Did she come home? She had to, right? It's her mom. Of course she did.
But when? How long has she been back? Is she right now, literally, a few steps away on the other side of the fence?
I want to ask. God, I want to ask.
The words claw their way up my throat, but my mouth feels like it's glued shut. My leg bounces under the island stool, jittery, restless. My fork's stirring the baked ziti like it's a crime scene, shredding the noodles into some sad, unrecognizable mess.
Finally, I cave. The words tumble out, too rushed, too eager.
"Is... she there? Is she home?"
Sam just hums, blowing on her fork before shoving another bite into her mouth, cheeks puffing like a chipmunk. "Yeah."
My pulse kicks. "Really?" The word comes out an octave higher, cracking in the middle.
Shit. I sound like I just hit puberty again. "She—she's back? Are—are you sure?"
Smooth, Westbrook. Real smooth.
Sam and Mom both turn their heads at me, wide-eyed, like I just confessed to murder.
Sam swallows. "Uh, yeah? She just came back, like, twenty minutes ago?"
That's it. I'm up before I even realize I moved, chair screeching against the tile.
My heart's sprinting. My brain's all over the place—eager, nervous, a little terrified. Three years is a long time.
Do best friends even stay best friends after radio silence that long? Or is there some unspoken expiration date? Especially when it wasn't me who cut things off.
She ghosted me. She disappeared on me.
Still, my feet stalk toward the back door, heavy, fast. My whole body feels coiled, ready to bolt straight into her room, like I'm eighteen again.
"Where are you going?" Sam asks, voice high and suspicious.
"Next door," I throw over my shoulder. "To see Caroline."
I don't even bother hiding the edge in my voice. I want to run. I want to see her, now. My sugarplum. My best—whatever the hell she is now.
"Caroline?" Mom's voice cuts through, laced with confusion. She looks from me to Sam, brows pinched. "She's home?"
"That's what she says," I reply, pointing at my sister like she's my damn alibi.
Sam blinks. And then that guilty little grin creeps up, tugging her mouth sideways. She scratches at her temple like she's stalling. "Ooooh. You meant Caroline? My bad."
My stomach drops.
Sam shrugs, still grinning awkwardly. "I thought you were asking about the nurse. Caroline's not there."
For a second, I just stand there, hand still hovering over the back door handle like an idiot. My pulse had been sprinting a marathon and now it just... slams into a wall.
Not there.
The air rushes out of me in one long, sharp exhale. It's not anger, not even close. It's worse. It's disappointment—the kind that knots in your gut and makes you feel stupid for even letting yourself hope.
I let go of the door handle and drag a hand down my face, muttering, "Great. Just great."
My chest still buzzes with the leftover adrenaline, but now it's got nowhere to go. Eagerness collapses into this heavy, sour frustration. I'd already pictured walking into her room, seeing her again, hearing her voice.
