The house is quiet.
No hair dryer blowing. No singing drifting out of Sophie’s room.
Just me, the steady tick of the kitchen clock, and the bitter steam curling up from my coffee mug.
Sophie stayed the night at Maya’s after the BBQ. She has sleepovers all the time; it shouldn’t feel strange.
But the quiet this morning has an edge to it. Too still. Too reflective.
I take a slow sip of coffee, lean my elbows on the counter.
And my mind goes where I don’t want it to.
Charlotte.
The porch last night. The way she looked in the moonlight. The way she stepped in to fix my knee brace when she didn’t have to.
How easy it was to let the words tumble out before I realized I was handing her pieces I don’t give anyone else.
That kiss—if you can even call it that—wasn’t supposed to happen.
I shouldn’t have leaned in. Shouldn’t have let the moment stretch.
It was the way she listened—no fixing, no judging—until the room felt safe enough that I forgot to hold the rest back.
But I did.
And now I don’t know what the hell to do about it.
My phone buzzes on the counter with a text from Sophie.
Mom says she’s DEFINITELY coming to my musical! She promised again this morning!!! ????
Shit.
I stare at Sophie’s text, thumb hovering over the screen.
She’s excited. Hopeful. It’s written all over the exclamation marks and that little pleading emoji she always uses when she really wants something.
I want to believe Vanessa will show up this time.
For Sophie’s sake.
But hope is a risky thing when it comes to her mom.
My phone buzzes again, and I see it’s Mom calling.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Morning, sweetheart. How’s the knee?”
“Still attached,” I say, leaning back in the chair.
She laughs softly. “Well, that’s something. You rehabbing hard?”
“Always.”
In the background, I can hear the faint creak of the back door and my dad’s voice calling something about the paper.
