“The start.”
“The start of what?”
He gives me a look that is entirely too perceptive.
“You’re unraveling,” he says softly.“And maybe ...you’re afraid of what could happen if you get attached.You hate getting attached and building relationships.”
My pulse stumbles.
The car slows at a red light, the city outside hazy from the mist.And there it is.A truth.
I’m in danger.
Real, emotional danger.
And I don’t know how to stop it.
But I also don’t know if I can look away.
ChapterEighteen
Mara
I don’t open the shoebox again for three whole weeks.
I tell myself I have other things to prioritize—like interviewing tutors for Mila to help her catch up on subjects we couldn’t cover properly in hotel rooms or temporary rentals.Apparently, her science skills are “inconsistent,” which is a polite way of saying we couldn’t exactly erupt volcanoes next to the minibar or dissect owl pellets in a kitchenette with one knife.
There are also summer camps I need to look into so we can register before they’re full.Places where Mila can start making friends, with activity lists long enough to swallow us both—ballet, theater, martial arts, pottery, even a frog preservation society she insists she’s ready to lead.Everything feels urgent, vital, something to throw myself into.All of it takes precedence over figuring out my aunt’s little secret tucked away in that shoebox.
And honestly?
I don’t think the box is even that important.That’s probably just some major gossip that I missed because my family likes to keep secrets.Between the tiny details she left behind.
Trying to adjust to the new life seems a little more pressing.I’m making dinners again, which still throws me.The last time I cooked a formal dinner was that evening, when I got that call—the one that split my life in two.
I watch the phone out of the corner of my eye as I chop, checking between stirs of the pan for a message that never comes.Obviously, therapy is back on my calendar because Mila can’t have a mother who keeps outrunning the grief she refused to face five years ago.
Being here, being home—whatever “home” means—feels like walking through tunnels I shut the doors on.Like each day is another spot on the map I promised myself I’d never revisit.
During meals, Mila and I naturally talk about possible activities and frogs.She’s slightly obsessed with them.We brush our teeth, read a chapter from her book, negotiate bedtime.She wins an extra ten minutes and falls asleep in five.It’s a balancing act, but I keep telling myself I’m managing better than I expected.Actually, I’m rocking it.
If I’m not ...well, no one needs to know that part.
Every night, once the apartment settles into its quiet hum, I carry another box to the balcony.
This is usually when Alec wanders out onto his own balcony with the subtlety of a man who pretends he’s not waiting for something.
We’ve been cataloguing the vinyl together—well, I sort them, and he critiques them.We’re planning on finding a shelf to display them properly, though he keeps calling certain albums “worthy of eternal devotion,” which I’m pretty sure is code for his favorite mixtape inspirations.
Last night he borrowed a stack—again.I’m expecting him to show up with some mixtape and a smug speech about how he “rescued real music from the digital apocalypse.”I don’t know if I believe half the nonsense he says, but I’ll still hand over whatever albums he falls in love with.He calls himself “eclectic.”I call him a snob.
As if on cue, his door slides open.
“You’re already going through the next box?”He appears, arms crossed, pretending he didn’t time this.
“You wanna help?”I tilt my head toward the living room.“The penthouse’s door is open.You can just come in.”
He huffs.It’s not quite irritation, not quite resignation.My open-door habit bothers him, mostly because I don’t lock it.But why would I?We have a doorman who screens everyone coming up to this floor.And really, Alec’s the only person who could walk in without knocking.Not that he does it.
