"You drew hearts around it," Dad adds helpfully from across the kitchen. "In gel pen."
"PURPLE gel pen," Papa clarifies.
"I hate this family," I tell the ceiling.
"And he's married now, so that's completely irrelevant!" I add desperately.
"The purple gel pen is very relevant," Papa insists.
"It shows commitment to the aesthetic," Dad agrees seriously.
"Maybe I should dig out that yearbook," Ben muses. "Bring it to the festival. I'm sure people would love to see all the circles and hearts?—"
"Benjamin Wilson, I swear to?—"
"Language," both fathers chorus automatically, now clearly enjoying themselves.
"You're all the worst." But I'm smiling despite myself, and I can feel my scent shifting—less bitter sadness, more embarrassed affection. At least it's an improvement.
The teasing winds down as everyone disperses. Dad heading to check something in the garage, Papa refilling his coffee, Mom starting on dishes. Ben lingers in the doorway, watching me with that protective big brother look that makes me want to hug him and punch him in equal measure.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
"Yeah." And surprisingly, I mean it. "Thanks for... you know."
"Making you laugh?"
"Being annoying enough to distract me from my existential crisis."
"That's what big brothers are for." He grins. "Now go shower. You smell like sad coffee and the universe will implode if we're late because you're doing that thing where you try on seventeen outfits."
"I do not?—"
"You absolutely do. I'll be in the truck."
I let my forehead fall against the cool granite countertop after he leaves. My family means well. They love me, they want me to be happy, and they can't understand why I'm not bouncing back from my "college phase" like some kind of resilient rubber ball.
The truth is, I'm terrified. Terrified that everyone will see my return as failure instead of an intentional retreat. Terrified that I'll never figure out how to build the independent life I want. Terrified that maybe I've disappointed everyone by not fitting into the mold they expected.
But I can't hide forever. Even I know that.
I push off the counter and head upstairs. Time to face the wardrobe explosion that's about to happen.
Almost an hour later, I'm standing in front of my bedroom mirror surrounded by what looks like a clothing store explosion. I've changed four times, and my floor has become a disaster zone of rejected outfits.
"Too desperate." I toss aside a dress that definitely says "I'm trying too hard."
"Too casual." The sweatpants sail across the room.
"Too... why do I own this?" A crop top from my freshman year joins the pile.
My phone buzzes: You've been up there for 47 minutes. Should I call the fire department?
I text back: I hate you.
You love me. Also you look great in the burgundy sweater. Trust me.
I peer out my window. Sure enough, Ben's leaning against his truck in the driveway, grinning up at me like the smug jerk he is.
