“You gonna text her?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Good. And Wyatt—” He pauses. “I’ve been where Chris is. The reintegration, the anger... I know what that does to a person. But you getting tangled up in it right now isn’t going to make it easier for him. It might make it harder.”
“I know.”
He softens. “You’re allowed to care. Just don’t be the thing that keeps him from doing the work himself.”
I nod, but the words settle wrong. Like they’re meant for someone who doesn’t already know what stepping back costs. I watched my stepfather disappear into that distance. People call it “space” when they don’t want to call it what it is. I swore I’d never do that to anyone. Stand close. Stay visible. Make sure no one confuses silence for not giving a damn.
But Mason’s not wrong. There’s a difference between standing close and standing in the way.
Mason studies me for a moment, and his expression eases. “But if it’s already too late for that—and it sounds like it is—he’s going to fight you on this. Whatever’s happening between you two, he’s going to make it harder than it needs to be. That’s what we do when we come back.” His gaze drops to Zoey. “Callie never chased me. But she never walked away either. She just stayed.”
That lands harder than anything Chris threw at me tonight.
He leans in and kisses Zoey’s forehead. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my daughter’s about to throw her laptop at the cat.”
He logs off.
I sit there for a long moment, still bracing like there’s more coming.
Then I grab my phone, pull up my text thread with Nina.
WYATT: Shipping the last of your stuff today. You good?
I don’t hit send right away. I just stare at the words.
Then I tap the screen.
And wait.
9
Nina
The tap is still running. I don’t remember turning it on.
Three sticks lined up on the edge of the tub, timers counting down like synchronized grenades. I didn’t mean to do all of them at once, but once I opened the boxes it felt inevitable. Like if I tested one at a time, the first could be wrong. The second a fluke. Three is data. Three is confirmation. Three means I can’t lie to myself after.
My back’s against the wall. I’m sitting on the bath mat, knees bent, jeans still caught around my ankles. I can’t remember if I wiped. I think I did. Maybe.
The tests are just shapes. Plastic and pink. The light above the mirror is too bright, buzzing faintly like it’s about to burn out. It’s the only sound besides the tap.
I should look.
But my head won’t turn to look straight on, as if keeping them in my periphery will keep the answer at bay.
Something’s wrong with my hands. They’re on my thighs but they don’t feel like mine.
My stomach twists. Not nausea this time—just a slow, grinding clamp like something inside me has decided to self-destruct.
I think of the copper coil curled inside me. My silent sentinel. My failsafe. I remember the insertion. The way I gripped the edges of the exam table, trying not to flinch. The doctor had said it was good for ten years. That it would protect me.
Three years in. And still, here I am.
I breathe, but it’s not working. The air goes in, but nothing settles.
