He gave me a long, hard look, then breathed out a weary sigh. “I think I will be.” He started like he wanted to ask something more, then hesitated before blurting out a question. “Is there someone else, Lane? When you went home, did you meet someone?”

I wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that it didn’t even occur to him to consider Simon. It could be that he simply trusted his brother’s loyalty, but more than that, I think he’d never considered his older brother an actual threat. Jamie never lacked confidence, not on the soccer field, not in business, not with women, and I’d seen him mock his brother more than once regarding those particular aspects of his life. It was like he had a blind spot when it came to Simon. Because he was quieter, more reserved, and much less of a showboat, he was discounted. It made me sad—so much so that I almost wanted to tell Jamie what had happened with Simon just to jostle his perspective. But I couldn’t do it. Simon wasn’t the reason we were breaking up. Saying anything more would create a rift between them that didn’t need to exist.

“No. This is just about us. No one else.”

He nodded his head slowly, then stood from the couch. “I guess I should go.”

“I’m so sorry, Jamie.”

He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m sorry too, Lane.”

* * *

I pushed my toes against the end of Granny’s couch and pulled the blanket a little tighter against my chin. It had been snowing for three days, this time enough to really make a difference. Thick, heavy snowflakes had accumulated quickly and essentially shut down the city. Though, snow or no snow, I’d probably still be hibernating in Granny’s family room. Breaking up stunk. And I felt a little like I’d been through two of them. One with Jamie, and one with Simon.

“Lane? You still in here?” Granny peeked in from the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I made some soup. And there’s leftover cornbread in the bread box.”

I sat up and stretched. Soup and cornbread sounded amazing. Granny had been a patient listener the past few days. She’d nodded and hmm’ed and aha’ed in all the right places. She’d let me cry and pout and had handed me mugs of hot chocolate and bowls of ice cream and pieces of fried chicken. Sometimes all at the same time. But I could tell she was getting tired of my moping. I couldn’t blame her, really. I was getting tired of my moping.