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Louise didn’t believe in fate. Fate was stupid and a letdown. She would know...
But when the wedding invitation arrived—cream cardstock, gold lettering, obnoxiously formal—she stared at the names for a long time.
Tina Belcher & Troy Roberts
She rolled her eyes. Of course, they were getting married. Of course, they were inviting everyone from their childhood, like it was some kind of nostalgic reunion. And of course, Logan Barry fucking Bush would be there.
Louise hadn’t seen him in seven years. Not since college. Not since the fight.
It had been raining. Of course it fucking had. Because why not have her life reflect a goddamn soap opera, right?
Louise had stood in the doorway of their shared apartment, holding her phone in a grip so tight it was by some mercy it didn’t snap in half. The photo was still open. Logan and some girl—blonde, pretty, and laughing, too close. Her hand on his chest.
“You lied,” she’d said.
“I didn’t,” he’d replied. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”
She’d laughed. Bitter. “You know how cliché that sounds? You think I’m that stupid?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at her like he was waiting for something. A sign. A crack. A reason to stay.
She’d opened the door wider. “Get the fuck out.”
And he had.
The door clicked shut behind him, and she stood there for a full minute, breathing like she’d just run a marathon. Her fingers loosened around the phone, but her jaw stayed clenched. She didn’t cry. Not then. Not until the next morning when she found his hoodie still hanging on the back of the chair.
She folded the hoodie, shoved it into the back of her closet, and told herself she was done. Seven years later, the invitation proved she wasn’t.
She RSVP’d yes.
Not because she wanted closure. Not because she missed him.
Because she wanted to fucking win.
__________________________
The inn was picturesque in a way that made her want to set it on fire. Ivy-covered walls, twinkling fairy lights, and a staff that smiled too frickin’ much. Louise arrived in a black dress that hugged her curves like a threat without her beanie for once.
Her eyes flicked around, taking in more of the scenery—more so she was searching for Logan.
She could handle him alone.
Or so she thought.
She turned and made a beeline for the bathroom off of the lobby, locking the door behind her with a sigh. The mirror was too clean, too honest. She leaned in, adjusting her eyeliner with the precision of someone preparing for war.
God, she felt naked without her hat. She grimaced, fingers fussing with her hair in a way that felt too self-conscious.
She hated how much she cared.
She touched her collarbone, then dropped her hand.
“You’re not here for him,” she muttered. “You’re here to win.”
But her voice didn’t sound convinced.
She stared at her reflection, jaw set, eyes hard.
She looked like a liar...
Later on, she glimpsed him halfway through the rehearsal dinner. Louise’s stomach twisted.
Logan looked older. His jaw was sharper, and he had a low ponytail, a scruffy face, a leather vest, and jeans. But the smirk was the same. The one that used to make her laugh. The one that made her want to punch him now.
Geez, he really looked like a douchebag, Louise thought with a scowl.
Their eyes met across the room. He raised a glass. She raised an eyebrow; a frown tugged at her face.
Let the games begin.
__________________________
Louise’s toast was short, biting, and just inappropriate enough to make Troy chuckle and Tina sweat and let out her signature awkward “ha-ha.” Logan’s was longer, smoother, and full of charm and subtle digs.
“She’s always been good at making an impression,” he said, eyes flicking to Louise. “Especially when she’s trying to win.”
Louise smiled sweetly. If anyone had been paying closer attention, they would have seen her smile thinning at the edges. “And he’s always been good at pretending he’s not losing.”
The guests laughed. The tension crackled. Louise danced with every groomsman except him.
But she felt his gaze all night.
__________________________
It was supposed to be a single room. ‘A booking error,’ they said. ‘No other vacancies,’ they said. You know what she said? Bullshit!
How dare they force her to live through a scene that came straight out of a cheesy rom-com?
The door creaked open with a groan that matched Louise’s mood. She stepped inside first; the suitcase thudding against the hardwood floor of the quaint inn room. One bed. One damn bed.
Louise stared at the bed like it had betrayed her. She turned with a scoff, already bracing for Logan’s stupid, smug voice.
“Guess they really wanted to test our maturity, huh?” he said, leaning against the doorframe with that same infuriating half-smile. The one that used to make her stomach flip. The one she hated now.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snapped and picked up her suitcase and tossed it onto the seat of the armchair. “I’ll sleep on the floor before I share a mattress with you.”
Logan raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing wider. “You sure? I remember you used to love sleeping on top of me.”
Louise’s eyes narrowed as a blush warmed her cheeks at his words. “That was before you cheated on me,” she hissed bitterly.
“I didn’t cheat,” he said, voice low. “And you know it.”
She didn’t answer. The silence between them stretched taut and threatened to snap. The room was too small for this kind of tension. Too warm. Too full of ghosts.
Louise turned her back to him, rummaging through her bag for pajamas. Her hands shook, just slightly. She hated that. Hated that he still got under her skin. Hated that she remembered the exact way his voice dropped when he was serious. When he was hurt.
“You really think I didn’t care?” Logan said behind her. “That I just walked away like it meant nothing?”
She didn’t turn around. “You did walk away.”
“You told me to.”
“You didn’t fight me.”
“You didn’t want me to.”
That stopped her. She turned slowly, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “You were always so good at fighting me. Don’t fucking pretend you didn’t enjoy it.”
“Of course I did,” he snapped, his frustration clear. “Because you were the only person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t coasting. Like I had to earn something.”
Louise blinked. That wasn’t what she expected. Not from Logan Barry Bush, golden boy, poster child of privilege. He looked tired. Still handsome, though, damn him. But there was something raw in his eyes.
“I hated you,” she said quietly.
“I hated myself,” he replied.
The silence returned, heavier now.
Logan sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. Louise stood across the room, arms crossed, jaw still tight.
“I left you a voicemail,” he said. “After the fight. You never called back.”
She blinked, and her eyes shifted away from him. “I never got it,” she said tersely.
He looked up. His face was a mask of hurt. “You did. I know you did. I said I didn’t cheat. I said I was sorry. I said I loved you.”
Her breath caught. She’d never been able to fool him with her bullshit, could she? He knew her too well...
“I listened to it,” she admitted. “Once. Then I deleted it.”
He nodded slowly. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to believe you,” she said. “Because if you were telling the truth, then I was the one who walked away.”
Silence stretched between them.
“You were scared,” he said.
She didn’t deny it, no matter how fiercely a part of her wanted to defend herself—wanted to scream from hell and back that she wasn’t a coward.
Louise faced him, eyes searching. “Why are you saying this now?”
“Because I’ve spent years pretending I didn’t miss you. And I’m tired.”
Louise crossed the room slowly, her footsteps deliberate. Logan didn’t move. He knew that look—jaw set, eyes blazing. She’d punched him before for getting too sentimental, too soft. He braced himself, shutting his eyes tight, preparing for impact.
But instead of a slap, he felt arms around him. Warm. Steady. Real.
She hugged him.
“I’m tired of pretending I don’t miss you too,” she whispered against his shoulder.
His breath caught. He pulled back, hands gently on her arms, needing to see her face. Her eyes met his—older, sharper, but still holding that flicker of the girl he used to know. The one who used to laugh too loud and love too hard.
He kissed her.
And she kissed him back, just as fiercely. No hesitation. No fear.
Then she pulled away and slapped him.
“What the hell was that for?” he asked, blinking, rubbing the right side of his face, alight with a stinging, burning sensation.
“That’s for kissing me when I was being vulnerable!” she snapped.
“You kissed me back!”
She didn’t answer. She just grabbed him by the collar and kissed him again.
It wasn’t gentle. It was years of anger, longing, and unresolved heat. It was teeth and tongue and hands gripping too tight. It was everything they never said, poured into one breathless moment.
They didn’t sleep much that night.
__________________________
Louise woke first. The light was soft, the room quiet. Logan was still asleep, an arm draped across her waist like it belonged there.
She stared at the ceiling, heart pounding.
This fixed nothing.
But it felt like something.
Logan stirred, his voice rough with sleep. “You didn’t run.”
She swallowed. “Not yet.”
He sat up slowly, eyes searching her face. “Was it a mistake?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “...It didn’t feel wrong,” she admitted.
And what surprised her more... was that she meant it.
He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought back a smile.
They spoke little after that. Just moved together, quietly. Carefully.
They walked into the wedding side by side. Not as rivals. Not as enemies.
As something uncertain. But maybe—just maybe—something worth fighting for.