Chapter fifteen
Lindsay
Arthur leaves early the next day.
He gives me a brief acknowledgment in the kitchen. Barely a nod, really, more gesture than greeting. And left me with a reminder that the driver is available if I need one.
Then the house exhales as the door closes behind him.
Henry leaves soon after.
Backpack, shoes, a distracted goodbye. He doesn't look at me long enough for it to mean anything.
I don't blame him.
Then it's just me.
The house doesn't echo, but it doesn't welcome either. Everything feels supervised—like the walls are used to movement but not to lingering. Marble countertops gleam under recessed lighting. Fresh flowers sit in a vase I didn't arrange. Coffee sits ready in a coffee pot I didn't brew.
I pour myself a cup and lean against the counter, holding it with both hands.
No one asks if I need anything.
No one asks anything at all.
I stand in the kitchen longer than necessary, realizing no one has told me what I’m supposed to do next, or whether I’m allowed to decide for myself.
Marriage, apparently, does not come with instructions.
***
My phone starts chirping before I make it upstairs.
Not actual calls. Just notifications. Dozens of them. Social media mentions I stopped opening days ago because they all say the same thing in different fonts.
I heard you won. We should catch up.
I have a business idea.
I can help you protect your future.
Some names I know. Some I don’t. Some I recognize only because we share a last name—people who never needed me until now.
I scroll without reading, thumb moving out of habit more than interest.
An ad slides between the messages:
CAMICon — Culture, Art, Media & Innovation.
A Week-Long Extravaganza!
Rebranded from Firth City FanFest.
Tickets on sale now.
For half a second, my brain latches onto it like a life raft.
I loved attending the FanFest for the last few years. The panels. The cosplay. The late-night karaoke bars where everyone sang anime openings off-key and no one cared. It was freedom wrapped in neon and noise.
