What a fucking head trip.
Through the walls, I catch the low exchange of voices from the bedroom. Georgia and Eliana are in there, talking. I can’t make out words, just the cadence of conversation—long pauses, thenrushing sentences, intermixed with the occasional wet sound that I think might be crying.
It’s probably for the best that I can’t hear specifics. Whatever’s happening in there isn’t mine to witness.
The wound in my abdomen throbs with every twist of my torso and stretch for the spatula. Georgia’s stitches are holding, but the tissue underneath is angry. A constant, thudding reminder that none of this is normal. Pain to keep me focused on the task at hand.
Sage comes into the kitchen a few minutes later, just as I’m dumping a batch of scrambled eggs off the skillet. The sight of him makes me clench up, which makes the stitches pull, which makes the pain twinge, which makes me grimace, so when he meets my eyes, he’s greeted with a scowl.
He returns it in kind.
Fuck me. We’ve hugged, but we haven’t truly talked yet and it’s long overdue. I slide a plate of eggs and bacon toward him without comment.
He accepts it with a muttered “thanks,” his eyes falling down and away from me.
I throw another slab of bacon on the pan and watch grease pool in the rim of the cast iron. Sage picks at his eggs with his fork, pushing them around more than eating them.
“You gonna stare at the pan all day, or are you gonna say something?” he finally asks.
“Wasn’t sure you wanted me to,” I answer neutrally.
“Yeah, well.” He shoves a bite into his mouth and chews aggressively. “Silence is worse.”
He’s right. It is. But every sentence I draft in my head sounds like a pathetic excuse, and Sage has heard enough of those to last a lifetime. So I just stand there, spatula in hand, waiting for him to tell me what he needs.
He stares at his eggs. I stare at the grease. A Mexican standoff with no prize other than pointless pride that’s long past its sell-by date.
In the end, I break first.
The spatula raps against the counter as I set it down and turn to face him fully. The bacon keeps sizzling behind me, but I don’t care if it burns. This matters more.
“I’m sorry, Sage.”
He looks up, fork frozen halfway to his mouth.
“Not the bullshit sorry I’ve been throwing around for years,” I continue. “This is a real one. I left you on the floor that night.” My hands tighten into fists at my sides. “I became the exact thing I swore I’d never be, the thing I’ve spent sixteen years trying to protect you from.”
Sage’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I’m not going to explain why I did it. You already know, and it doesn’t matter anyway.” I force myself to hold his gaze even though every instinct screams at me to look away. “What matters is that I failed you. Again. I know that. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just need you to know that I see it. I see what I did.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. The bacon keeps sizzling and smoke rises up into the vent hood. I don’t dare move.
Then he sets his fork down. “Do you have any idea what it was like?” he asks. “Not just the kidnapping, but that night. Lying on the floor of our apartment forhours, Basti. I couldn’t get back into my chair. I tried. I tried so fucking hard, and I just—” He shakes his head. “I kept thinking you’d come home. Any minute, you’d be back to pick me up. But you didn’t.”
I still don’t move.
“You want to know the worst part?” He’s shaking now, sixteen years old and trembling with a rage that’s been building for weeks—no, months—no, years. “It felt exactly like after the accident. When my legs first stopped working and I had to learn that my body wasn’t mine anymore. That helplessness. Thathumiliation. And you—you promised me, Basti. You looked me in the eyes and yousworeyou’d never let anything bad happen to me again.”
“I remember,” I manage to choke out.
“Yeah.” Sage’s mouth twists up in disgust. “So do I.”
His hatred is tangible. It’s like hands around my throat, or barbed wire embedding in my skin. Behind me, the bacon’s gone from sizzling to smoking, but I don’t turn around.
Instead, I do something I should have done a long time ago: I move around the counter and lower myself to my knees beside his wheelchair, ignoring the scream of protest from my stitches.
Eye level. Like how I did when he was eight years old and resented people towering over him.
