Back To You

Polite goodbyes (21)

A week after the "family dinner," the new shape of our world had solidified. Bryce and I were a thing. Not with a big announcement, but through the quiet, cumulative force of presence. We arrived together more often than not. His arm found its way around my shoulders on the couch. My laugh, when aimed at him, felt lighter, freer in my own ears. The group absorbed it, adapted. It was the new normal.

For me, the new normal was haunted by a ghost.

Tayler didn't avoid gatherings. If anything, he showed up more, a model of polite, engaged participation. He laughed at Markell's jokes, debated film scores with Nate, helped Azra with her laptop. He was the perfect friend. And to me, he was a stranger wearing the face of the boy who'd once known me better than I knew myself.

He spoke to me only when spoken to. He passed me the salt without our fingers brushing. He called me "Madison" with a crisp, neutral tone that was a thousand times more distant than any shout. It was a masterclass in emotional evacuation, and I was failing the course.

Tonight was a bonfire at Cody's uncle's lake house. The air was cool, smelling of pine and woodsmoke, the fire crackling as it painted dancing shadows on the ring of friends.

I sat on a log next to Bryce, a blanket shared over our laps. His body was a warm, solid line against mine, a grounding weight. He was telling a story about his last job, his hands moving in the firelight, and I smiled, nodding in the right places. It was comfortable. It was fine.

My gaze, a traitor with a will of its own, kept drifting across the fire.

Tayler was on the other side, leaning back in a folding chair, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. He was listening to Kelianne, a faint, attentive smile on his lips. The orange glow painted the sharp planes of his face, highlighting new hollows under his cheekbones. He'd lost weight, or maybe he was just holding himself differently—tighter, like a coiled spring wrapped in civility.

As if sensing the weight of my stare, his eyes cut through the smoke and flame, meeting mine.

For a fractured, breathless second, it was there—the old, electric current, the silent wire that had always connected us, humming to life across the distance. My heart stuttered, a frantic bird against my ribs.

Then, calmly, deliberately, he looked away. He turned his attention fully back to Kelianne, his smile widening at something she said, a performance of ease. The dismissal was a physical blow. A door I'd been leaning against suddenly vanishing, leaving me to stumble into empty space.

A cold knot, dense and heavy, formed in my stomach. The warmth from Bryce, the heat from the fire, it all suddenly felt like it was radiating against a thick pane of glass, unable to reach the chill that had taken root inside me.

"Hey," Bryce murmured, his voice soft near my ear. His arm tightened around my shoulders. "You're a million miles away. Cold?"

I forced my smile back onto my face, turning it toward him. "A little. The fire's not reaching me."

"Here." He started to get up. "I'll grab another log."

Before he could, Tayler stood. He'd heard. Of course he had. He was always listening, even when he pretended not to. "I got it," he said, his voice casual, a neutral sound in the night. "I need to stretch my legs anyway."

He moved into the darkness beyond the firelight, a silhouette swallowed by the trees. I watched him go, a strange ache blooming in my chest. Bryce settled back down, pulling me a little closer. "He's been weirdly helpful lately," he mused, no edge to his tone. Just an observation. "Maybe he's turning over a new leaf."

I just nodded, my throat too tight for words. This wasn't helpfulness. It was a systematic, polite removal of himself from any orbit that intersected with mine. He was pre-emptively solving problems so Bryce could stay seated beside me. He was erasing any possible need, any faint echo of dependency. It was the kindest form of abandonment I'd ever experienced.