Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 10

The weekend couldn’t come fast enough.

It’s not even noon yet and already, I’m stretched too thin, my nerves wired too tight, my brain buzzing in a dozen different directions that all feel equally impossible to catch.

The week had been... interesting.

Tiring, more than anything.

I gave Tyler the cold shoulder for most of it—not because I wanted to punish him, exactly, but because every time I thought about the way he’d disappeared at dinner, the way he’d left me standing awkward and alone in a house full of strangers, it stirred up something inside me that didn’t feel small enough to ignore.

I didn’t yell.

I didn’t start a fight.

I just... stopped answering as quickly.

Stopped smiling as easily.

And then, because life has a truly dark sense of humor, I saw the pictures.

Tyler at some house party, arm slung around Zoe’s chair, laughing too loud, tossing ping pong balls into plastic cups while half the girls in the photo leaned in closer than necessary.

It wasn’t the beer pong that got me.

It wasn’t even Zoe’s sharp little smile, curled like a secret.

It was the fact that he looked so at ease.

Like nothing about the night felt wrong.

I’d stared at the pictures too long, long enough that the image burned behind my eyelids even when I closed them, and for a few days after that, Tyler didn’t push.

He gave me space.

Apologized. Texted things like I'm an idiot and I miss you and let me make it up to you in the kind of rapid-fire succession that only made me more tired.

I’m over it now, I think.

Or close enough.

It’s not like I can afford to waste more headspace on it.

Tomorrow is the Gala audition.

The biggest shot I’ve ever had.

The thing I’ve been grinding toward for the past year.

And I need my head clear.

I should be thinking about placement and breathing and flow.

I should be visualizing my routine until it clicks into place without me having to try.

Instead, I spent the better part of this morning sitting cross-legged on my bed, my laptop balanced on my knees, typing *Asher Hayes* into every search bar I could find like an idiot.

Nothing.

No Facebook. No Instagram. No smiling military headshots.

The only thing that came up was a blurry local news clip from three years ago about a group of new Navy recruits, the names listed in a tiny scrolling credit at the bottom of the screen.

I should stop thinking about him.

About the way his voice sounded like gravel when he said nothing at all.

About the way he stared, steady and cold, like he could see things in me I didn’t even know were there.

I should stop thinking about all of it—Tyler, Zoe, Rebecca, Asher, the weight of that night—but it’s like my brain refuses to cooperate.

I shake myself out of it and head downstairs, stretching my arms over my head until my shoulders crack, trying to force the tension out of my body before it sinks too deep.

The kitchen smells like coffee and toast.

"Morning," I say, pulling my cardigan tighter around me as I step into the room.

My parents look up from where they’re sitting at the island, twin mugs of coffee steaming between their hands.

They share a glance.

A small, weighted glance.

I know that look.

It’s the look they wear before they tell me something I’m not going to like.

My stomach knots, small and tight.

"What’s up?" I ask, trying for lightness.

My mom sets her mug down with a quiet click. "Sweetheart, we need to tell you something."

I slide onto a stool, heart sinking before they even start.

"We have to leave for a conference," my dad says. "Last minute. Today."

I blink at them.

"Today?" I repeat.

They nod, twin grimaces twisting their faces.

"But... the Gala is tomorrow," I say, my voice pitching higher than I mean it to.

"I know," my mom says quickly. "And we wish we could be here. We really do. But this is important. It’s a big opportunity."

I swallow around the lump rising in my throat.

They've always supported me, in their way.

But when it came down to it, their work has always come first.

I nod, forcing a small smile. "It’s okay. I get it."

"You’ll be fine," my dad says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "You’re ready. You don’t need us to hold your hand through it."

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper but nod again.

"You can ask Tyler to drive you," my mom offers. "Or you can take the bus if you’d rather. It’s not far."

I don’t say anything.

I don’t know what to say.

"We’ll be gone about a week," my dad says. "It’s out of state."

A week.

Alone.

In this house that already feels too big when it’s full, let alone when it’s empty.

"You can have Tyler over," my mom adds, smiling. "Or any of your friends. Make it a little less lonely."

"Sure," I say, my voice sounding too small to my own ears.

She squeezes my shoulder gently. "We’ll call you after your audition. Promise."

I nod again, the movement mechanical, and watch as they both stand, bustling around the kitchen gathering bags and travel mugs and papers, already halfway out the door before I can really register it.

Within minutes, the front door slams shut behind them, and I’m left standing in the kitchen, the smell of coffee lingering like a ghost.

I wrap my arms around myself and lean back against the counter, staring at the empty doorway.

It’s not a big deal.

I’m used to it.

They travel all the time.

I’m old enough to be on my own.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

But when I close my eyes, all I can see is tomorrow.

The cavernous audition hall.

The long, polished floors.

The rows of judges.

The hundreds of other dancers.

And me.

Alone.

I breathe out slowly, forcing the tightness in my chest to loosen.

It doesn’t matter.

I have bigger things to worry about than feeling sorry for myself.

Tomorrow is what matters.

Tomorrow is everything.

I push off the counter and head upstairs, already mentally running through my routine, the music, the counts, the breaths.

Focus, Penny.

Focus.