Chapter 44: Chapter 44

Saturday morning came too early and with entirely too much meaning attached to it.

Jaxon was visiting Halston State.

Which, in theory, was fine.

Good, even. Mature. Supportive. The kind of thing a loving girlfriend should say yes to with grace and maybe a packed snack.

In practice, I woke up with a strange heaviness in my chest and immediately resented myself for it.

This was not a breakup. Not even a long trip. It was one college visit.

And yet the idea of him stepping onto a campus three hours away and seeing a version of his future that might not include me in the same easy, everyday way made something low and nervous twist inside me.

I was making coffee when my phone buzzed.

Jaxon:

leaving in ten. you awake or are you betraying me through sleep?

I smiled despite myself.

Me:

awake. unfortunately.

His reply came almost at once.

Jaxon:

good. i need moral support and probably coffee.

I looked at the mug in my hand, then at the clock on the microwave.

Twenty minutes later, I was in the passenger seat of my mother’s car with a travel coffee balanced between my knees because apparently I had become the kind of girl who showed up at seven-thirty on a Saturday to hand a boy caffeine and affection.

My mother looked over as she parked by the Reeds’ curb. “You know, this is very romantic of you.”

“It’s very practical,” I corrected.

She smiled in that deeply irritating way mothers do when they know they’re winning. “Of course.”

Jaxon was already outside with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He looked tired, slightly rumpled, and unfairly good in a gray hoodie and jeans. The second he saw me get out of the car, his whole face changed.

That still did things to me.

“You came,” he said.

I held up the coffee. “Don’t make it weird. I’m bribing you into good decision-making.”

He took the cup from my hand, fingers brushing mine. “That’s somehow more romantic.”

“I hate when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make things true in an annoying voice.”

His smile widened.

Mr. Reed called something from the driver’s seat of the truck about traffic, and Jaxon shifted his duffel higher on his shoulder. For one second, the morning felt oddly quiet around us—cool air, pale light, my mother pretending not to watch from the car.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

I looked at him. Really looked.

At the sleepy warmth in his eyes. The excitement under the nerves. The fact that this mattered to him, and I was proud of him for that even while part of me wanted to keep him exactly where he was.

That was love too, apparently. Not just sweetness. Tension. Expansion. Letting people move toward their futures even when it unsettled yours.

“Yeah,” I said. “You?”

He lifted one shoulder. “Trying not to act like this is just a building and not my whole possible life.”

“That seems reasonable.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, lower, “I wish you were coming.”

The words hit me harder than they should have.

“Me too,” I admitted.

His gaze held mine for one second too long. “I’ll text you updates.”

“Annoying ones.”

“Only.”

I smiled.

Then, because the morning had already become too honest for dignity, I stepped forward and hugged him.

He made a small surprised sound and then wrapped both arms around me, warm and immediate and familiar enough now to feel like something my body recognized before my brain did. I pressed my face briefly against his hoodie and let myself have one reckless second of not being composed.

When I pulled back, his hands lingered at my waist.

“You’re doing that face,” he murmured.

“What face?”

“The one where you act supportive but look like you’re fighting a tiny war.”

I laughed softly because he was, infuriatingly, right. “Go visit your school, quarterback.”

He smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

Then he bent and kissed me quickly, carefully, right there in the cold morning with both our parents absolutely pretending they could not see us.

When he pulled away, he said, “Still in love with you.”

My whole chest went warm. “Drive safe.”

“Also true,” he said, and finally stepped back.

I watched the truck until it disappeared at the end of the street.

My mother waited until I got back in the car to say, “That looked hard.”

I stared out the windshield. “A little.”

She nodded once and started the engine. “That’s what happens when something matters.”

I hated how wise everyone had become lately.

By noon, I had cleaned my room, done half my homework, and checked my phone so many times it was beginning to feel judgmental.

At twelve-thirteen, a text came through.

Jaxon:

tour guide wore socks with loafers. morale low.

I laughed out loud.

At one-oh-two:

campus is huge. one building smells like old books and bad choices. you’d love it.

That one stayed with me.

At two-forty:

cafeteria fries are weak. emotionally and structurally.

And then, at three-fifteen:

football field is ridiculous. locker room fine. weight room full of guys who look like they think protein is a personality.

I was still smiling at that when Naomi called.

“You’re reading his texts with your whole face,” she said by way of greeting.

“Why does everybody keep saying that?”

“Because it’s visible from space.” She paused. “How’s it going?”

I lay back on my bed, phone held over my chest. “Weird.”

“Sad weird or cute weird?”

“Future weird.”

Naomi was quiet for a second. “Ah.”

I stared at the ceiling. “I want him to have things. Big things. Good things. I just… hate how wanting that also means imagining what it changes.”

“That seems normal,” she said gently.

I exhaled. “I don’t want to become the girl who secretly resents ambition because it stretches love.”

Naomi’s voice softened. “Then don’t be. You’re allowed to be scared without becoming small.”

That sounded suspiciously like something my mother would say. I made a note to be concerned that the two most important women in my life were apparently unionizing around my emotional growth.

At five-thirty, my phone rang.

Jaxon.

I answered on the first buzz. “Well?”

There was road noise in the background and the low hum of a moving car. His voice came warm through the speaker.

“Well,” he said, “the campus is good.”

My heart did something strange. “Good good?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Scary good.”

I sat up. “Oh.”

“I know.”

For a second, neither of us said anything.

Then he asked, quieter, “Are you okay?”

There it was again. Always that question.

This time, I answered honestly.

“I’m getting there.”

His exhale came soft over the line. “Me too.”

I leaned back against my pillows. “Tell me the truth.”

“About what?”

“Could you see yourself there?”

The silence that followed was answer enough before he even spoke.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “I could.”

The ache in my chest sharpened, but not into panic. Into reality.

And because love was apparently just a long series of choosing courage when easier things were available, I took a breath and said, “Then I can too.”

He went quiet.

When he spoke again, his voice was rougher. “Mila.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

I smiled, even with tears unexpectedly pricking behind my eyes. “I know.”

“No,” he said softly. “I mean thank you.”

That nearly undid me completely.

When we hung up, the room felt different. Not emptier. Wider.

Like the future had opened another door I couldn’t yet see through clearly.

And later that night, lying in bed with his texts still glowing on my screen and the thought of Halston State sitting quietly in my chest, I understood something I hadn’t before.

Love wasn’t going to protect us from change.

It was going to ask us to face it together anyway.