Logan had recently developed the annoying habit of asking everyone if his English was correct. Lycan was hell-bent on football, barely paying attention to anything else. And Becca?
Becca and I fought like it was our full-time job.
"You dry well!" she yelled.
Before I could think, I launched myself at her, scratching her cheek.
"I told you never to call me that!" I screamed as we wrestled across the bed.
Why couldn't she just let it go?
She only called me that whenever we argued. It all started because of my ex. After one of our fights, we got back together, and the idiot had the audacity to ask if I was still "a wet bitch or a dry well."
Ever since then, Becca had refused to let me forget it.
The bed was a complete mess. Pillows were everywhere, the blanket had somehow ended up on the floor, and the bitch had me pinned down.
"Get off me!"
Somehow, I shoved her away just enough to scramble to my feet.
"Coward!" she shouted after me.
"You wish!" I yelled back, sprinting out of the room.
She wasn't going to kill me today.
Climbing down the stairs into the sitting room, I spotted Logan walking toward me, his eyes glued to his phone.
"Lima," he called, barely looking up. "Which one is correct? 'I'm missing you' or 'I am missing you'?"
I blinked.
"The girl I'm talking to is basically an encyclopedia, and I don't want to make a stupid mistake while chatting with her," he explained.
I laughed and punched his shoulder.
"Oh, Logan. One day, you're actually going to be the death of me."
"The first one is perfectly fine," I said, laughing.
Before he could bombard me with another hundred questions, I sprinted toward the kitchen.
Lycan didn't even bother looking away from the football match on TV.
"Lima," he called lazily, "I heard you and Becca were fighting over being a dry well again."
I let out an exaggerated huff.
"I hope your team loses," I shot back before disappearing into the kitchen.
I loved my personal space.
Unfortunately, living with my brothers and my cousin meant I never got any.
As I reached for a glass, my eyes landed on an old ceramic mug resting at the back of the cupboard.
John Maya.
The mug he had given me at winter camp.
Five years ago.
I picked it up carefully, tracing the faded design with my thumb.
"I love you," he'd whispered as he placed it in my hands, telling me it was proof that no matter where life took us, I'd always have something to remember him by.
For a moment, I was back there again.
The cold winter air.
The campfire.
The way his fingers lingered against mine before he leaned in and kissed me.
Heat rushed to my cheeks even after all these years.
The sound of the front door opening pulled me back to reality.
Who could that be? I wondered.
I turned toward the hallway.
The mug slipped from my fingers.
Crash.
It shattered across the kitchen floor just as my mother stepped inside.
I stared at the broken pieces.
It felt like the last memory of my first love had shattered with it .