“Wait! No! Just …” She grabbed my arm, her hand sliding down to my wrist as she inched her body to hunch in front of me, head hanging low. “Yes …” Her voice broke.

I didn’t want to cry for her. She didn’t deserve my tears. Rory destroyed our family. She destroyed us.

“Yes …” She sobbed. “I regret the st-stupidity and r-recklessness. I regret risking s-so much when you were … are my w-world. I’m so very sorry.”

Her honesty and apology meant something, but I wasn’t sure what. I needed time to think. After believing one thing for five years, I wasn’t able to erase my thoughts and feelings to embrace her version of the story. Not yet.

“I’ll be back Sunday, but I don’t know if I’ll stay here. I just … don’t know.” I pulled away as she continued to sob.

* * *

I arrived in Houston by noon on Saturday. My grandparents took me to lunch. I put on a brave face and gushed about how much fun I’d been having in Colorado. An interesting mix of truths and lies.

On the way back to their house after we left the restaurant, I got a text from Fisher.

If you’re not dead, text Rory and tell her you made it safely to Houston. Don’t be a total asshole about it.

I read the text three times to verify what I was seeing on my screen. Fisher was calling me an asshole, or at least a partial one since he insinuated not texting Rory would make me a “total asshole.”

Like the impure and sinful thoughts that often made their way into my head, but were never allowed to leave my head, I typed my knee-jerk response knowing I would never actually send it. Sending it would be equivalent to saying it, and I would never say this to anyone, not even Fisher.

Reese: Go fuck yourself!

I smiled at the screen, allowing myself to enjoy my bravery for just a few seconds before deleting it and responding with a WWJD attitude.

“Stay in your lane!” Grandpa honked the horn as he quickly swerved, moving my thumb just enough to send the text.

It sent.

“Oh my gosh,” I whispered.

“You okay, honey?” Grandma looked over her shoulder at me.

On a thick swallow, I nodded slowly, but I wasn’t okay. I was horrified.

My phone vibrated with a new text from Fisher.

I’ll let her know you’re not dead.

I was in a quandary. Reply? Tell him it was a mistake? Autocorrect? Would my autocorrect default to go fuck yourself?

I didn’t text him back.

Instead, I focused on my grandparents, got ready for the party, fielded a million questions at the party about my summer in Colorado, and made it to bed just after ten.

The next morning, we attended church service and fellowship dinner. More questions. More fake smiles and half-truths.