Chapter 4 Two Years After

2 years after Penny

The bar smells like fried food and beer. Grease clings to the air, seeping into my clothes. Neon lights buzz overhead, half burned-out, painting everything in blue and red. There’s a game on the TV above the bar — football, I think — but no one at our table is really watching.

It’s me, Torres, Smithy, and McKay.

Torres is the loud one. Always has been. He orders wings before we even sit down, the kind drowning in buffalo sauce, and by the time they hit the table he’s already got it smeared across his cheek.

Smithy’s the opposite — steady, quiet, leaning back in his chair with a longneck in hand. He picks at the fries like he’s got all night, dipping each one into ranch with this calm patience that drives Torres crazy.

McKay is the youngest. Still has that fresh-faced energy, even after missions that should’ve burned it out of him. He’s tearing into a burger, grease dripping down his fingers, chewing like he hasn’t seen real food in months.

And me? I sit there with a beer sweating in my hand, listening, watching, letting their noise fill the spaces in my head.

“Boomer,” Torres says, pointing a wing at me. “You’re too damn quiet. Lighten up, man. We’re still breathing — that’s reason enough to celebrate.”

“Friday night’s a celebration anyway,” McKay says through a mouthful, grinning with ketchup on his chin.

Smithy shakes his head, smirking. “Kid thinks every day’s a party.”

Torres leans forward, eyes narrowing like he’s got me cornered. “So what about you, Boomer? Got a girl back home yet?”

Smithy chuckles, cutting in before I can answer. “What about that one? What was her name—”

“Mila,” Torres says, snapping his fingers like he just remembered. “That’s it. Sweet little thing, yeah?”

My jaw tightens for a second, but then I set the bottle down and nod. “Yeah. She was… sweet. Fun. Always laughing. We had a good time.”

“But?” McKay asks, leaning in like he’s waiting for the punchline.

I shrug, scratching at the back of my neck. “But it didn’t work out. Simple as that.”

Torres smirks. “Didn’t work out or you screwed it up?”

The table laughs, even Smithy with his quiet grin.

I can’t help it — I smirk too, shaking my head. “Guess we’ll never know.”

“Man, Boomer,” McKay says, pointing his fry at me like it’s a weapon. “You’re telling me you had a girl like that and let her go? Rookie mistake.”

“Hey,” Torres says, raising his glass. “To Mila. Whoever she is. Thanks for keeping our boy entertained while she did.”

They all clink glasses, laughing. I raise mine too, smirking into the rim.

The beer goes down easy, the noise of the bar filling every corner. For a while, I let it wash over me — the teasing, the laughter, the wings disappearing faster than they’re delivered. And I think about Mila’s laugh, her lightness, and how some things just don’t stick no matter how much you want them to.

I smirk too, shake my head, but my mind drifts anyway. Back to her. Back to Mila.

The first time I really met her, she didn’t give me a second to breathe. I was standing in the kitchen at some get-together, beer in hand, half-planning my excuse to leave early. Then she appeared, leaning against the counter like she’d been waiting for me, short dark hair tucked behind one ear, eyes sharp and curious.

“Damn,” she said, without hesitation. “You’ve got nice arms.”

That was it. No hello. No introduction. Just that.

I blinked, caught off guard, and she grinned like she’d scored a point.

“I’m Mila,” she added, stealing my beer, taking a sip, then handing it back with a smirk. Her fingers brushed mine like it was on purpose. “You’re Boomer, right?”

I almost corrected her. Logan. But everyone called me Boomer by then, so I nodded.

“Good,” she said. “I like it. Fits.”

That was Mila. A shameless flirt, bold to her core, saying whatever crossed her mind and daring you not to like it.

After that, it was texts. Constant, relentless texts. Morning, night, random questions in the middle of the day — what’s your favorite cereal? followed a minute later by actually, don’t answer, it’s Lucky Charms, obviously. She sent memes at two a.m., told me when she couldn’t sleep, told me when she was bored, told me everything. And I let her. I liked it more than I admitted.

Soon it wasn’t just texts. We started going places together. Coffee shops where she talked circles around me until the barista forgot her order. Movies where she threw popcorn at my face just to make me sigh and dig it out of my shirt. Walks through the city where she darted from shop window to shop window, dragging me along like I was her shadow.

Mila was noise and color, eccentric and alive. Everything I wasn’t.

And I liked her. Really liked her.

She was beautiful in that sideways way — short dark hair, a smile too big for her face, a laugh that crashed through silence and made everyone else laugh too. She filled every room she walked into, and for a while, she filled me.

I could see a future with her. I really could.

But Mila was also Penny’s best friend.

And that complicated everything.

Being with Mila meant hearing Penny’s name in every other conversation — Penny said this, Penny did that, Penny thought it was hilarious when… It meant Penny popping up in their photos, in their group chats, in their plans. At first, I didn’t mind. At first, it almost felt like a gift. Being with Mila meant I still had a way into Penny’s orbit. I could see her smile, hear her laugh, breathe the air around her, even if it wasn’t mine to keep.

But one night, lying awake beside Mila, listening to her slow, even breaths while the ceiling fan spun shadows across the room, it hit me like a punch. All I could think about was Penny. Not Mila’s warmth pressed against me, not the girl asleep in my arms — Penny. Her laugh. Her voice. Her face where it didn’t belong.

And I knew it wasn’t fair.

Not to Mila. Not to me.

So the next morning, I told her. Gentle, as careful as I could manage. Sitting across from her at breakfast, my hands wrapped tight around a mug.

“I think I need some time,” I said. “There’s… healing I have to do. Stuff I haven’t worked through. It’s not you, Mila. You’ve been—” My voice caught. “You’ve been more than I deserve.”

She stared at me for a beat, fork halfway to her mouth, then pouted like a kid. “You’re an idiot,” she said, stabbing at her pancakes. “But I like having you around. So don’t disappear, okay?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I murmured.

She shrugged, chewed, swallowed. “Then don’t. We’ll stay friends. You figure out your mess, and I’ll bulldoze my way through life like I always do.”

And that was it. Mila didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just bulldozed.

We stayed friends. Still are. She knows everything now — about Penny, about how much it still guts me, about the way I can’t cut loose no matter how I try. She’s never told a soul. Never teased me about it. It’s our secret.

Back at the bar, Torres is raising his glass again, and the guys are still laughing, still eating, still alive in their own stories. I smirk into my beer, the sound of their voices sharp and warm, but in the back of my head, Mila’s voice lingers too — laughing, teasing, unafraid.

And Penny’s shadow lingers right beside it.