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None of that excuses what she did. But it complicates it. And complications, for all their mess, demand you at least look them in the eye before walking away.
I don’t know how to look at her exactly the same yet. But I know I’m not ready to leave without trying. Because I love her. Because some part of me wants to believe we can forget this mess and move on with our lives.
Because I really do believe she didn’t mean for it to go so far. For it to end this way.
I press my palms into the suitcase lid and let out a breath.
The room feels too empty without Theo here.
And as much as I want to be mad at him—really, properly furious—I’m not. Because even through the shock and the hurt, I understand why he kept it to himself. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. He was trying to spare me something I wasn’t ready to carry.
It still sucks. It still makes my insides ache every time I think about the look on his face in the kitchen, how he knew and I didn’t. But deep down, I don’t feel betrayed. Just... tired. Confused. Stretched thin in every direction by a story that stopped making sense days ago and a house that refuses to give up all its secrets at once.
I don’t know what to do with any of it. With Emily. With Theo. With the version of myself that thought I could come here and leave with clean hands.
The door clicks softly, and I lift my head before I’m fully ready. Theo steps inside, still carrying the weight of someone who just spent nearly an hour smoothing over a disaster I was too much of a coward to face. He doesn’t look at me right away. Doesn’t ask why I didn’t stay with him. He just closes the door behind him with a soft finality.
For a second, I’m sure he’s angry. Or disappointed. Or done.
The way I reacted to everything…
He doesn’t come toward me.
He goes to his bag instead.
He crouches beside it, unzips the front pocket, and pulls out his wallet. He takes a breath, one I can hear from where I’m sitting, and opens it. There’s something folded inside, edges softened from time. He removes it with careful fingers, smoothing it once over his knee, and then he stands.
He walks over to me, holds the paper out between us.
It’s a napkin covered in what started as idle pen marks and somehow turned into a very convincing blood spatter pattern. Directional lines, impact points, a tiny arrow labeled velocity???
It’s the one I doodled through our entire first conversation, forgot the second I left the gallery, and now recognize immediately.
"You kept this?" I ask, slightly confused. "Why?"
He doesn’t look away.
“I kept it because you were the only thing I could think about after that night,” he says. “I told myself it didn’t matter. That we couldn’t happen. That it was one strange, perfect chance encounter and I needed to let it go. But I couldn’t. Every time I tried, I ended up unfolding this again, just to remind myself you weren’t something I imagined.”
His hand twitches like he wants to reach out and touch me.
“You have no idea how brilliant you are, Lila. How much you have always meant to me,” he goes on. “And when you reached out about coming here, when you said you wanted to do this with me—there was never a universe where I was actually going to tell you no.”
My eyes are leaking now. He reaches up to swipe his thumb across my wet cheek, and keeps going.
“If anyone could figure this out, it was you. And yes, I wanted the truth. But I wanted you more. Being near you again… it was the first time I felt anything at all in months.” His voice drops. “I came because I wanted to protect you. From this family. From this house. From what you were walking into. And maybe I took that too far. I wasn’t trying to prevent you from finding the truth. I just—” He breathes out. “I wanted a few days where I didn’t have to pretend I wasn’t in love with you. A few days to be selfish and stay close to you, no matter what it cost.”
A laugh slips out of me. “So you’re a sentimental hoarder,” I say. “Good to know it’s not just me.”
His brows rise, a slow spread of disbelief and something warmer. “A sentimental hoarder,” he repeats, as if testing the words. “That’s what you’re going with after all that?”
“Yes,” I say, because it’s the only thing keeping my heart from combusting. “Someone has to keep you humble.”
His mouth curves. He steps in, his hands slide to my thighs, and suddenly I’m off the floor. A surprised squeak escapes my throat as he lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.
“Theo—”
He doesn’t let me finish.
