“Izzy, I promise you’re going to have fun here. Flora and I are going to take care of Molly so you can do whatever you enjoy.”

“I enjoy being with Molly, Dad. She’s my sister.”

Did she really have to say it? There wasn’t a single person on the planet who understood her.

“But you should be spending time with kids your own age. I expect you’ll be pleased to see Aiden again.”

She was, although she was also nervous. What if his feelings toward her had changed? And she was so angry with everyone, what if she was angry with him? What if she hated him, too?

“We should say hi to Aunt Clare.” With a quick smile, she fumbled for the door and exited the car hoping to leave her mini meltdown behind in the car.

She walked across to Clare a little hesitantly. Last time they’d seen each other was at the funeral, which Izzy barely remembered. The whole day had been a dark, heavy blur of horror.

Clare put Molly down and then Izzy felt herself wrapped in the same warm hug Molly had been given. She breathed in Clare’s floral scent and closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself the comfort even though it wasn’t specific to her problem.

Aunt Clare had always been a hugger and a homemaker. Izzy had often heard her mother say that she couldn’t understand why anyone would give up a glamorous career working for a glossy, glamorous magazine to bury herself in the middle of nowhere and spend her day making beds after other people, wiping mud from boots and baking cakes.

Izzy didn’t know anything about editing a glossy magazine. All she knew was that whenever you were with Aunt Clare you felt cared for and fussed over. She was never on her phone, distracted by which filters to use on a photograph she was about to post on social media, and she never cared about her hair or her makeup when she was hugging you. Even though she was busy, she was never in a rush. She seemed to live in the moment rather than pushing forward to the next goal, and nothing she did was for public consumption.

On the flight, Izzy had started to write a piece about the perils of presenting a fake version of yourself to the world, but then she’d realized she was guilty of doing exactly that. It wasn’t the same, of course, not really. Keeping secrets and thoughts inside you wasn’t the same as presenting a polished, happy image. She’d made that the point of the piece, the central question that she hoped would stimulate conversation. How much of your true self do you keep from the world?

“How’s my Izzy?” The affection in Clare’s voice made Izzy tempted to tell the truth.

I’m completely messed-up. Help me.