As I rise to my feet, my eyes land on the figure standing in the kitchen and my breath hitches in the back of my throat.

Corabelle.

Mandy hangs her coat up on the nearby coat rack and clears her throat, leaning in close to her mother. “You said Cora wasn’t coming tonight,” Mandy mutters in a low voice as she tames her flyaways, her eyes dancing over to me with apology.

It’s true I wasn’t ready to face her yet.

Maybe I’ll never be ready.

“Sorry, sweetie, but your sister texted me a few hours ago and said she changed her mind.”

Their conversation begins to fade away as my eyes lock on Cora’s from across the foyer. Memories flow through me, making me feel itchy and slightly panicked, but there is also a profound comfort that stabs at my heart. She is a vision of life and light and survival. Her hair is golden blonde, shiny and healthy again, curled loosely over her thin shoulders. She’s always been petite, but her frame looks even more frail and willowy in a deep purple dress that probably fit her better five weeks ago. The neckline hangs low, revealing her bony collarbone and remnants of a few lingering, faded bruises.

Cora twists her hair over one shoulder and my eyes drift to her exposed neck. The same neck I peppered with sorrowful kisses and soaked with my tears of shame.

My jaw clenches and my heartbeats accelerate, my hands turning clammy as I swipe them along the front of my blue jeans. I’m not sure what to do, so I merely acknowledge her with a quick nod and swallow down all the things I cannot say.

But I don’t miss the flash of hurt and dismissal in her eyes before she spins around and busies herself in the kitchen.

I flinch when Mandy’s fingers begin tugging the sleeve of my winter coat, yanking me out of my messy thoughts. “Take your coat off. Stay a while,” she beams at me, then follows her parents into the family room, chattering on about her shift at the hair salon like it’s another ordinary day in Normalville.

I stay rooted to the snowman welcome mat, staring at Cora’s back as she leans over the kitchen counter, facing away from me. Her head is bowed, her shoulders taut. She is gripping the edge of the countertop as her hair falls over the sides of her face in waves.

I want to run to her. I want to take her in my arms and whisper into her ear that everything is going to be okay. We survived. It’s over.

But I don’t.

I can lie to Mandy and her parents and my friends and my boss and my therapist… but I can’t lie to her.

We all sit around the formal dining table, and for a moment, everything feels like it used to. It’s easy to pretend between four walls adorned with pretty paint colors, lace drapes, recess lighting, and holiday decorations scattered throughout. It’s easy to pretend in the company of the family I’ve come to care about over the past fifteen years while they discuss politics and trending Netflix shows as if nothing is amiss.