We were almost to the front doors when I heard it—the quick, echoing thud of boots across the polished floor.
My body went still before I turned.
Austin stood just inside the hallway entrance, breathless, eyes sweeping the crowd until they landed on us. His face was flushed, jaw tight, shoulders stiff beneath his coat like he hadn’t even stopped moving long enough to let the air settle in his lungs.
Winnie’s hand went tight in mine.
“Hi, Austin,” she said, her voice small but hopeful. She’d already forgiven him.
He stepped forward fast. “I’m so sorry. Traffic was—I thought I could—” His eyes flicked from her to me. “I swear, I tried. I wanted to be here.”
Winnie looked up at him. “You missed it.”
She didn’t say it with anger. There was no accusation in her voice.
Just quiet disappointment, and somehow I knew that hurt more.
Austin opened his mouth, then closed it again, like he didn’t know what to say that would make it better.
“Your boots look awesome,” he offered.
Winnie didn’t respond.
I looked at him then—really looked at him. The wrinkle between his brows. The regret clinging to his features like soot. The part of him that still thought being sorry could fix things.
“It’s okay,” I said, cutting through the quiet. “We’re heading out.”
“Selene—”
“No,” I said gently, but with finality. “Let’s not do this here. Not now.”
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t cry. I didn’t ask for more than he could give.
I just turned back toward the door, fingers tightening around Winnie’s hand.
“We’re okay,” I said again, but this time it was for her.
Winnie’s hand felt smaller than usual as it gently squeezed mine, her pink coat half buttoned over her dress. She didn’t bounce or skip or ask a million questions about ice cream. Her spark had dimmed into something quieter, more inward, like all her extra glitter had settled beneath her skin and weighed her down.
The gym doors thudded shut behind us, the air outside cool and damp with the first hint of late autumn. Night had fallen fast—slate sky, breath in clouds. The parking lot was a mess of brake lights and uneven idling, parents calling to each other over too-tight parking spaces.
I guided Winnie between puddles, her boots squelching against the pavement. She didn’t speak, just climbed into the back seat when I opened the door. I helped her shrug off the coat, fastened the seat belt snug across her lap, and leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead.
“You were the best one up there,” I whispered.
She gave me a quiet smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
I stood with my hand still resting on the door for a breath longer than necessary. Then I closed it gently and circled to the driver’s side, blinking against the sting gathering behind my lashes.
My hands found the steering wheel but didn’t turn the key. I sat there, staring straight ahead as headlights swept across the lot, illuminating corners I didn’t want to look at too closely.
Across the row of cars, under the yellow glare of the gymnasium’s exterior light, Austin stood just outside the doors, his hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, shoulders hunched like he wasn’t sure whether to come closer or turn around and disappear.
His eyes were on the car.
Onus.
My heart twisted, low and mean, an ache that knew exactly where to press.
