Page 37 of Plotting Summer

Despite his kind offer, all I hear is that Tristan is eager to see me on my way. The keys are supposed to be the indicator that our time together is almost up, but now he wants to forego the entire wait and simply take me home. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m happy to.”

Of course he is.

And here I thought things were going well between us. We seemed to hit a natural flow and balance to our conversations today. It felt easy. Like … friends. But apparently not. “Thanks,” I say, my breaths coming out with more effort. “That’d actually be great. If you have time for it.” Looks like my confession will also be sooner than I want. And now, despite the four-hour round trip drive I get to spend in Tristan’s company, I’m dreading Saturday.

“Is your back tire flat?” Tristan’s gaze is set on my back wheel.

I pull my bike to a stop and look at my back tire. Sure enough, it’s deflated. No wonder it was getting harder to pedal. I huff out a breath and get off my bike. “I’ll walk it the rest of the way. We aren’t that far.”

“Why don’t you leave it here and we’ll come back for it in a golf cart.”

“If I’m walking, I might as well⁠—”

“I’ll give you a ride.” Tristan pats the handlebars in front of him.

With the way my stomach somersaults in absolute delight at the thought, I set my gaze forward and start pushing the bike. What is wrong with me? “I’m not sure I could manage it.”

“I’ll let you ask me a question.”

Without permission, my feet pause. “Any question?”

“Any question.”

I don’t know why the offer’s even a temptation. Not two minutes ago, Tristan basically let me know he’s ready to put an end to our redefining-our-relationship-with-the-island agreement and take me home himself. But I do have a question for him. Well, technically, I have two questions for him, but I’m not even sure I truly want to know the particulars of what happened between him and Bridget. And I’m definitely not brave enough to ask.

I scoot the bike just off the boardwalk, drop the kickstand, and join a smiling Tristan. “Why don’t you and Walker get along?” I waste no time spitting it out so I don’t cower and ask him his favorite color or what his favorite animals is. I already know those answers—blue and otters. Cute, huh?

Tristan’s brows lift. “That’s not the question I was expecting.”

“What question were you expecting?” I ask, too curious to resist.

He holds up his index finger between us exactly like I did to him earlier. “One question.”

I cross my arms, trying to appear unamused.

“Fine.” He lets out a heavy breath as if he’s about to grant me some huge concession. “Because I’m so generous, I’ll give you the option: your first question or your second?”

Suddenly, I really want to know what he assumed my question would be. Have I been waiting for the answer to my other question for years? Possibly. But now that Walker’s around more, maybe I can finally get the truth out of him instead. Or I can win another side competition. If there is one in the time we have left. “Second, I guess. What was it you thought I’d ask?”

Tristan smiles, like he’s expecting me to choose that option. “I’d assumed you’d want to know, first hand, what happened between me and Bridget.”

Okay, I’m glad I picked option two. Except … “Since you already answered my one question, I don’t get the answer to this one, do I?”

Tristan chuckles. “Do you want it?”

I shrug as though it doesn’t matter, but the way my eyes are locked on his, I’m sure he can decipher my actual feelings.

“I suppose you did win the who-wore-it-better competition.”

“Exactly,” I say, pointing at him with way too much gusto.

He just smiles at my over-the-top reaction. “I’m guessing you’re probably aware we dated on and off through undergrad … more on than off once she transferred to FSU.”

I nod.

“Well, junior year, toward the end of the football season, I jacked up my knee pretty bad and had to get surgery. The recovery was brutal, and by the time I resumed regular practice with my team that next summer, the previous second-string quarterback—my good friend, Logan Phelps—was killing it. It didn’t take me long to realize, going from starter to benchwarmer, that any chance for a future in football was very likely gone. Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—Bridget felt differently. She said I was giving up on my dream to play professional. But, in hindsight, it was pretty much always her dream for us.