"Then what is the point?" The words come out sharper than I mean them to. Louder. Angrier than I want to sound. "That I'm supposed to sit at a table and play happy family after your brother made it clear I'm not welcome here?"
"Bane was out of line—" His voice rises slightly. Just a fraction. The control slipping.
"But not wrong."
I cut him off. Meet his eyes. Hold his gaze even though it makes my stomach churn.
Atlas's jaw tightens. "You're being difficult."
"I'm being honest."
"No. You're being defensive. There's a difference." He crosses his arms, and somehow he looks even bigger. More imposing. "We're trying here, Max. Richard is trying. Your mother is trying. I'm trying. But you have to meet us halfway."
"I didn't ask for any of this."
"Neither did we."
The words land like a slap.
I take a step back. Stumble slightly. Catch myself against the doorframe.
"Right," I say quietly. The fight drains out of me. Leaves me hollow. "Got it."
"Max—" He reaches out. One hand extending toward me. Like he wants to take it back. Like he wants to fix it.
"No, you're right.” I step away from his hand. From his reach. “You didn't ask for me to move in and fuck up your perfect family dynamic. I'll stay out of your way."
"That's not what I—" His hand drops. Fists at his side.
But I'm already moving past him, shoulder checking his arm as I go.
"Max."
I don't stop.
I take the stairs fast, not looking back. Not giving him the satisfaction. Not giving him another chance to tell me I don't belong.
Behind me, I hear him mutter something under his breath. It sounds like "Christ."
Good.
Let him be frustrated. Let him think I'm difficult. Let him think I'm an asshole.
I don't care. I do care. I care too much. But I can't let him see that.
I just need to get out of this fucking house.
Margot's car is a silver hybrid that still smells new.
She left the keys on the counter with a note. Written on the back of a grocery receipt in her neat handwriting:Take my car tonight, honey. Drive safe. Love you.
I pocket the keys and don't look back at the house. Don't look at the windows. Don't check if anyone's watching. Just go. Just leave.
The drive to campus takes twenty minutes. I take the back roads. Avoid the highway. Give myself time to breathe. Time to think. Time to pull myself together. Cascade Community College sits on the edge of the city, all concrete buildings and parking lots that never have enough spaces. It's not prestigious. It's not impressive.
It's mine. The only place that still feels like it belongs to me.
I park near the humanities building—third row, under a flickering streetlight that buzzes when I turn off the engine— and sit in the car for a minute, staring at the steering wheel. My hands are still gripping it. White-knuckled. I have to consciously unclench my fingers.
