The Wrong Brother

Chapter Eight—Nova

The late afternoon heat had mellowed into something softer, the kind of warmth that clung to the skin without suffocating it. North Wilmore had that lazy glow it always wore in summer evenings—streets washed in gold, tree branches whispering with a slow breeze, sidewalks radiating faint heat as the day gave way to dusk. Somewhere, a grill was smoking, drifting the faint scent of charred meat through the air.

I hadn’t meant to leave the house. Ariana had been scrolling on her phone and humming along to some annoying pop song, and the walls felt like they were closing in, so I’d grabbed my sneakers and left without a word.

The walk was supposed to clear my head. Instead, it filled it.

Every step brought me back to how things used to be—before Bruno, before Adrian, before revenge became my anchor. I could almost see another version of myself strolling down these same streets, earbuds in, Zaria by my side.

Zaria West.

Even thinking her name scraped against the inside of my chest.

We used to walk everywhere together. To the park, to the corner café, to the lake on the edge of town where we’d sit on the dock, dipping our toes in the water, laughing about nothing. She’d tease me about how obsessed I was with pink, and I’d roll my eyes at her endless line of crushes. We’d trade secrets over ice cream, swearing loyalty forever between spoonfuls.

And then I threw it all away. For Bruno.

I could still see her face the day I chose him—disbelief hardening into something sharp. She had warned me about him, told me he wasn’t what I thought, that he’d hurt me. But I hadn’t listened. I’d picked him over her, like a fool.

And when it all fell apart—when Bruno proved her right in the cruelest way possible—I went crawling back. She didn’t take me in. She turned me away.

That rejection had cut deeper than Bruno’s betrayal. Because losing a boy was one thing. Losing your best friend? That was losing a part of yourself.

Which is why my heart nearly stopped when I heard the voice behind me.

“Well, if it isn’t Nova Ashton.”

I froze. For a heartbeat, I thought I’d imagined it. That my mind had finally decided to torment me by conjuring her voice out of thin air.

But when I turned, there she was.

Zaria West stood a few feet away, sundress swaying in the breeze, her curls framing her face in soft waves. She looked almost unchanged, except maybe prettier—sleeker, like she’d stepped out of a glossy magazine instead of North Wilmore’s streets. Her smile was bright, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

My throat went dry. “Zaria?”

She laughed lightly, as though my shock was entertainment. “Don’t look so surprised. I was just passing through. Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

Passing through. Too casual. Too perfect. My gut said it wasn’t random at all. But my stupid heart… it fluttered anyway.

I swallowed. “Yeah, um… hi.”

“Hi?” Her brows arched. “After everything, that’s the best you’ve got?”

I shifted on my feet. “Well, last I checked, you weren’t exactly answering my calls.”

Her smile flickered, then steadied, brighter. “Fair. But come on, Nova. Are we really going to do the cold shoulder thing? That’s not us.”

It used to not be us.

Zaria took a step closer. Lavender and vanilla drifted from her, the same scent I remembered from our teenage sleepovers. Suddenly I was back in my room at sixteen, both of us sprawled across my bed, whispering secrets until dawn. She’d painted my nails once, a glittery pink I hated but kept anyway because she’d laughed so hard when she botched the thumb.

The memory ached.

“Listen,” she said, voice softer now. “I know I hurt you. And I know you hurt me too. But I’ve been thinking… and I miss you. I miss my best friend.”

My chest tightened. She knew exactly where to strike.

“I came to you when Bruno broke me,” I said quietly, words slipping free before I could stop them. “And you turned me away.”

Her face pinched with guilt. “Because you turned me away first. Don’t forget that. You picked him over me, Nova. You chose him even when I warned you.”

I flinched. She wasn’t wrong.

“But that doesn’t mean I stopped caring,” she added quickly, eyes softening. “I was angry, yes. But I never stopped caring. You were… are… like family to me.”

The breeze curled between us. My mind screamed to walk away, but my heart—lonely, starved for something familiar—kept me rooted.

Zaria reached out, her fingers grazing mine. “Can we… start over?”

I laughed shakily. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know.” Her head tilted, eyes wide and earnest. “But we’re older now. Smarter. I’m not asking for everything to be fixed overnight. Just… let me back in. Even a little.”

I should have said no. I should have told her it was too late, that I’d learned my lesson. But the truth? I missed her. I missed us.

So I nodded. “Okay. A little.”

Her smile bloomed, dazzling. For the first time, it seemed real—though in its brightness I caught something else, a glimmer of sharpness only someone who knew her well would notice.

We fell into step, side by side, like slipping into an old rhythm. For a while, it felt almost easy. She teased me about my messy bun, I reminded her of that prom night disaster when she spilled soda down her dress and we tried to dry it under the bathroom hand dryer. We laughed until a passing couple turned to stare.

It was almost like old times. Almost.

But then she shifted, her tone casual but probing. “So… I heard about you and Adrian Castellane.”

The air in my lungs froze. “Of course you did.”

Zaria nudged me with her shoulder, playful on the surface. “Don’t be so prickly. I’m just curious. Adrian? Really? He’s… what, eight years older?”

“Ten,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

Her brows shot up. Her smile was tight around the edges. “Wow. Didn’t know you were into older men.”

“I’m not,” I snapped, then forced a laugh. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated,” she echoed, stretching the word like she was tasting it. “That’s one way to put it.” She glanced sideways at me, eyes too sharp beneath her lashes. “So is it serious? Or just a rebound after Bruno?”

The name made my stomach twist. I crossed my arms, shielding myself. “Why do you care?”

“Because you’re my friend,” she said quickly, too quickly. “And I don’t want to see you hurt again. Adrian isn’t exactly the kind of guy who… dates college freshmen, you know?”

The words landed like stones. Was she warning me—or planting doubts?

Her smile softened again. “I’m not judging, Nova. Really. If he makes you happy, then good. I just… worry. That’s all.”

But the way her eyes lingered, measuring, said something different.

We walked a little farther, her words circling in my head. She was weaving herself back in, carefully, one thread at a time. And I was letting her.

At the corner where our paths split, she turned to me, her face warm, almost tender. “Can we hang out soon? Like old times?”

I hesitated. Then, stupidly, I nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

Her grin was blinding. She stepped forward and hugged me, arms winding around me like they once had a thousand times before. For a moment, I sank into it—the comfort, the familiarity, the lie that maybe nothing had changed.

But when she pulled back, her eyes lingered too long on mine. And behind the warmth, I saw it: the flicker of envy, sharp and hungry.

I told myself it was nothing. But deep down, I knew better.