I trace the rim of my glass, staring at the faint scuff marks on the table my mom used to polish every Sunday. Her ghost lives in the shine Abi can’t quite replicate.
I watch Talon pick at his salad. He’s got that restless energy, like a runner waiting for the gun to fire. I keep wondering why he took a gap year if he’s so eager to be home now. Abi’s always made it sound like she’s comfortably well-off—not rich, but fine. Financial aid exists. Loans exist. So why wait? And why not come home to his family for that year instead of wasting it somewhere else?
Something doesn’t line up.
Abi starts in on the story before I can even ask. “Talon was a bit of a troublemaker,” she says, voice light but pointed, the kind of tone people use when they’re pretending they’ve already forgiven you for something they clearly haven’t. “So he was toldhe had to prove that he’d grown up before he could be around his sister again.”
Talon doesn’t take the bait. Not right away. He just stabs a crouton and rolls it through his dressing, jaw ticking once before he says, “Lotta good that did, since you sent her off to school.”
Abi’s smile freezes midair, her jaw tightening just enough to make the muscles at her temples jump.
Dad cuts in fast. “She’ll be home soon for fall break. It’s not right for her to be away when her family’s here.”
Abi’s voice sharpens, still polite but cold underneath. “We didn’t discuss that, Chad. I sent her there to get an amazing education and learn independence.”
The way she clips the word makes my teeth ache. Dad looks down at his plate, and it lands like a tiny victory in her column. She always does this—makes it sound like her decisions are the smart ones and everyone else is just catching up. It’s subtle. A gentle dig wrapped in grace. Nice, but passively pissy.
I glance at Talon. He’s quiet, but his eyes give him away. There’s love there—raw, stubborn love—for his little sister, the kind that doesn’t fade just because someone shipped her off. It’s the same look I used to see in my dad’s eyes after my mom died. The helpless kind. The kind that says,I’d fix this if I knew how.
He catches me watching and lifts one brow, the corner of his mouth curving slowly—like he’s just found a weakness worth keeping. I drop my gaze to my fork before he can see the heat crawl up my neck.
I try to keep my voice even when I speak. “Where’s Talon staying?”
Abi sets her fork down and folds her napkin neatly. “He’s at the dorms, of course. Your father and I told him there’s no room in this house right now. We just need a bigger space if we’re merging families.”
I blink. “No room?”
There are literallythreeunused bedrooms upstairs. One’s the guest room, and the other two are filled with boxes and memories. My mom’s things. The smell of her perfume is still faintly in the air if you open the door fast enough. Abi doesn’t go in there. Ever.
“Are you trying to move?” I ask, and I can’t hide the bite in my tone.
“This house is lovely,” Abi says, smiling that pageant smile that could crack under pressure. “But we’d love to get a place that feels like ours—a home where we can be a family.”
Family.The word lands like a pebble in my gut.
I look at my dad, and he gives me a quiet, steady smile that used to calm me when I was little. He mouths,Not going anywhere.
I breathe out slowly, shoulders loosening just a little.
Abi claps her hands together, changing the subject like she’s flipping a page. “Let’s settle in and eat, shall we?” She stands and pulls the silver lid off the entrée dish, releasing a puff of steam that smells suspiciously like the ocean and regret.
“Tonight’s special is monkfish with fennel and saffron rice,” she says proudly.
Talon blinks. “Monkfish?”
“It’s very sophisticated,” she replies. “Michelin chefs swear by it.”
He stares at his plate for a long beat, fork hovering midair, the muscle in his jaw twitching once before he drops it with a quiet clink against the china. Dad’s hand twitches toward his water glass, then stills, a faint, wordless shrug softening his expression, understanding without stepping in.
Abi spoons portions onto our plates, careful, deliberate, like the act of serving makes her the kind of person who belongs in glossy magazines. Talon leans back in his chair, one brow lifting as he studies the plate. His lips press into a half-smirk, half-grimace, like he’s trying to decide whether the dish is edible or a test. His eyes narrow, then flick to Abi, searching her face for a clue, suspicion shadowing the hint of a grin that says he might try it, anyway.
He catches me smiling and smirks back.
Abi clears her throat. “You’ll love it. It’s light but rich.”
Sure. Light like an oil spill.
I take a bite because that’s what polite daughters do, and immediately regret every decision that led me here. It’s rubbery and perfumed, like someone cooked the fish in a bottle of fancy lotion. My stomach tightens, but I smile anyway.
