I inhale, bracing myself for what I need to say. Stare at the grass and scoff my sneaker against it. I can’t keep waffling. Giving her false hope. “You should move on. Give Baker a chance. He’s a good guy, Cassia.”

She says nothing. When I finally man up and look at her, I realize there’s a wet sheen covering her hazel eyes. My stomach drops.

“Cassia…”

“Bye, Holden.” Those are two words she’s said to me before. But there’s a permanence now. A finality.

She turns and walks away. Just like I did to her four years ago, at Ginny Davis’ eighth grade Halloween party, right after I kissed her.

I thought that hurt—walking away.

But it hurts just as much—maybe more—to be the one walked away from.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CASSIA

I prefer animals to people. No cat has ever made me feel excluded. No dog has ever broken my heart.

I stroke the soft fur of one of the unnamed puppies absentmindedly, barely registering the warm lick of her tongue. My thoughts are stuck on harsh words and broken glass. That’s why I’m here on a Friday afternoon instead of sticking to my normal schedule. I’m desperate for some distraction.

“You okay, Cassia?” Eileen asks.

I give the puppy one final pat and stand, turning back to measuring the kibble. “Yeah.”

“College troubles?”

“Uh, no.” My applications are all submitted for early decision. It’s a waiting game at this point. Nothing else I can do.

“How is Sydney doing?” Eileen’s voice is soft. Pembrooke is a small town, and Joe Adams’ accident was the subject of discussion for weeks after it happened. So was the man from Ridgemont who was drunk and also died in the accident. A tragedy all around.

My broken heart was another casualty. But that will heal. Repair itself. I’ll move on, even if it hurts like hell right now.

It takes me too long to respond.

“Cassia?”

I clear my throat. “She’s doing okay, I think.”

“What about Holden?”

An innocent question with a lot hiding underneath. One most people haven’t even thought to ask me. They associate me with one Adams sibling, and it’s not Holden. But Eileen knew us before. She saw him volunteer with me here. Was there for the beginning and middle of us, and now she’s asking about the end.

My elbow knocks one of the bowls, prompting a clang. “I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I glance at her, something in Eileen’s expression suggesting everything I’ve been too scared to say is obvious in the way I answered the question. “Am I that transparent?”

I try to pair the question with a wry smile, but I’m sure it falls flat.