"Poor Chase. Outnumbered in his own house." She puts the watermelon in the fridge. "Even Jackson doesn't stand a chance with you around."
Jackson. Right.He's still here, still in the basement. Still avoiding me as much as I'm avoiding him.
Max kneads my thighs, claws out just enough to sting through my jeans. The pressure hits right where I cut three nights ago. I suck in a breath but don't move. The pain grounds me. Reminds me I'm still here, still real.
"You okay?" Emma's watching me again.
I'm never okay anymore.
"Yeah. Just hungry."
"Let's make lunch. I'm actually feeling human for the first time today."
We make sandwiches and eat at the kitchen table while Ethan spreads peanut butter on his face instead of eating. Max sits at my feet, occasionally pawing at my leg for attention.
This is nice.Normal.The kind of afternoon I used to dream about having: hanging out with Emma, playing with Ethan, existing without the weight of everything crushing me.
But it's all temporary. A brief reprieve before reality crashes back in.
The afternoon passes in a blur of toddler entertainment and small talk. Emma puts Ethan down for a nap around two. Chase and Jackson get home two hours later, both of them sweaty from practice. Jackson nods at me, but heads straight for the basement. Chase kisses Emma and asks about her morning.
I excuse myself and go upstairs to the guest room.
It's a nice room. Blue walls, white furniture, and a window that overlooks the front of the house. Emma made it up for me the first night with fresh sheets and extra blankets.
I should be grateful. I am grateful.
But sitting here on the edge of the bed, staring at my bags still unpacked in the corner, all I feel is tired.
Tired of pretending. Tired of lying. Tired of flinching at shadows and fighting panic attacks in grocery store aisles. Tired of being in my own skin.
My journal is in the front pocket of my bag. I pull it out and open it to a blank page.
The pen hovers. I should write. Should get some of this out before it eats me alive.
But the words won't come. They're all stuck somewhere behind my ribs, sharp and cutting and too big to fit on paper.
I close the journal and set it on the nightstand.
Max appears in the doorway. He jumps onto the bed and settles in my lap, purring.
I pet him and stare at the wall, watching the shadows lengthen as the sun sets. Downstairs, I can hear Emma and Chase talking, Ethan's little voice joining in. The sounds of a family.A home.
I used to have that. Not a family like theirs, but a place where I belonged. A job I loved. A purpose that got me out of bed every morning.
Now I have a journal I can't write in, a cat that isn't mine, and a best friend I'm lying to every time I open my mouth.
Outside, someone's shooting a basketball. The steady thump echoes through the quiet. I get up and look out the window.
Jackson's in the driveway, alone in the growing dark, taking shot after shot at the hoop over the garage. His form is effortless, pure muscle memory. He sinks three in a row, misses the next, then grabs the rebound and tries again.
I watch him until Max meows, demanding attention.
"Okay, okay." I sit back down and let him climb into my lap again. "Just you and me, huh?"
He purrs in agreement.
I stroke his fur and stare at nothing. That's all I'm doing here, really. Taking up space. Waiting for the next disaster,counting down the days until I have to leave, and figuring out what the fuck comes next.
