The porch steps creak under my bare feet. The same creak they've always had. Dad kept saying he'd fix it, but he never did. After he died, Mom said she liked the sound. Said it reminded her of him.
The porch swing hangs in its usual spot, swaying slightly in the breeze. Dad built it the summer I turned ten. Spent three weekends measuring and cutting and sanding while I handed him tools and pretended I was helping.
I sink onto it now, and the familiar groan of the chains sends something cracking open inside my chest.
I don't cry. Not yet. I just sit there, dress pooling around me like a deflated meringue, staring at the garden Dad planted and Mom still tends, breathing in air that smells like childhood and safety and everything I gave up when I followed Callum to the city.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out without thinking.
Twenty-three missed calls from Callum. Forty-seven text messages. Twelve voicemails.
I don't read any of them. I scroll past all of it until I find what I'm looking for.
Mom: Are you there yet? Are you okay?
I look at the timestamp. Three minutes ago.
Me: I'm here. I'm okay.
The reply comes immediately.
Mom: We're at the airport. Aunt Linda is checking our bags. Jessica, are you sure about this? I can cancel. I can come home right now.
I stare at the message. At the worry bleeding through even in text form. Mom giving up her honeymoon—my honeymoon—to come take care of me.
No.
I nod to myself, even though she can't see it, and type back.
Me: I'm sure. Go. Have fun. You deserve this.
Mom: I arranged for someone to pick up Melissa's car in the morning. Don't worry about it. Just rest, sweetheart. Please rest.
Me: That's exactly what I intend to do. The left the key in the glove box.
Mom: I love you. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.
Me: I love you too. Have the best time.
I set the phone down beside me on the swing and stare at the house.
Empty.
Mom's at the airport. On her way to Mexico with Aunt Linda, living the honeymoon I was supposed to have. And I'm here. Alone.
The realization settles over me slowly. Not scary. Not sad. Just... quiet.
"Jessica?"
I look up.
Mrs. Whight is standing at the edge of Mom's property, her ancient Pomeranian tucked under one arm like a furry football. She's wearing a tracksuit the color of a traffic cone and an expression of barely contained glee.
Mrs. Whight has lived next door my entire life. She's also the president, secretary, and sole member of the Largo Waters Information Distribution Network, which is a fancy way of saying she's the town gossip and she takes her job very seriously.
"Hi, Mrs. Whight."
"Isn't it your wedding day?" She's already reaching for her phone with her free hand. Probably has the group chat open and ready.
