“Want me to pretend you didn’t slam your phone like it owed you money?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Cool.” She hands me a mug and plops onto the chair across from me, legs crossed, hair still damp from the lake. “So… we’re doing the silent, brooding aunt-niece vibe today. I can work with that.”
I choke on a laugh. “Who said I’m the aunt?”
She shrugs. “You act like one.”
I stare at her. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”
“No. My Aunt Charlotte is my favorite person. She pretends she’s ‘emotionally unavailable,’ but she also brings me snacks when I’ve had a crap day and doesn’t make me explain anything. You’re… kinda like that.”
Something in my chest shifts — just slightly — like a bruise pressed by accident.
She kicks the leg of my chair lightly. “Seriously, though. You’ve been weird all week.”
“Define weird.”
“Weirder than usual.”
I groan. “Lily.”
“What?” she says, grinning, before her face softens. “I just… want to know if you’re okay.”
And it hits me harder than I expect.
This kid — this brilliant, blunt, too-grown twelve-year-old — has been watching me unravel and trying to stitch around the edges without calling it out.
I look at her, at the mug between my palms, at the lake reflecting the afternoon sun, and something inside me cracks a little.
“You don’t have to babysit me, Lil.”
“I’m not,” she says immediately. “I just… like being here. With you.”
The words land softer than she probably means them to, and something tightens low in my throat. Because it isn’t just concern, and it isn’t pity dressed up as sisterly affection. It’s connection. Real, uncomplicated, steady connection—something I haven’t felt in years. Maybe ever, if I’m being painfully honest.
I lean back in my chair, letting out a long, slow breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Yeah. I like having you around too.”
Her smile blooms small but bright, like she’s been waiting for permission to feel close to me. And for the first time in days, the knot in my chest eases—not enough to disappear, but enough to breathe a little deeper.
Eventually, Lily wanders back outside, announcing she’s going to “sun-dry like a lizard,” which is her way of saying she needs fresh air and space but doesn’t want me to think she’s leaving me alone. The door clicks behind her, and the quiet in the house expands all at once.
For a few minutes, I think I can handle it. I sit with the stillness, telling myself it’s fine, that I’m fine. But silence has a way ofreshaping itself, shifting into something darker, and soon my thoughts begin rearranging like puzzle pieces snapping into the worst possible pattern.
Banks looked wrecked when he left.
You told him he’s just an employee.
You meant it in the moment.
You didn’t mean it at all.
You broke his heart anyway.
The guilt settles slowly, a thick, unwelcome weight on my chest, making each breath feel like an effort.
Before I can stop myself, I reach for my phone again. I don’t want to; I know it’s a terrible idea. But addiction doesn’t announce itself politely—it just slips into your fingers and taps the screen for you.
