I don’t know why I say it. Maybe because a small, petty part of me wants my friends to see that I’m not completely falling apart, that someone cares enough to be here even if he can’t quite figure out how to be truly present. Or maybe I just don’t want to be alone when I face whatever fresh disaster awaits me when the hospital finally calls to tell me about my dad.
I open the car door and step out.
The cold air hits my face, but it’s nothing compared to the heat crawling up my neck as Sam and Aubrey’s eyes lock onto me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice already defensive and prepared for impact.
Sam steps down from the porch, her face tense with worry and something else I can’t quite understand.
“We’ve been texting you,” she says, and there’s an edge to her tone that makes my stomach clench. “You didn’t answer.”
“I know. I’ve been busy.”
The words come out clipped and dismissive. I hear how they sound, and I hate it, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
Aubrey’s gaze flicks to the passenger side of my car, sharp and assessing.
“With him?” she asks flatly.
There it is. No easing into it. Just going straight for the jugular.
I turn slightly to see Jace still sitting in the car through the windshield, staring out his side window with his jaw clenched tight. He’s trying to make himself smaller, invisible, and the sight of it does something complicated to my chest. It makes me angry, protective, and exhausted all at once.
“Yeah,” I say, turning back to face them. “With him.”
I won’t elaborate. Don’t explain. Don’t apologize.
Sam and Aubrey exchange a look that speaks volumes, one of those silent conversations between friends that cuts deeper than words ever could.
Sam crosses her arms, her face tightening with a mix of concern and accusation.
“Why?”
The question lingers there, loaded and impossible.
Because when I was falling apart, he was the only one who gave a shit.
Because when I couldn’t breathe, he held me.
Because you weren’t there.
“You don’t get to interrogate me,” I say instead.
“We’re not interrogating you,” Sam shoots back, her voice rising. “We’re worried about you.”
“Oh, now you are,” I say. That comes out sharper than I mean, cutting through the morning air with all the bitterness I’ve been carrying for weeks.
Aubrey’s brows furrow, confusion and hurt flashing across her face.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” I say, my voice trembling now not from fear but from anger that’s been building brick by brick until I can’t hold it back anymore, “that when my dad had a stroke two days ago and I was sitting in a hospital room by myself, you were too wrapped up in your own bullshit to notice.”
Sam recoils slightly, her arms dropping to her sides. Her mouth opens but nothing comes out. Aubrey goes completely still, shock written across every feature.
“What?” Sam breathes.
“Your dad...” Aubrey begins, but the words die.
