackson” with the usual useless results.
Knox sucks down half a Sprite with one noisy pull on his straw and asks, “What time do we have to leave to get to—where is Ashton and Eli’s party, again?”
“Talia’s Restaurant, on Charles Street,” I say. “We can hang out here for another twenty minutes or so.”
“Great,” Knox says, glancing around the nondescript coffee shop. The walls are prison-gray, the tables and chairs are grade-school cafeteria style, and the baked goods displayed on the counter look like they’ve been