My bed was stripped. The bedside lamp I’d had since middle school lay shattered across the floor, shards of ceramic scattered like tiny broken promises. Every drawer was open. One of them hung open at a crooked angle, a deep crack splitting the wood as if she had slammed it too hard, too many times. My desk chair was missing entirely. And my favorite poster—the one of Albert Einstein with his tongue out, the one that had reminded me every day that “Imagination is more important than knowledge”? Ripped right down the middle.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered under my breath. It didn’t look like anyone had tried to clean up, as if Mom had just shut the door and left it frozen in time, preserved in destruction.

I took a step back, my heel hitting a splinter of wood.

Beverly’s voice came from behind me, soft but firm. “So…about this. This was my therapy.”

I turned slowly to face her. “You really ripped apart my room?”

“I’d call it reorganizing,” she said sweetly, leaning against the doorframe.

“Reorganized? Beverly, this looks like a crime scene.”

“It was very cathartic,” she drawled, inspecting her nails.

“Oh,” I said, nodding slowly. “You’re dead, Beverly Price.”

Her smile cracked. “Wait⁠—”

She shrieked and took off just as I lunged.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” I shouted, chasing her down the hallway like we were thirteen again.

“You left me for two years, you deserve worse!” she called back. Her laugh echoed off the walls, messy and breathless, like it was trying to outrun me too, desperate to escape the weight of her words. She darted into the living room, and I caught a glimpse of her hair whipping over her shoulder. “Catch me, Posh⁠—”

“Dead. So dead.”

I was faster, but she was sneakier. She dove over the couch, laughing so hard she nearly tripped. I grabbed a pillow and hurled it at her. It caught her in the side and sent her stumbling into the cushions, laughing even harder.

“You fight dirty,” she gasped.

“You destroyed my room,” I reminded her, stepping closer and crossing my arms. “I was mourning that poster.”

“Oh, please. That thing was already hanging on by a thread.” She skidded into the dining room and ducked behind the table like it would protect her.

I came up the other side, grinning like a man possessed.

“No,” she gasped, laughing as I lunged again. “I’ll scream!”

“Go ahead, B. See who comes running.”

She ran for the stairs, but I caught her around the waist and spun her toward me. We collided against the wall, breathing hard, faces inches apart. Her fingers gripped my shirt tightly. Mine were locked around her hips.

And just like that, we weren’t laughing anymore.

Beverly’s throat worked, her eyes flicking to my mouth.