Like this is a spill on a tablecloth. Like there’s a napkin for it. Like you can wipe it clean and laugh it off.
Sierra swallows, her throat working, and when she speaks again her voice sounds smaller, but it’s steady.
“I can’t.”
The way she says it hits harder than the shouting. Like she isn’t refusing.
She’s telling the truth.
Her mother steps in next, eyes bright with panic and fury, lips pressed tight like she’s holding back a scream she’s saving for later.
“You will not destroy what we built because you couldn’t keep your legs closed.”
For a split second, the world goes quiet. Not because the music stops. But because every person within earshot holds their breath at the exact same time.
My body moves before my brain finishes catching up. I step forward.
“Enough.” I shout. The word landing heavy, and final. It hits the floor between us like a weight nobody can pick up.
Every eye shifts to me.
Her parents look surprised, like I’ve stepped out of character, as if I’m not supposed to speak unless spoken to.
That alone makes my jaw tighten.
“You don’t get to speak to her like that,” I say, gaze locked on them, not Sierra. “Not now. Not ever.”
Her mother’s mouth parts like she’s about to argue. I don’t give her time. I keep my stance calm, shoulders squared, voice steady.
Sarah is still standing where I left her. I don’t look at her yet, but I feel her change, the slightest shift in her posture like she’s bracing, ready to intervene if I lose control.
I won’t.
Control is the only thing keeping me upright. I turn to Sierra then.
Not because I’m ready to look at her after the bomb she just dropped. But because I need to see her. I need to know if she’s okay. If she’s breathing. If she’s even in her own body.
She looks… closed off.
Not physically. Emotionally. Like she folded in on herself and locked the door. Her hands shake at her sides, fingers curling in tight, nervous fists. Her eyes won’t quite meet mine.
I’m still waiting for anger to arrive.
But It doesn’t.
What hits instead is devastation so complete it drains the color from everything else. Like someone reaches inside my chest and pulls something loose.
Something vital. “Why me? How did you decide I was the one good enough?” I ask.
My voice sounds steady and that surprises me. I can hear the calm in it, and it feels wrong, like calm doesn’t belong in a moment like this.
Sierra’s lips part but nothing comes out.
And somehow that tells me everything. Not the specifics or the moment she decided I was good enough. Just that there isn’t an answer she can live with if she says it out loud.
I’m vaguely aware of movement to the side of me.
Ellie’s face goes tight. Emma’s hand flies to her mouth. Ethan’s posture shifts like he wants to put his fist through something. Sarah goes still in that way she does when she’s trying not to show emotion in public. Her stillness is controlled, but I can feel the crack in it.
