The room goes still.
Pace moves toward the door. “We’re done. You may be the boss’s son, but I’m calling it, Colter. No more tonight.”
John runs a hand down his face. “Peyton, go to your room. We’ll talk later.”
“No,” I snap. “Go pack a bag, Peyton. You’re staying with me.”
Peyton hesitates. Looks at me. Back at John. Then slowly stands.
She brushes past me, leaving heat streaking up my arm. Without another word, she walks out, the door shutting behind her with a soft thud.
The second she’s gone, John rounds on me. But whatever he’s about to say, I don’t give him a chance.
“Someone needs to start telling her the damn truth,” I say quietly. “Before she digs too deep and ends up resenting you. I know it’s hard. I really do, what Sadie did was…inexcusable, but she is going to find out if she keeps digging and the more you keep the truth from her, prevent her from finding out, the further she is going to pull away from you. Is that what you want?”
“You don’t get to—” John starts to snarl, but his own son cuts him off.
“He’s right, dad.” Pace shakes his head, his head lolling back to knock against the office wall. “I know you don’t want to talk about it. Fuck, I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want you tohave to relive all of that shit. Thinking about what Sadie did…it kills me.” He lets out a long sigh before running a hand down his face. “
It pains me to see one of my best friends broken down like this. We were both very young when everything went down with Sadie, but Pace suffered the aftermath of her treachery. John became distant and neglectful, relying on the bottom of a bottle to get him through the day. He became despondent, barely able to take care of his kids. Pace had to be the one to step up. I know he doesn’t resent his father, but John’s neglect still shaped who he is today.
“I’m not ready,” John sighs, pain searing his words like a hot brand. “I just…”
“I’d come to terms with it soon, John,” I tell him. “Because if you don’t, you might lose your only daughter before you get the chance to know her.”
40
The hallway feels too narrow.
Too quiet.
My boots too loud against the floor as I walk away from John’s office, the door clicking shut behind me like a final judgement. My chest aches. Not sharp or sudden, but deep, like something has been hollowed out and left exposed.
I don’t cry.
I can’t.
I learned a long time ago that crying doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t make people kinder. It doesn’t make answers appear. It makes you feel small. And I already feel small enough.
God, I hate that.
I curl my fingers into fists nails biting into my palms as I force myself to keep moving past the living room with photos on the wall of smiling faces and family moments I don’t belong to. Every frame is proof of life that never knew I existed.
A life my mother burned to the ground.
Something happened between her and my father. Something bad enough that no one wants to talk about. They tell me it isn’t my business. That the past is better left buried, but they don’tunderstand. How can they? They know what happened. They know who she was, while I am still struggling to figure it out.
Something caused her to change.
I push into the bedroom. It still doesn’t feel like mine. Too neat. Too intentional. But it’s quiet. Safe. Or at least the closest thing to it.
The door closes behind me, and my breath finally stutters.
I press my forehead against the wood and let it out slowly.
In. out. Again.
They hate her. Not dislike. Not disapprove.
