I opened my mouth to speak, but Alice plowed on, not giving me the chance. She gestured wildly at the roses. “This screams ‘I’m sorry I fucked up big time.’ You’re the reason she lied about that so-called work retreat, aren’t you? She probably snuck off with you instead, and whatever drama you dragged her into has her acting like a total bitch ever since she got back.”
Her words landed like punches, assumptions half-right, taking half-wild guesses pieced from context. She didn’t know who I was. There was no flicker of recognition for the scars peeking out from under my hoodie. She didn’t connect my scarred face with the Stonewood name. No, she just saw a guy in flannel, drowning her sister’s apartment in apology flowers, and jumped to boyfriend conclusions. Some hit close: the ‘retreat’ lie covering the Game, her mood from my betrayal. Others missed wide, but the venom was all toxic family flavored and entitled, like Chrissy owed her sunshine despite the bullshit they constantly piled on her.
I stepped forward, keeping space between us, but not backing down, either.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Chrissy’s mood? That’s on you and your family for guilting her for every choice and leaving her to handle Granny Irene’s care alone while you somehow play the victim. She’s not standoffish; she’s exhausted from carrying everyone’s bullshit all the time without an ounce of acknowledgment or gratitude.”
Alice’s face twisted into a snarl, her cheeks flushing bright red.
“Oh, please. Don’t act like you know us. You’re just some guy she hooked up with on that ‘retreat’, right? You’ve probably been feeding her lines, making her think she’s too good for family obligations. That’s why she’s ditching Christmas Eve with our parents… because of you. Mom and Dad are heartbroken, but no, Chrissy’s too busy with her mystery man and his drama to show up for her family.”
“Heartbroken?” I echoed, voice low and edged with disbelief.
“Somehow, I doubt that. They might feel disrespected by her choosing not to visit for Christmas Eve, but she’s just finally echoing back what you’ve all been giving her all these years. You text her like she’s the problem — dramatic and too sentimental — for loving Granny Irene more than you and your bullshit, performative ‘family’ gatherings. It’s not okay. She deserves better than being your emotional punching bag.”
Alice laughed, sharp and mocking, but her eyes flashed with something uglier, defensiveness cracking into rage.
“Better? Like you? Some flower-delivery loser who thinks this fixes whatever mess you made? You’re the reason she’s like this, all distant and angry. What, did you break her heart? Lie to her face?”
The accusations stung because they hit truth, but I held my ground.
“I love her. Fiercely. Enough to protect her from people like you, who take and take without ever giving her anything in return.”
That snapped something. Alice lunged forward, shoving hard at my chest with both hands.
“You don’t get to say that about me and my parents!”
The push caught me off-guard, the forceful shove echoing pain into my wounded side. I staggered back, boot catching on a stray crate edge. Pain exploded as I tripped, crashing down onto the floor amid petals and thorns. My ribs screamed, stitches tearing open in a hot rush. Warmth seeped through my flannel and I shook my head.
Sighing, I gritted my teeth, temper roaring to be unleashed, but I clamped it down. No fighting back. Not here. Not with her sister. I pushed up on one elbow, hand pressing the wound, blood staining my fingers.
“You done?” I rasped, my voice steady despite the fire burning in my side.
Alice loomed over me, breathing hard, eyes wide like she hadn’t expected the fall, or the blood.
“You—”
The door swung open behind her.
Chrissy stood there, grocery bag frozen in her arms, eyes wide as they flicked from the roses to Alice to me on the floor, bleeding.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
CHRISSY
December 22, 8:45 PM
“What the fuckis going on here?”
The words ripped out of me before I could stop them, sharp and raw, echoing in the rose-choked air of my apartment. My grocery bag slipped from numb fingers, apples rolling across the floor like escaped prisoners, thudding softly against scattered petals. The scent hit me next — overwhelming, sweet, almost suffocating. Roses. Hundreds of them. Vases crammed on every surface, petals trailing from the door like a blood-red carpet, a glass dome on the table trapping one perfect bloom with thorns still sharp.
And in the middle of it all: Alice, chest heaving, face flushed with that familiar self-righteous fury. And him — Ben — on the floor, propped on one elbow amid overturned crates, blood soaking through his flannel shirt in a dark, spreading stain. His scarred face was pale, jaw clenched tight against obvious pain, one hand pressed hard to his side.
Alice whirled on me first, eyes blazing.
