Maybe then I wouldn’t be here sitting in a half-empty house pretending this silence is what I asked for.
Maybe I wouldn’t be trying to explain to a confused little boy why the people who once used to fill this house with laughter don’t come by anymore.
But life doesn’t work like that.
You can’t rewind time no matter how many times you get on your hands and knees and beg.
You can’t undo the words you never said or the ones you finally did.
Still, the wish clings to me.
If I’d just told my dad the truth six years ago about what happened, about what I wanted, maybe the fallout wouldn’t have been so catastrophic.
He wouldn’t have had to find out like this after years of secrets and lies, and maybe that would’ve been better.
He would’ve hated it, he always would have, but maybe time would’ve softened him.
At least it would’ve been the honest way to go about things.
And maybe, just maybe, we’d have found a way through the mess and found something happy on the other side.
Instead, here I am sitting alone on Christmas, replaying every mistake that brought me here like a punishment I can’t stop inflicting on myself.
23
GRANT
It’s been less than two hours since I woke up to that Christmas text from Noelle.
The message is still burned to the back of my eyelids, flashing every time I blink.
It came in at 11:47 p.m. the night before.
I didn’t even hear my phone go off last night, only caught the faint glow of the screen when I rolled over still half-asleep.
Grabbing it without thinking this morning had left me unsuspecting for what I’d soon find.
One glance at the text was all it took to knock the air out of my lungs.
I’d tried calling her over and over again, refusing to accept that being immediately sent to voicemail had meant I’d been blocked. It took Callum trying her too to realize she’d cut us all off.
She didn’t even give us a chance to respond, just cut the cord and walked away before any of us could stop her.
I get why she did it, I really do.
She’s scared.
Embarrassed.
Torn between loyalty and love for both us and her father and the weight of what all of this has done to her family.
Even if that’s true, it still feels like she reached inside my chest and tore my heart out.
I rake a hand through my hair, dragging it over my face as I exhale slowly.
My thoughts won’t stop spinning.
What if she’s not okay?
