Chapter Twenty Two

Immediately the car stops, my eyes roam the wide environment, searching for any sign of Travis—but I don’t spot him anywhere. What does he even look like now? It’s been years of avoiding each other, years of pretending the other doesn’t exist, and now we’re forced back into the same space.

I take a deep breath, gathering every ounce of confidence I have. If anyone should be embarrassed, it should be him—not me.

“Let’s settle in,” Mom says, climbing out of the car.

I follow suit, pulling my luggage from the trunk.

Mom walks over to Dad, and he immediately opens his arms, letting her lean into him while Uncle Zachary digs out their bags alone. I shake my head. “You both should be helping Uncle Zachary unpack instead of acting all lovey like you haven’t been together for the past twenty hours.”

Mom laughs. “Fred, your daughter is such a sadist. Where did she get these traits?”I roll my eyes, dragging my luggage toward the house. “Definitely not from either of you,” I mutter as I march inside.

Everything is the same as I remember. Our old photos still hang on the walls. We used to come here every weekend when I was younger, before Dad’s business took over everything.

I stop beneath one of the frames on the staircase. We’re at the lake, Mom and Dad holding my hands, all of us laughing. I must have been six.

A loud crash sounds behind me.

I turn—and freeze.

I take him in, older now, different, but still unmistakably him. I school my face, forcing a smile I don’t feel.

“Hello, Travis.”

He returns to the guest room like I’m some inconvenience he didn’t order.

Fine. Whatever. I wasn’t excited either.

I unpack just enough to make the room feel temporary, then head downstairs when hunger starts gnawing at me. My mind betrays me immediately—Dominic slips in, uninvited. Is he in the kitchen right now, glasses on, sleeves rolled up, cooking for Alice like he always does? The thought settles somewhere warm and annoying in my chest.

“Yes. I had to turn off my phone to stop my friends from battling me with questions.”

Travis laughs.

The sound stops me short.

He’s in the kitchen with Mom, standing too comfortably beside her, chopping something like he belongs there. Like he never left. Like nothing ever happened. I walk in, chin lifted, expression bored. I open the fridge and grab a bottle of water, letting the cold bite into my fingers.

I don’t look at him.

I don’t need to.

I can feel it though—his eyes flicking to me, Mom’s gaze following, waiting for something. A reaction. A crack. I twist the cap, take a long drink, then turn and walk out without a word. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Of course he doesn’t.

After lunch, Mom calls me into their bedroom.

“Catherine,” she says gently, which already annoys me, “aren’t you going to apologize to Travis for what happened?”

I laugh once, sharp and humorless, already heading for the door.

“Apologize to Travis? I can’t do that, Mom.”

She moves faster than I expect, reaching the door before I do and blocking it with her body. Her voice hardens just enough to remind me she’s still my mother.

“Are we doing this the easy way,” she asks, “or the hard way, Catherine?”

I look away, jaw tight, arms folding over my chest like armor.

Why can’t she just let it go?

It’s been years already.

And yet somehow, the way he walked past me like I didn’t matter still stings more than I’ll ever admit.

Our parents were friends, so it was natural that we became friends too. Travis and I were inseparable—best buddies in the effortless way kids are, the kind of friendship that didn’t need explaining. He was always there, always loud, always familiar.

Then on my twelfth birthday, he took it too far.

He wrote me a love confession letter.

I remember reading it and not feeling shocked or flustered—just confused. I didn’t think it was a big deal. I told him the truth, gently, the way I knew how back then. That we were better as friends. I was young, but I wasn’t careless. He laughed it off, said it was fine, and for a while, it was. Things slipped back into place like nothing had happened.

Until they didn’t.

Somehow, our classmates found out. I still don’t know how. The whispers started first, then the laughter. Travis’s confession letter. They said it like it was a joke, like it was something ugly and embarrassing instead of brave. Every hallway felt louder. Every glance felt sharp.

Travis got mad.

Really mad.

He accused me of telling people. I accused him of overreacting. We said things we couldn’t take back. The kind of words that dig in deep because you never expect them from someone who used to know you so well.

Then he moved away.

Just like that.

No goodbye. No closure. No fixing it.

And we never talked again so why should we now.

“Mom. I understand what you’re trying to do, and I really appreciate it, but Travis and I have nothing in common anymore.”

She slips past the door before I can stop her, and I step out into the hallway—only to nearly collide with Travis standing right outside her room, holding a fruit tray like some offering.

I roll my eyes.

“May I come in, ma?” he asks politely.

“Sure!” Mom answers immediately from inside.

Of course.

I’m already halfway down the stairs when Mom calls out sweetly, “Catherine. You dropped something.”

I pause. I wasn’t holding anything. Still, I sigh and turn back, climbing the stairs again. The moment I step into her room, Mom is smiling—too pleased, too calculated.

“What did I drop, Mom?” I ask, irritation creeping in.

Travis is sitting on the bed.

She steps aside dramatically, pointing to a tiny string on the floor near the bed. That definitely isn’t mine. I open my mouth to say exactly that—

The door slams shut.

It takes me half a second to register the sound of the lock clicking.

“Oh no—ma, please open the damn door!” Travis jumps up instantly, panic flaring as he rushes the door. He grabs the handle, rattling it like being trapped in the same room as me is a life-threatening situation.

I just roll my eyes and retreat to the bed, sitting down calmly. Knowing my mother, arguing is completely pointless.

Travis keeps yanking at the handle. “Open the door, ma! I actually have something to do.”

“Save your energy,” I say lazily. “My mom won’t rest until we talk.”

He scoffs, turning to glare at me. “Talk to you? No way. Not in here.”

I lean back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Great.

Looks like we’re going to be stuck here for a very long time.