“You think I don’t see you?” I ask, voice low now. “You’ve got that empty forehead thing again.”
He frowns. “What?”
“The space between your brows,” I say. “It goes smooth when you’re hiding something. Your temper’s shorter. You hum louder when you brush your teeth. You keep your distance from Willow. You haven’t picked her outfits in weeks. You’re pulling away like you’re already halfway out of this house.”
His jaw works. “Don’t say that to me.”
“Then don’t do it,” I whisper.
“Cast.” This time it’s almost a plea. “Please.”
My chest tightens. “What do you want me to say?” His voice cracks. “That I made a mess I don’t know how to clean? That I’m ashamed? That I hate how it looks on you when I drag it into this house?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “Say that. Say anything that lets me carry it with you. Give me something to do.”
He closes his eyes. For a second he looks too young and too exhausted at the same time.
“Willow asks if you’re okay,” I say quietly. “She knows you’re not. Damien’s two seconds from punching you, and the kids?—”
“Leave the kids out of this,” he snaps.
“They’re not out of it,” I fire back. “This is their house. You think you can storm around in it and they won’t feel the weather?”
“Enough.”
“No.” My voice shakes. “Not enough.”
I step in, closing the distance. “When are you going to act like we’re your family again? Because since you met Willow, you’ve been treating us like a past life. We all love her. We want what’s best for her. You know what that looks like? All of us. Together. Not you standing outside the door pretending this is protection.”
He stares at me like I hit him. Maybe I did.
“I haven’t abandoned you,” he says quietly, a tremor under it.
“Oh, fuck you,” I say. “You abandoned us eight years ago. Maybe before that. You act like Damien and I don’t matter anymore. Like it’s just you, Willow, and the kids. Like it wouldn’t make a difference if we were gone.”
“That’s not fair,” he says, voice finally rising.
“Neither is your cowardice.”
He flinches. Color rises in his face. “I am not a coward.”
“Then prove it.” My voice thins to a wire.
He sucks in a breath, sharp. He’s about to say it — the thing he thinks will blow us open.
Then the doorbell rings.
Vincent’s mouth goes flat. He drops the trash bag, straightens his tie, resets his face.
“I’ll—”
“I’ve got it,” I say, already moving. “Finish the confetti apocalypse.”
“Cast—”
“I said I’ve got it.”
The doorbell rings again.
