I unpack slowly. Methodically. Giving myself a task so I don't have to think about where I am. About what comes next.
Clothes in the dresser. My faded t-shirts and worn jeans look wrong in the pristine drawers, like something from a thrift store mixed in with designer labels. Laptop on the desk. Old, scratched, held together with hope and a sticker I got from a writing workshop two years ago. Books on the shelf, next to the ones Margot already put there. My pill bottle goes in the bottom drawer, hidden under a stack of t-shirts. I bury it deep, checking twice to make sure it's not visible if someone opens the drawer. Not that anyone would. Not that anyone should.
Paranoid? Maybe.
But I've learned the hard way that secrets stay secret only if you guard them.
When I'm done, the room still doesn't feel like mine. It's too clean. Too put-together. Like a hotel room instead of a home.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull out my phone.
No messages. The screen is blank except for the time—3:47 PM—and my wallpaper, a photo of Margot and me from last Christmas.
Margot's in Italy. She doesn't need me bothering her on her honeymoon.
I open my contacts anyway. Scroll to her name. Stare at it. My thumb hovers over the call button. Press. Don't press. Press. Don't press.
Then I close the app and shove the phone in my pocket.
You're fine. You're fine.
I need air.
The house is a maze.
I find the stairs easily enough, but once I'm on the main floor, I get turned around twice trying to find the back door. Every hallway looks the same—cream walls, expensive art, doors that could lead anywhere. Eventually, I stumble into a massive kitchen—all granite and stainless steel—countertops so clean they gleam, appliances so new they still have that showroom shine, and spot glass doors leading outside.
I take them. Push through into the late afternoon sun, into air that doesn't smell like leather and money and other people's lives.
The backyard is ridiculous. Pool. Olympic-sized, with a diving board and underwater lights. Patio. Stone, with furniture that looks like it came from a resort. Gardens that look like someone's full-time job. Roses. Hydrangeas. Something purple I don't have a name for. All perfectly arranged. All perfectly maintained. And beyond it all, a path leading down to the water. Wooden planks set into the grass, weathered gray, leading down a gentle slope.
I follow it.
The dock is old—older than the house, maybe. Weathered wood that creaks under my feet. Each plank groans softly, achorus of age and wear. It juts out into the bay, and the water laps at the posts, rhythmic and soothing. Gentle. Persistent. A sound like breathing.
I sit at the edge, legs dangling over the side, and stare out at the horizon. The water stretches out forever, dark blue fading to gray where it meets the sky. A few boats dot the distance—white sails catching the afternoon light.
It's quiet here. Peaceful.
I hate how much I need that right now.
The water is dark. Deep. I can't see the bottom. It's black beneath me, reflecting the sky but revealing nothing underneath. Hiding everything.
I lean forward slightly, looking down, and my reflection stares back at me. Distorted by the ripples. Face wavering. Eyes too dark. Mouth too tight. Rippling.
My chest tightens. The air won't come. Won't fill my lungs the way it should.
The reflection shifts, and for a second—just a second—I'm not looking at the bay. I'm looking at tile. Bright white tile and fluorescent lights and water that smells like chemicals. Sharp. Burning. Wrong.
"You need to learn to swim, Maximus."
Linda's voice cuts through the memory before I can stop it. Sharp. Impatient. High-pitched. Grating. The sound of it like nails on a chalkboard even years later.
I was eleven. Small for my age. Scared of everything. Scared of her most of all.
She'd dragged me to the community pool, her fingers digging into my upper arm hard enough to leave bruises, insisted I was being ridiculous, that every kid needed to know how to swim.
But lessons cost money we didn't have.
