Page 36 of Fall Fake-Out

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Like, two years ago.”

My shoulders fall, pushing me into a slouch. I stare straight ahead, blinking as I try to grapple with the sting of rejection rising in my chest. It shouldn’t hurt this much. It’s been nine years since I wanted Wade to see me as more than a friend, but for some reason, the wound feels fresh, especially when the thought My sister was good enough for Wade, but I never was keeps circling through my mind, round and round.

Wade looks at me. “I thought you knew.”

“No.” I shake my head, forcing a fake smile. “But why am I even surprised? You’ve dated everyone, right?”

He studies me and the stupid grin on my face. “It wasn’t a big deal. Nothing serious. Just like a summer fling that barely lasted.”

“Still, I bet Jaxon hates that.” I laugh, working hard to act normal. “His best friend having history with his future wife.”

“I don’t think he cares.” His brows lower with concern. “Do you care?”

I shouldn’t. But the knot in my chest isn’t easing up.

“No!” I scoff. “Why would I care?”

“I didn’t think you would.”

The crowd around us cheers, pulling our attention to the game. There was a fumble recovery on the twenty-yard line—a perfect distraction from our present conversation.

I stand up and cheer too, like I’m so invested in the play.

I’m being ridiculous.

If anything, I should be happy about this reminder of old wounds. If Wade wants to date someone, he does. And he’s never wanted to date me. All his flirting means nothing. We’re old friends who work together, which is fine since I don’t even like Wade that way. He’s everything I’ve sworn off in a man—fun and excitement without any real stability. The hurt isn’t really even about him.

It’s just another example of how Landrie is better than me. How everyone in my life prefers her over me. Can’t say I blame them. I love Landrie too.

But just for once, I wish someone would pick me over her. Love me more than they love her.

The referee’s whistle cuts through the field as players jog toward the sidelines for the change of possession. The crowd noise dips into that strange lull that only happens during football games.

I sit back down, pick up my plate, and take another bite of my scone to avoid any relapse in the Wade-dated-Landrie conversation. My heart doesn’t need any more details. I can fill them in all on my own. Probably even will at one in the morning when I can’t sleep.

But as I’m wallowing, the buzzing starts—a sound I’ve learned to never ignore.

A bee hovers directly over the paper plate in my hand.

“Wade.” The tone in my voice makes him look over.

“It’s just a bee. Swat it away.”

“No! That will make it angry, and I’m allergic.”

Another one appears.

Then another.

Then one lands on my hand.

“I think they smell the honey butter,” he says slowly.

“Well, get rid of it!”