“By lying?” I’m on my feet now, the chair screeching against the floor as I push back from the table. “By manipulating us into a fake relationship that—” I stop, suddenly aware of what I’m about to reveal.
But Meema just nods, unsurprised. “That became real? Yes, I’d hoped it would.” She looks between us, her eyes glistening. “And it did, didn’t it? Whatever brought you together—guilt, obligation, my schemes—what’s between you now is genuine. I can see it.”
I look at Sydney, expecting to find the same rage I feel reflected in her eyes. Instead, I see something more complex—anger, yes, but also confusion, hurt, and underneath it all, sympathy.
“I owe you both an apology,” Meema continues. “What I did was wrong. Inexcusable, really. But, Brooks—the endless women, the reckless hits, pushing away your parents, Jonah, anyone who tried to get close.” Her voice breaks slightly. “I was losing you. And I thought about how you always looked at Sydney—like she was everything you wanted but couldn’t have. And I just... I thought I could fix it.”
Ford clears his throat. “Now that she’s fessed up, I’m going to step outside for a few minutes,” he says. “Give you folks some privacy.
“Me too.” Sydney leaves with him.
They exit, leaving the two of us in a silence so thick it feels like another presence in the room. I stare at my grandmother, this woman I’ve loved and respected my entire life, now revealed as a stranger capable of calculated deception on a breathtaking scale.
And yet... part of me understands. Not enough to forgive, not yet, but enough to recognize the desperation that might drive someone to such an extreme. Hadn’t I been guilty of my own deceptions? Keeping secrets, pushing people away, pretending to be fine when I was anything but?
“Say something,” Meema pleads, looking at me. “Anything. Yell at me if you want. I deserve it. I am sorry,” she says softly. “More than I can express.”
I believe her. That’s the hell of it—I know she’s genuinely remorseful. But the betrayal cuts too deep for a simple apology to heal.
“Why didn’t you just talk to me?” I ask the question that’s been burning in my throat. “If you were so worried, why not just tell me?”
Meema’s laugh is hollow. “When was the last time you actually listened to anyone who tried to help you, Brooks? Your parents? Jonah? The team psychologist? You’ve been building walls for years.” She shakes her head sadly. “I thought I needed a wrecking ball to get through to you. Then I realized all I needed was Sydney.”
The simple truth of this statement hits hard. She’s right. I have been unreachable, determined to handle everything alone, pushing away anyone who got too close to my carefully guarded secrets.
And then Sydney Holt crashed through every defense I had, making me want things I’d convinced myself I couldn’t have.
“You know,” Meema continues, watching me closely, “you still haven’t told her the truth.”
I stiffen, the familiar panic rising. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” Meema challenges. “Or are youjust as guilty of deception as I am?”
I’m the one who now sits quietly, so long that the door opens, and Sydney returns with Ford.
“No charges,” Ford announces. “But there will be community service.”
Relief floods Meema’s face. “Thank you,” she says, looking at Sydney and me. “And to both of you.”
Ford gestures toward the exit. “You’re free to go. I’ll be in touch about the community service details.”
As we follow him out of the room, through the station, and back into the cool night air, a heavy silence envelops us. The three of us stand in the parking lot, the stars overhead impossibly bright against the darkness, none of us sure what happens next.
“I can stay at Janet’s tonight,” Meema offers. “Give you both some space to process.”
Part of me wants to agree, to put as much distance as possible between myself and this woman who’s turned my world upside down. But the larger part—the part that remembers her making me chicken soup when I was sick, teaching me to ice skate on the lake, being the only constant in a childhood defined by pressure and expectations—can’t send her away.
“No,” I say firmly. “You’re coming home. We have a lot to talk about, but we’re still family.”
Meema’s eyes fill with tears again, but she blinks them back, nodding. “Thank you.”
Sydney looks at me, a question in her eyes. “Are you okay?” she asks softly.
I’m not, not by a long shot. But with her beside me, her hand finding mine in the darkness of the parking lot, I think maybe I could be, eventually.
“I will be,” I tell her, hoping I actually believe it.
26
