He didn’t answer. His thumb moved in slow, absent circles over the back of my hand. I could feel the words gathering in his throat, but he didn’t force them out. Maybe he knew that silence was safer than saying the wrong thing. Easier than acknowledging how much had been lost, how many moments had slipped away in the gaps of miscommunication and unspoken fears. Easier than confronting the fact that we had both hurt each other in ways we weren’t sure how to undo.

But I wanted to hear him. I wanted him to beg. Not because I needed him to, but because I needed to know he would. That he cared enough. That I mattered that much.

But when I finally looked at him, there was no optimism. No pride. No stubborn hope lighting up his eyes. Just devastation—the kind that doesn’t scream, but pleads.

And that made it worse.

Because that look said forgive me and please still love me more than any apology ever could.

57

BLAKE, 2001

20 years old

We pulled into the driveway just as the sky started bleeding orange across the rooftops. The house looked smaller than I remembered, as if time had decided to creep in and peel at the edges while nobody was paying attention.

Beverly stepped out first, stretching like a cat who knew exactly how good she looked doing it. Her hair was pulled back in a loose twist, sunglasses perched on top of her head even though the sun was halfway done for the day. I followed her, keys in hand, heartbeat thudding somewhere in my ears.

Inside, the air smelled like nostalgia and something vaguely floral—probably Mom’s candle collection lingering in the corner. Everything felt off in the way only familiar things can feel off. Like the furniture had shifted a few inches to the left.

But the floors creaked in the exact same spots.

The light hit the picture frames at the same crooked angle.

Beverly slipped past me, her eyes sweeping over everything as if checking to see what had stayed the same.

I followed her like I always did, the way I always would.

She headed straight for the living room, kicking off her shoes.

I didn’t stop there. I made a beeline for my old room, something tugging at the edge of my gut. And yeah. There it was. Carnage.

My room looked like someone had held a minor exorcism, followed by a very personal act of vengeance.

The walls were exactly how I left them, but the rest?