I don’t want to move across the country. But is that because I don’t want to leave George, or because I don’t want to leave my family? He and I have never set out to have something long-term. I’m not even sure what this thing is between us. He’s more than my fuck buddy—and I’m pretty sure that label would offend him down to his bones—but he’s not quite my boyfriend either. And the fact that we agreed from the beginning to keep this relationship a secret hasn’t given us any reason to iron out what we are to each other.

I blow out a breath. “I’m sorry I’m distracted. It’s not about you.”

“Shay . . .” He takes my hand and toys with my fingers. “You can trust me with whatever’s going on in your head. I don’t scare off easily.”

But everything in my head is awful. My head is full of a laundry list of Easton’s qualities and all the ways George. . . isn’t him. “Did you know Easton Connor is moving back to Jackson Harbor?” I can tell by George’s baffled expression that he has no idea who Easton is. That makes me laugh. “Easton Connor, the quarterback? Two-time Super Bowl MVP?”

George wrinkles his nose and shrugs. He’s adorable, and normally a show of NFL ignorance would be a point in his favor, because it means never having to answer all the crazy fan questions about what it was like to grow up with Easton. Tonight it irritates me. And the fact that I’m irritated is irritating. I blame Easton for it all. He’s like a drug. He messes with my brain on a chemical level.

“Easton Connor is an NFL player who grew up in Jackson Harbor,” I explain patiently. “He was best friends with my brother Carter growing up, and he was at brunch today.”

George tilts his head to the side. “Okay . . .”

I look away. I don’t want to admit my complicated past with Easton to anyone, but sharing it with an academic who sneers at professional athletes is really high on my list of do not want. “We haven’t seen each other in years, and it’s messed with me a little.”

“You’re struggling because you’ve reconnected with your brother’s childhood best friend?” he asks. “Or you’re struggling because he used to be something to you?”

“He was never anything to me,” I blurt. Way too defensive. “Not officially, at least.”

“He hurt you?”

I feel like that description is simultaneously too harsh and too weak. “Yes, but he never intended to. He was hard to get over.”

“Your first love?”