Mr. Knight lets out a slow breath, his hand running through his hair, eyes softening as he glances back. “I just don’t know what to do with him anymore.”
Mom’s eyes flick to me, her smile gone as I shrink in my seat. It’s . . . my fault. I don’t know why or how, but Zach wouldn’t hate being here so much if not for me.
“Sorry, Merci. I didn’t mean for this to ruin your birthday.” Mr. Knight sighs, then walks out of the room.
“Have some cake, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.”
I push the plate away when Mom leaves and stare at the melted wax as I swallow past the growing lump in my throat. Whywouldthis year be any different?
Stupidly, for a moment, I’d wished for a happy life where I could finally allow myself to adjust.
Though, I guess I understand why Zach isn’t exactly welcoming. He never asked for a stepmother or a stepbrother.
It probably doesn’t help that this dinner came across as our parents' way of forcing us to build some kind of bond.
Sometimes I wake up and see him standing in my doorway in the dark. It scares the shit out of me.
And he never smiles. Not ever.
He’s cold and distant.
When Mom still doesn’t come back, I stand and grab the plates to clean up. After I load the last of them into the dishwasher, I glance at the cake again and bite my bottom lip. Maybe Zach wants a piece.
He missed dinner, after all. And I haven’t exactly tried to befriend him. I usually keep to myself.
I cut a slice, put it on a plate, and then head upstairs. My heartbeat thunders in my ears as I approach his room. My footsteps falter as I swallow past the lump lodged in my throat.
What the hell am I doing?
My stepbrother hates me. I know it. The way he looks at me sometimes . . . it’s like I’m an intruder in his world, someone he’s forced to tolerate.
I'm about to abort this dumb ass plan when I notice his door is slightly ajar. It's gotta be a sign.
If I can fix tonight, maybe he might give us a chance to at least be friends.
When I push the door open fully, the room is dark, shadows flickering across the walls from the faint glow of the outdoor lights. Zach sits on his bed, his broad frame hunched over, elbows on his knees. He’s staring at his hands as though the sight of them is foreign.
“Zach?” I whisper, his name sticking in my throat. “I . . . I brought you some cake.”
He doesn’t turn to look at me. Instead, his shoulders tremble, and it takes me a second to realize . . . he’s wiping his eyes.
My stomach twists at the sight. I’ve never seen him cry. As the tears stream down his cheeks, his expression is blank, almost confused, like he doesn’t know what tears are.
“Are you . . . okay?” I ask, my voice catching.
His head snaps up, eyes locking onto mine. They’re wild and glassy, but there’s nothing there—no recognition, no anger—just emptiness like he’s not seeing me at all.
“Get out, Laurent.” He uses my last name, his words flat, mechanical, as if spoken by someone else.
I flinch, taking a step back. “I just thought . . . I brought you a piece of cake.” My voice wobbles as I offer the plate.
He lets out a growl, then lunges at me. I yelp, dropping the plate. Cake splatters across the floor as I bolt out the door.
Zach is fast. He catches up to me just as I reach the top landing of the stairs and grabs my arm, his grip iron-tight as he swings me around. The next thing I know, I’m flying through the air, crashing into the small closet.
The door slams shut behind me, and everything goes dark.
“No, no, no!” I shriek, my hands scrambling for the doorknob, nails scratching, desperate.
