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We pull into the driveway, and before I can exit, Rachel rushes around the truck and shoves a green cashmere sweater in my face. “What are you doing with Emma’s sweater?”

I narrow my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“This.” She shakes the incriminating evidence, accusation in the gnash of her teeth. “It’s Emma’s.”

I hold up my hands in defense. “I didn’t know it was hers.”

“My turn to call bullshit.”

She storms off toward the house. For some dumbass reason, I follow after her. This is my chance to end things, to cut all ties. Except there’s one tie I don’t want to let go of, and I’m not sure how to hold onto it if this ends badly. Emma is blindly protective of Rachel’s feelings. I need to play along for a little longer… if possible.

“Rachel,” I call after her. But she’s already entered the house. I eye Evan’s and Emma’s cars in the driveway. Perfect.

This is a shit day.

I enter the foyer and look from Rachel to a stunned Emma and a curious Evan seated on the couch.

“Then explain it. Go ahead, I want to hear it.” She’s still brandishing the sweater like it’s a smoking gun. Like she wants so badly to catch me in the act of some sort of betrayal. “How the fuck did her sweater get in your truck?”

“I thought it was yours,” I lie again. I glance at Emma—her eyes flick from the sweater to me.

I knew the moment I picked up the folded sweater on the porch last week that it was Emma’s. The soft floral notes of her lotion clung to it. The scent that lingers on the couch after she returns to bed and I’m left there to fight for sleep.

I should’ve left it there. But I didn’t—I took it with me. Now, I’m kicking myself.

Rachel’s been so worked up in her cross-examination, she’s just now aware of Evan and Emma. She shakes the sweater at Emma. “I thought you said you left it at your fucking ex-boyfriend’s.”

Evan looks to Emma. Rachel wants him as incensed as she is right now. Instead, he scans Emma’s face with concern and sympathy. Like he can’t believe Rachel’s talking to her like this. Like he’s finally seeing the truth of what’s been happening in this house.

So am I.

It’s clear from Emma’s guilt-ridden expression this isn’t the first time something like this has happened between her and her mother. I misread the guilt. The need to please. Things I’ve been questioning are starting to click into place. And I hate that I recognize it.

“I know there’s something going on.” And here it is. She’s gone too far and revealed more truth than she realizes. “I’m not stupid.”

“Do you think I’m stupid? I know you stole something from my garage for that piece of shit car. Don’t you dare lie to me, boy.”

A shiver runs through me as we all stare at Rachel, stunned mute.

Except Evan. I notice him in my periphery. He’s watching me—my reaction. I don’t look at him, not sure what I’d give away.

“You can all go to hell!” Rachel races upstairs to her room and slams the door, like a teen having a tantrum.

“I’m really sorry,” I tell them. “We had…we had a bad night, so she’s not thinking clearly.” I don’t know why I feel the need to make excuses for her. Second nature, I guess—explaining away tempers and bad behavior.

I leave them alone and go into the kitchen. They don’t say anything when they put on their jackets and leave, presumably for Evan’s. Good. Emma isn’t responsible for her mother’s emotional whiplash.

I enter the living room and peer out the window, waiting for Evan to back out so I can leave, but they remain in the car, talking. I have a feeling I know what's about to happen. “Don’t do it, Emma.” But I know her, because she is me.

Emma walks back inside.

“She’s drunk,” I say from the living room, giving her a chance to change her mind again. “She’s probably passed out already.”

“Great.” She sounds exhausted. She doesn’t even have the energy to stay standing and slides down the door to pull her shoes off. “I’m going to bed.” She shoves off the floor and trudges toward the stairs.

“She told me she loved me.” I try to explain. She’s the one who told me Rachel needed to know about California. She must understand how absurd this is. “She told me she loved me, and I told her I was leaving.”

Emma gives in to the weight of her emotional fatigue and collapses on the second step. I walk over and lower myself next to her.