The church's summer picnic sprawls across the community park. Folding tables groan under casseroles and pies. Children shriek near the playground. Adults cluster in groups performing fellowship.
I stand with Grant near the dessert table. He's explaining the aggressive competitiveness of church bake-offs and I'm laughing. Actually laughing. For a moment, everything feels almost normal.
Then I see Jordan across the lawn.
He's talking to a woman. Attractive. Age-appropriate. She touches his arm while leaning close to say something that makes him smile.
Jealousy hits like physical nausea. Hot. Irrational. Completely consuming.
"Maya?" Grant's voice sounds far away.
I excuse myself mid-sentence. Cross the grass with purpose. Every step fueled by something ugly and possessive I can't control.
Jordan sees me coming. Something flickers across his face. Warning, maybe. Or recognition.
The woman is still touching his arm. Still smiling up at him like she has a right.
"Hi." My voice comes out too bright. Manic. "Sorry to interrupt."
"Maya." Jordan's tone is carefully neutral. "This is Sandra. She's on the outreach committee."
"Nice to meet you." I don't look at her. Can't take my eyes off Jordan's face.
Sandra glances between us. Her smile turns knowing. "I should go check on the raffle tickets. Jordan, we'll talk later?"
"Sure."
She drifts away. Finally.
"Friend of yours?" The question comes out sharper than intended.
"Someone from the committee." His expression is unreadable. "That's all."
"She was touching you."
"Maya—"
"What? She was."
"So?" The distance in his tone makes me want to scream. "She's friendly. It doesn't mean anything."
"It looked like it meant something."
"You're being ridiculous."
The words land like a slap. I step back. Heat floods my face.
"Right. Ridiculous. Got it."
I turn and walk away before he can say anything else. Before I make this worse. Before everyone at this stupid picnic sees exactly how much I'm unraveling.
Grant is watching when I return. His face is carefully neutral. But his posture is wrong. Too still. Too controlled.
"Everything okay?" His hand settles on my waist.
"Fine."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
His hand tightens slightly. More possessive than usual. Claiming something in front of everyone watching.
The rest of the picnic passes in a haze. Jordan tracks my movements from across the lawn. Grant stays unusually quiet beside me. I feel trapped between them. A rope in a tug-of-war neither man will acknowledge.
By the time we leave, my head pounds. My chest feels too tight. Grant drives in silence for ten minutes before finally speaking.
"You're in love with him, aren't you?"
The statement lands like accusation and resignation simultaneously.
Grant pulls over. Turns to face me. His expression is hurt but calculating.
"I'm not angry. But I need to know what I'm dealing with here. How long has this been going on with Jordan?"
The question hangs between us. A trap I walked right into.
"Nothing's going on." The lie tastes like ash. "He's my father's friend. That's all."
"Maya." His voice carries a gentleness worse than anger. "I saw the way you looked at him. The way you crossed that entire lawn like you had the right to stake a claim." He pauses. "And I saw the way he looked at you when you walked away. Like you'd taken something from him he didn't know how to get back."
My throat closes. I want to deny it. Want to rebuild the walls. But Grant's blue eyes hold too much knowing and I'm exhausted by the architecture of lies.
"I don't know what I feel," I admit. "For him. For you. For any of this." My hands gesture at the space between us. "All I know is I'm drowning, and I don't know which direction is up anymore."
Grant is quiet for a long moment. Studying my face like he's memorizing something he knows he'll lose.
"I meant what I said before. About caring for you. Not because our parents decided it, but because somewhere in all this mess, I actually started to." His hand lifts. Falls back to his lap. "But I'm not stupid, Maya. I know the difference between being wanted and being settled for."
"Grant—"
"Let me finish." He takes a breath. "I need to know where I stand. Not because I'm trying to trap you or force your hand. But because I'm tired too. Tired of performing. Tired of pretending I don't see what's right in front of me." His eyes hold mine. "So I'm asking you directly: how long has this been going on with Jordan?"
The truth would detonate everything. But the lie tastes like poison.
"Since the workshop," I whisper. "After our first dinner. I went there angry, and he was there, and—" I stop. "It was just a kiss. Nothing more."
Grant's expression doesn't change. But something behind his eyes goes carefully blank.
"Just a kiss."
"Yes. We didn't—it wasn't—"
"But you wanted more." His voice stays soft, which somehow makes it worse. "That's what you're not saying. That given the chance, given freedom, you'd go for more. You’d choose him."
Would I? I don't know. Jordan makes me feel like I'm made of gunpowder. Grant makes me feel seen. Jordan consumes me, but Grant understands me. The asymmetry terrifies me—that maybe what I want and what I need aren't the same thing at all.
"I don't know what I'd choose," I admit. "That's the honest answer. I don't know."
Grant nods slowly. Puts the car back in drive. His movements are mechanical. Distant.
We pull back onto the road. Familiar streets slide past. Each one bringing me closer to the house that isn't home.
"For what it's worth," Grant says as we turn onto my street, "I hope you figure it out before you destroy all of us." No malice. Just exhausted honesty. "Because right now, you're standing at the center of something that's going to collapse. And when it does, we're all going down."
I don't answer. Can't. Because he's right, and we both know it, and the countdown to detonation is already ticking in a rhythm I can't control
Grant pulls into my driveway. Doesn't cut the engine. Just sits there. Hands on the wheel. Staring straight ahead.
"The gala is in a week," he says quietly. "My mother's planning to announce our engagement. Make it official in front of everyone who matters." He finally turns to look at me. "Whatever you're going to decide, Maya—about him, about us, about any of this—you're running out of time."