Doyle gave him a pointed look, then turned back to me with a little exhale, trying to stay calm. Pretending, as always, that he was the reasonable one. “Tally, you said you wanted to eat better for the baby. So yeah, when I make you a healthy dinner, I expect you to—”
“Expect me to what?” I cut in, setting my fork down with a quiet clink. “Eat it and say thank you even though it tastes like compost and makes me nauseous?”
Doyle blinked at me, clearly surprised I was pushing back. “No, I expect you to take some basic care of yourself. And your baby. Jesus, Tally, it’s not like I’m asking you to run a marathon.”
“I didn’t ask you to make me lunch.”
“You didn’t have to. You’re staying here for free, taking up space like you always do and expecting the world to bend around your preferences.”
My whole body went still.
“You asked me to come,” I said, quiet but unwavering. “You told me to come stay with you. And I thought it would be like it always was. We’d hang out and talk and laugh, and you’d still be my best friend even if everything else felt like it was falling apart.”
Doyle’s mouth pressed into a hard line.
“But instead,” I went on, pushing the words out even though my throat was burning, “You’ve been keeping me at arm’s length since the minute I got here. Avoiding me unless it’s to criticize whatever I’m doing or not doing. I don’t even know what I did wrong.”
His jaw worked like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t quite find the right words.
“You’ve been walking around like I’m an inconvenience, like I’m embarrassing you, and I don’t get it, Doyle, I don’t.” My voice cracked, and I hated that it did, but I didn’t stop. “You hated Mom. You hated how she judged us. How nothing we did was ever good enough. And now you’re just like her.”
His eyes snapped to mine.
“You stand in front of me, preaching about vitamins and discipline, acting like you’re so much better than me, and for what? You’re exactly what she was—cold and righteous and impossible to please.”
Doyle slammed his fork down. “You don’t get to say that.”
“Why not? It’s true. You can’t even look at me without that face. That face that says I’ve already disappointed you and I haven’t even opened my mouth yet.”
“Well, maybe being like Mom isn’t perfect,” he said, voice sharp with frustration, “But at least I’m not repeating the same mistakes on a loop.”
I scoffed. “I mean, to be fair, getting knocked up is kind of a new thing for me.”
Jordan let out a quick huff, but my brother didn’t so much as blink.
There was a long, awful beat of silence. Then Doyle dragged both hands down his face. Some of the fire had already drained out of him.
“You want to know why I’m distant?” he said, his voice lower now, the edge cracking. “Because I’m tired. I’m tired of being the one who keeps it all together. I’m tired of watching you make the same choices and then act like you’re shocked when it falls apart. You want support? Great. But support doesn’t mean coddling. It doesn’t mean pretending you’re not the one holding the matches.”
I stood too. I didn’t even realize I’d shoved the chair back until it bumped the ledge behind me.
“I’m not asking you to coddle me,” I said. “I’m asking you to see me. Not as a problem. Not as a failure. Just… me. Your sister.”
He shook his head. “I don’t even know who that is anymore.”
“Well, maybe if you stopped judging me long enough to actually talk to me, you’d find out.”
Doyle didn’t say another word. He stepped back from the table too quickly and stormed off the veranda without bothering to clean up his half-finished bowl of quinoa or the trail of judgment he’d left in his wake. The penthouse swallowed him up a second later, the sound of a door closing somewhere inside cutting off the last of his exit.
Jordan stayed behind long enough to glance in my direction, the slightest flicker of apology in his eyes, although whether itwas for Doyle’s behavior or for not saying more, I couldn’t quite tell. He didn’t speak as he reached across the table and gently stacked our bowls, as if cleaning up could somehow sweep away the damage left behind. Then he followed after my brother, quiet as ever, and I was alone again.
I stepped to the edge of the railing and looked out at the river. The late afternoon sun was slipping low over the rooftops, painting the sky in soft, washed-out colors that didn’t quite manage to feel comforting. The breeze rolled in from the water, cool and clean, carrying the distant murmur of traffic and tourists below.
I sank back into one of the chairs, every part of me heavier than it had been earlier. No tears, just that stubborn lump in my throat and the tightness in my chest from all the words I kept swallowing to keep the peace.
And then, beneath the weight of my hand, a tiny shift. A flutter. A soft, sure movement from inside me, like the baby was reminding me they were still there. Another nudge, firmer this time, and I stilled completely, both hands now resting over the small swell of my stomach.
I wasn’t alone, not really.
