I pulled back just enough to look up at him, tears streaking my cheeks. His expression wasn’t startled or impatient or confused. It was open. Concerned. Completely present.
“I feel safe with you,” I said, the words slipping out before I could filter them. “And that scares me.”
His jaw tightened slightly—not with discomfort, but with emotion. “Why?”
“Because when I feel safe, I stop holding everything in.”
He nodded once, like that made perfect sense.
“I think,” I said shakily, “I’m ready to tell you what happened. About that summer. Before high school.”
His hands stilled, then settled again, grounding. “Okay.”
“I’ve never told anyone,” I added quickly. “Not really. Not the full truth.”
“I’m listening,” he said gently.
I took a breath. Then another. My chest felt tight, like I’d been carrying something heavy for years and was only just now realizing I was tired.
“My little brother,” I began. “Jonesy.”
Wyatt’s brow furrowed. “Jonesy … yeah. Of course. He was—what then—eight?”
“Nine,” I corrected softly. “He was always following us around. Remember how he tried to race you on your bike?”
Wyatt huffed out a quiet breath. “Yeah. Kid had zero fear.”
My throat tightened. “Too little fear.”
I swallowed hard. “He died that summer.”
The words landed between us, heavy and final.
Wyatt went completely still.
“What?” he whispered.
“It was a ziplining accident,” I said, forcing myself to keep going before I could stop. “We were on vacation. One of those stupid adventure places my dad thought would be fun. They said it was safe. Everyone said it was safe.”
My hands trembled. Wyatt tightened his hold, anchoring me.
“I was right there,” I said. “I watched it happen. The harness failed. Or the line did. Or something—I don’t even know anymore. I just know he looked at me right before he went.”
My voice broke completely then.
“I was supposed to be watching him,” I sobbed. “I was the older sister. I was standing right there. And I didn’t stop it.”
Wyatt shook his head slowly, his grip firm. “Soph, no?—”
“I know,” I rushed on. “I know what people say. That it wasn’t my fault. That accidents happen. But I felt it happen. I felt my whole world crumble. And after that—nothing was ever the same.”
Tears blurred my vision, but I kept going.
“My parents fell apart,” I said. “They tried not to. But grief does things to people. My mom couldn’t stand to stay in Valentine. Every street, every room—it all reminded her of him. Of what we’d lost.”
Wyatt’s thumb brushed gently under my eye, wiping away a tear.
“She wanted to pretend he never existed,” I whispered. “She packed up his things. His pictures. His trophies. Everything. Like erasing him would make the pain stop.”
