How am I supposed to believe anything they’ve said? Every time my parents would remind us of how important the truth was, they were lying.
I have a brother I know nothing about—one I could’ve bonded with, and who would have seen me.
But Dad took that away because he didn’t want to admit he’s not as perfect as he’s led us all to believe.
It’s all been lies.
I grab the letter, taking off down the stairs, trying to catch my breath as memories of growing up here chase me. How many people have been hurt by their lies? None of this was real.
How could they do this to us? To our family? To Carter?
And then my anger turns into a flame when I walk into the living room, spotting the lighter sitting next to a candle on the coffee table. It feels like I’ve been possessed, holding the edge of the letter to the small flame before dropping it on the rug. It can’t decide if it wants to burn or not, but then, as if sensing how poisoned everything in this house is, the fire starts to dance, spreading across the rug before I can change my mind.
I trip over my feet as I backpedal, my heart thundering in my chest as I force myself to walk out the front door I came in through.
What the fuck did I do?I drag my hand through my hair, trying to catch my breath.Am I fucking insane?
How am I supposed to undo this? Two wrongs don’t make a right, and if anything, I should have saved the letter instead of burning it. There’s a fire extinguisher in the garage. I can still fix this. The rug is probably unsalvageable, but I can lie and say I knocked over the candle when I came back to grab something for the new school year. I made a mistake, but I can fix this.
I run back inside the house, but I didn’t think about how quickly the fire would spread. The entire room is filled with flames, now climbing the walls, and the heat kisses mycheeks.
Oh my god.
I make a split-second decision to cover my tracks, darting through the kitchen to exit through a side door. There’s a rock near the ground, and maybe if they think someone broke in, no one will realize it was me. I chuck it through the glass window above the lock, then I run as if it’ll be enough to save me.
None of it was real.
Not one bit.
Maybe it deserves to burn.
CHAPTER FOUR
Bailey
NOW
I findmy parents sitting on the back deck, their heads bent together as they exchange hushed words. The door squeaks, giving me away as both of them look toward me. Mom wipes her cheeks, but not fast enough to hide the fact she’s crying. She tries to recover by offering me a smile.
“Hi, Bailey. You want to come sit with us?” she offers, motioning to the open seats around the table. There’s a pitcher of lemonade, and a few stray glasses matching the one Mirabelle dropped when she saw me.
If I sat at the seat I used to call mine, I’d find the four little dots right in front of me from when I jammed a fork into the wood. Hunter once bet me I couldn’t get it to stand up on its own, and there should be twin marks on the ceiling of the dining room where I dared him to throw a fork trying to make it stick.
Instead, I opt to sit in the chair across from them. I remember it being Mira’s, but who knows who might sit here now. It appears the family dynamic kept changing after I left, but I shouldn’t have expected anything else.
My stomach is twisting in knots under the scrutiny.
“So,” I start, wincing when I realize I actually have no idea what I’m going to say. I buy myself a moment clearing my throat. “I guess I should thank you for not changing the code to the gate.”
I take the opportunity to really look at my parents, noting the changes I didn’t see earlier, and I’m floored by the difference in their appearances. For the first time, it dawns on me they’re growing older and won’t be here forever. It only makes the roots of my guilt burrow deeper inside me.
Dad’s hair is more salt than pepper, and he looks tired. Mom’s blonde hair is longer again, and the lines on her face seem more noticeable.
“We didn’t change it because we wanted you to have a way in if you ever decided to come home,” Dad admits, and calling it “home” causes a lump to form in my throat. I’m not sure I deserve to have this as my home after the mistakes I’ve made.
“Thank you,” I say, maintaining our eye contact, but it takes effort. I’ve carried the regret for how I treated him those last six months with me every single day. I thought he deserved it, but I was wrong. I was wrong about everything.
The shame is what’s kept me away.
