I push myself up, feigning nonchalance, ignoring the way my hands shake. I reach for the comforter but hesitate… realizing almost too late that I’m still undressed beneath it.
His eyes narrow, sweeping over me with a sharp, assessing look that always makes me feel small. But he doesn’t push or question why I flinch under his scrutiny.
“Hurry up,” he snaps instead. “Your mom needs help downstairs.”
And just like that, he spins on his heel and storms off, leaving my door open in his wake, forever angry for no reason.
I exhale sharply, relief washing over me in dizzying waves.
He doesn’t know.
I let my head fall back against the pillow for a second, eyes squeezed shut, my pulse still hammering. The aftermath of too many emotions flooding through my body, too fast.
Then, with a deep breath, I shove off the covers and grab the nearest T-shirt and sweats. The fabric is soft and comforting, a small mercy against the gnawing tension in my chest. I tug them on quickly, grounding myself in the motions.
Downstairs, the house smells like my mother’s cooking. Garlic and herbs layered with the sharp tang of cleaning spray. She’s in full panic mode.
“Sophie, I need you to vacuum and mop.” She barely looks up from scrubbing the countertops, her movements frantic and her voice clipped. “The Robertsons, including Cole, are coming over tonight for dinner.”
I freeze.
The Robertsons.
My throat tightens, bile rising. “The Robertsons?”
She sighs, already exasperated, already annoyed at my reaction. “Now get over yourself. You and that boy can suck it up and be civil. His parents are our friends.”
That boy.
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste copper.
My first boyfriend. My only boyfriend.
The one who broke me.
The one who pushed me, who didn’t take no for an answer. The one who never saw his actions as wrong, as damaging.
I was young. Naïve.Raised to obey.
And so I did.
My parents don’t know everything. They know he cheated, that he left me gutted and hollow. But they don’t care enough to spare me from him.
Grinding my teeth, I grab the vacuum and flick it on, the hum drowning out the whirlwind of thoughts clawing at my brain. I focus on the rhythm, on the lines I carve into the carpet. Anything to keep me from slipping too deep into the memories.
Eventually, my sister, Bella, drifts in, stretching and rubbing sleep from her eyes. It doesn’t escape my notice thatshewasn’t ripped from sleep like I was. Thatshewas allowed to rest.
“Hey, sis,” I say, forcing a smile. “Wanna help?”
She snorts. “Yes, yes. Cleaning on a Sunday. My dream come true.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom’s in a mood.”
She groans. “Oh, great.”
But when she steps into the kitchen, I hear our mother laugh.
Laugh.
