I type anyway.
Andrew: We're good. Are you?
Send.
Chapter thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-Six—Riley
The door clicks shut.
Connor doesn’t move.
He stands in the middle of the room, staring like this might rewind if he waits long enough.
Everything they brought into this space—the noise, the movement, the constant presence—drops out all at once. The place feels too big without them.
Connor turns.
He doesn’t look at me as he walks to the kitchen. Just moves past, steady, controlled, like he’s already holding something down and doesn’t trust himself to loosen his grip.
He drags out a stool and sits, both hands flat against the marble, eyes fixed somewhere past the windows.
I stay where I am.
I’ve learned this part. Filling the silence never helps with Connor. It just gives him something to push against.
A minute passes.
Maybe more.
He turns slightly, just enough that he’s facing me now.
“I’m your brother, Riley.”
His voice is quiet. Too quiet.
“You could’ve called me. It’s been over two months and you never said a word. At any point. One phone call. Why didn’t you?”
There isn’t a clean answer.
I knew that before he asked.
“It moved fast,” I say. “Faster than I thought it would. And you were on your honeymoon and I didn’t want to—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in, sharper than anything he’s said so far. “Don’t make this about my honeymoon.”
I stop.
“That’s not the reason.”
I swallow. He’s not wrong.
“It’s part of it,” I say, quieter. “You had ten weeks where things were good. I didn’t want to be the call that—”
“Riley.”
Just my name, but it lands like a correction.