But then the love and care I have for them, the devotion to do better, be better, protect them, makes me wonder if it's really the right thing to do.
I could let them keep their illusion of a perfect family, keep living the life of the outcast as I always have. No one here ever believed James really wanted me to begin with, so, while my parents would face a lot of backlash and embarrassment, it would die down after a year.
But then I remember Aubrey's voice. "Please don't tell them."
She wasn't remorseful. She was scared. Because even though she knows this was too far, she still did it anyway.
And that? I can’t forgive.
I grab my phone and see twenty missed calls and countless texts from her. I don't have to listen to the voice messages or read the texts to know what she wants.
She’s going to try and play the guilt card, maybe even apologize profusely, but in the end, she just doesn’t want me to blow her perfect little life to smithereens. Even though that’s exactly what she did to me.
The fucking audacity.
I open my texts to the group message with my parents and type:
I walked in on James and Aubrey in my bedroom. She's pregnant with his child. The engagement's off.
The moment I hit send, memories of our childhood flood my mind. The scraped knees I bandaged. The hair I curled for prom. The late-night ice cream when some boy broke her heart. The way I covered for her when she wanted to sneak out. The homework I helped her finish and did when she forgot. Every meal I made her plate first. Every time I chose her over me.
Every.
Single.
Time.
And now it's all gone.
A sob escapes me, and I bite my lip hard, using the pain to distract me from my sorrow. Then I put my phone face down on the table.
I can't sit here like this anymore. I can't.
I have to move. Have to do something before I lose my mind.
I throw out every plate, every cup, every fork and spoon—everything in the sink, on the counter, even the clean ones drying on the rack.
The shoes by the door? Gone. All of it—his, hers, theirs—into a black trash bag.
Then another for everything in the living room. The bedroom. The bathroom.
I drag the bags with their belongings to the entry closet then stuff them inside. Then I take the trash out. And when I step back into my empty house, my adrenaline disappears, and I'm left drained and hollow.
I manage to make it to the couch and curl myself into a ball, hoping, praying, that if I squeeze my knees tight enough and close my eyes hard enough, some of the heartache will fade.
For a second, I don't know where I am.
I'm sinking into cushions and pillows. The room is completely dark, and I feel lost, empty.
But when I lick my dry, cracked lips and taste my stale tears, it all comes rushing back.
My breath hitches, my heart pounds in my ears, but I smack my thighs hard. The sudden sting makes my brain freeze, just long enough, for me to get my bearings.
I won't let myself get lost in all of this, not again.
I rotate my head, trying to fix the crick in my neck, but it's no use. My body aches, and it's not just my bones, it's my soul.
I'll get through this. I will get through this.
