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“I’m so happy for you, Mya,” she whispers into my hair. “I just need you to know that. You’re allowed to be okay again. You’re allowed to want more.”

I pull back just enough to meet her eyes. “It’s taken a while to feel settled, but now that I have… I don’t want to let it go. It’s not the life I planned, but it’s mine. And I want to make the most of it.”

She nods. “Then do it. Be here. Be in it. Don’t second-guess it just because it looks different than you thought it would.”

I give her a shaky laugh. “Who are you, Dr. Phil?”

“Dr. Reese, actually.” She smirks. “Now go home before I start ugly crying and embarrass us both.”

I watch her go until the Uber disappears down the block, standing there like a cliché in a hoodie and slippers, stomach twisting with something that feels like hope.

And maybe—for the first time in a long time—I let it in.

Chapter Twelve

Mya

The invitation comes on a Tuesday, disguised as a casual text from my dad:

You and Kingston want to come by for dinner this weekend? It’s just one night.

Just one night.

That’s the kind of lie you tell someone before tossing them into the emotional equivalent of a house fire and telling them to “sit tight.”

I stare at the screen long enough for my phone to go dark. Then I reread the message like the second time might change the words. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

“What’s with the murder-eyes?” Kingston asks from the kitchen, barefoot and shirtless, flipping pancakes like he’s auditioning for a wholesome husband-of-the-year award.

I hold up the phone like it’s a bomb. “My dad invited us to dinner in Newton this weekend.”

He glances over his shoulder, arching a brow. “Us?”

“Yep. As in me and you. He wants to play happy families, apparently. You know, despite the fact that ours is more nuclear than nuclear family.”

I drop onto one of the kitchen stools, the marble cool against my bare thighs. My stomach flips—whether it’s the twins or the thought of my mother’s resting bitch face, I can’t be sure. Probably both.

Kingston plates the pancakes and walks over like he’s not holding a breakfast truce in his hands. He sets them down, then plants himself beside me, hip to hip, and lets the silence stretch until it wraps itself around my ribs like a python.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” he says, voice low and easy.

I let out a breath, slow and shaky. “I know. But it’s my dad.”

He nods like he gets it. And he does. Of all the people in my life, Kingston has seen the mess behind my mask, has held me while I came undone, and still looked at me like I was worth the aftermath.

“I just…” I swipe a hand over my face. “He says he’s moved back in, but things are still tense. Which, duh. It’s my mother. There’s always tension. I could cut the air with a butter knife and still not get through all her disappointment.”

Kingston bumps his shoulder into mine. “You’re not going back for her. You’re going for him.”

“Yeah.” I pause. “And because I think I need to prove to myself that I can.”

We sit in silence for a while, the scent of maple syrup thick between us, the kind of sweet that doesn’t come without a little stickiness. Then Kingston does the thing he always does—he makes it make sense.

“Pros and cons?” he asks.

I grin, because of course he’d make me list them out like I’m choosing a college major, not potentially walking into the lion’s den.

“Pro: My dad gets see you again and you can tell him how you’ve been feeding me pancakes and rubbing my back through mood swings and heartburn.”