Chapter eleven

Crest called just after seven, his voice low and familiar through the phone, in the way that always made my shoulders loosen a little. “Hey, I just got back in,” he said. “If you’re not buried in work, maybe come over, have dinner with me?”

Dinner. The word alone felt like relief. The apartment around me was heavy with tension. The sharp echo of Monica’s music still vibrating through the walls, the smell of her perfume clinging to the air like entitlement.

“Dinner sounds perfect,” I said quietly.

By the time I got to Crest’s building, the city had begun to cool into evening, lights softening in the windows, the air tinged with that faint metallic scent Chicago gets when it’s about to rain but never quite does. He was already waiting at the door, barefoot, wearing a dark button-down with the sleeves rolled up. The faint smell of rosemary, garlic, and something buttery drifted through the air, wrapping the space in quiet warmth.

His place looked the way he always did. Clean lines, calm light, unpretentious but refined. A record hummed softly in the background, some old jazz tune I couldn’t name. I immediately felt relaxed. “Wow,” I said, stepping inside. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

 He grinned. “Don’t be too impressed, I didn’t make any of this. I hired someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

“You mean a professional,” I teased. “Like me.”

  “Exactly like you.”

He took my coat and brushed a kiss against my lips. “I’ve missed you so much.”  

I grabbed his collar and deepened the kiss.

He led me to the table which was already set. Two glasses of wine, silverware neatly arranged, candles burning low. I noticed the attention to detail, napkins folded just right, plates warm to the touch. Dinner was simple, roast chicken, lemon risotto, sautéed greens but it was the kind of food that made you feel cared for. We talked about his trip, he told me about the mess of deadlines, clients who changed their minds halfway through designs, and the hotel breakfasts he swore were “an insult to architects everywhere.” I burst out laughing. Watching him made me realize how much I’ve missed him, missed this. I listened, smiling, letting the sound of his voice wash away the tension that had been coiled in me since the arrival of Monica.

After dinner, we drifted to the couch. He pulled me close, his hand tracing lazy patterns on my arm. We kissed, slow, unhurried, like we were making up for all the nights we’d been apart. It was only when the silence settled and his thumb brushed over my jaw that the words slipped out.

“Monica’s back.”

He pulled back slightly, searching my face. “From rehab?”

I nodded. “A few weeks  now.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just let the quiet stretch until I filled it myself.

“She’s still the same. Selfish. Careless. She’s been using my card without permission. Lying. Acting like I owe her something for getting clean.”  I exhaled hard, pressing a hand to my forehead. I didn’t want to mention her stealing the gold bracelet he got me. Crest exhaled quietly, his brow tightening.

 “And she’s staying with you?”

I nodded. “She’s basically taken over the place, acts like she pleases without any form of accountability. She acts like she’s doing me a favor by being clean.”

 His eyes softened. “That’s a lot to carry, even for you.”

 I let out a humorless laugh. “You sound like Cherry.”

 “Then maybe Cherry’s right.” He said lightly.

I smiled faintly but didn’t look up. “She went through my phone, my texts.” That made him pause.

 “What?”

 I sighed. “Yeah, she accidentally blurted out about you and our relationship in the middle of an argument. Said some fucked up shit I’m not inclined to repeat.”

 His expression shifted, something like anger flashing across his face. “That’s some serious invasion of your privacy Sasha.” He reached for my hand then, his thumb running slowly along my fingers. “You don’t have to keep letting her drain you, your work already does a fine job doing that.”

 “I know,” I whispered. “But she’s my sister. Every time I try to pull away, I feel like I’m abandoning her. She’s twenty-one, Crest. But she acts like she’s still sixteen and fragile, lost, and waiting for me to fix it all.”

 He was quiet for a moment, then said.  “You’ve done enough fixing. You deserve a life that doesn’t revolve around chaos but she’s your family and I understand. If there’s anything you need you let me know.”

I nodded.

He brushed a hand along my jaw and said softly. “Stay tonight. Stay tomorrow, and the day after. Stay as long as you need to. Let me take care of you.”

 I chuckled and pressed a kiss on his cheek. I leaned into him and rested my head on his chest. I didn’t talk about Monica after that. I didn’t need to.

I didn’t go home that night. Or the next. It wasn’t planned, I told myself I’d just stay until morning, maybe have breakfast before work. But one night turned into two, and somehow, the quiet of Crest’s apartment felt like oxygen after years of breathing smoke. His stillness, his quiet way of being that made the world shrink to something safe and breathable. I woke early both days, made breakfast for Crest and I, showered, slipped into my work clothes, and headed straight to the restaurant site and a client’s kitchen later. Everything felt easier from there calmer, more efficient. Monica didn’t call. Not a text, not even a passive-aggressive emoji. For someone who’d built her life on needing attention, her silence was louder than anything she could’ve said. By the second evening, worry started to creep in, not because I missed her, but because I knew her. Monica’s quiet never meant peace. So after work, I told Crest I needed to swing by the apartment, just to check on things. He didn’t argue, just kissed my forehead and said, “Call me if you need anything.”

When I opened the door, the smell of incense and cheap perfume hit me first. That sweet, cloying scent Monica always overused. The living room was a mess. Clothes draped over the couch, makeup spilled across the coffee table, an empty box of pizza on the counter. She was sitting on the floor, watching tv. “Well, look who decided to come home.” She  said, not even looking up.

“Hi, Monica.”

 “‘Hi, Monica,’” she mocked, mimicking my tone. You were gone two days. Didn’t think to check if I was dead or alive.”

I stepped forward. “You weren’t exactly making being here easy on me.”

She huffed.  “I guess playing house and cook with your rich, older architect boyfriend was easier. Maybe you just wanted to shack up in his fancy house.”

 How much does she freaking know about Crest. “What the fuck is actually wrong with you? Rehab might have probably worked for your addiction but you’re still the same entitled, spoilt, manipulative little shit. If you can’t respect me under my roof, pack your shit and get out.”

She immediately looked up, eyes glossy and sharp. “My roof, your roof.  It’s still the same crappy apartment we both grew up in. You think a few nice touches  and some new cookware makes it better?”

I clenched my jaw. “I’ve worked for everything I have. You’ve been given chance after chance, and you keep throwing them away.”

She stood up, “Oh, don’t start your martyr act. You love it. Being the savior. The responsible one. The good sister with a tragic backstory. Admit it, without me, who would you even be?”

“I’d be free.”  I said quietly.

She froze, lips parting slightly, as if she hadn’t expected that answer.

I stepped closer, my voice low but firm. “I’ve spent years pulling you out of holes you dug yourself into. I’ve paid your bills, your rehab. I’ve lost sleep worrying about where you are. And I’m done.”

Her face twisted. “So what, you’re kicking me out now?”

 “Yes.”

The word came out before I could soften it. “Pack your things, Monica.”

 She stared at me, waiting for me to take it back. I didn’t. She quietly moved to the bedroom and came out minutes later, holding her backpack and duffel bag. She looked at me with repulsion before storming out. The silence that followed wasn’t relief. It was something else, grief maybe. The kind that comes from losing someone who’s still breathing. I sank onto the couch, staring at the dent where that stranger had been sitting minutes ago, and whispered into the empty room, “What are we even doing, Monica?” No answer. Just the hum of the city outside, indifferent and endless.

I didn’t even realize when I arrive at Crest’s, until I saw the familiar curve of the  street.The city lights blurred into streaks, the air thick with that heavy quiet that comes after a fight, the kind that sits in your chest like smoke. When I parked in front of his building, my hands were still shaking. I took the elevator, moving on instinct, as if my body already knowing where to go.

He opened the door wearing a gray T-shirt and sweatpants, barefoot, his hair slightly mussed from the kind of exhaustion that comes from working too long. He looked at me once, just once and his whole expression softened. “You okay?” he asked, voice low.

 I shook my head. “No.”

He didn’t ask another question. He stepped aside and let me in. The apartment was dim, the kind of light that made everything feel slower, kinder. He’d been sketching. I could see the tracing paper rolled out on his drafting table, a glass of whiskey half-empty beside it

 I dropped my keys on the counter and just stood there for a moment, trying to breathe normally. Crest didn’t touch me. He didn’t rush in with comfort or advice. He just leaned against the wall, waiting. The way he always did. Patient, steady, quiet enough for me to gather my thoughts before I fell apart.

 “I threw her out.” My hands shook.

He frowned slightly. “Any idea where she might have moved to?”

 “No.”

My throat tightened. “ I threw my only sister out and I have no idea where she might be. God, I’m a horrible person.” I hadn’t planned on crying, but the tears came rocking out of me. Loud, raw and humiliating.

He moved then, slow and deliberate, closing the space between us. His hand found the side of my neck, his thumb tracing a small circle near my jaw. He didn’t say ‘ it’s okay.’ He didn’t say ‘ you did your best.’ He just held me there, his touch steady, eyes on mine, letting me bawl my eyes out. He eventually led me to the couch, after I pulled myself together and brought me a glass of water. “She’s your sister,” he said. “You love her. That’s what makes it hurt.”

I nodded. “ I keep thinking if I just do a little more…”

“you can save her.” He finished softly.

I looked  up at him, eyes wet. “Yeah.”

He brushed a strand of hair from my face. “You can’t fix someone who doesn’t want to be fixed.”

My voice cracked. “I know, but I can’t stop trying and it hurts.”

He exhaled, something heavy behind it. Like watching me break down is painful for him. He sat down beside me. “It’s gonna be okay babe.” He pulled me into him then, both arms around me, and I felt the exhaustion leave my body inch by inch. The city outside could’ve fallen apart and I wouldn’t have noticed.

The next morning, first thing I noticed was the warmth. Not sunlight, him. Crest’s arm, heavy and sure around my waist, his breath moving slow and steady against the back of my neck. For a long moment, I just lay there, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. It was the kind of silence you didn’t want to break, not because it was fragile, but because it felt earned. He stirred, fingers brushing against my skin as if reminding himself I was still there.

 “You’re awake.” He murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

 “I didn’t want to move,” I said.

“Good,” he replied. “Stay.” He said it so casually, like an invitation and a promise all at once. The blinds were half-open, letting in a soft amber light that turned everything honeyed. The curve of the sheets, the pale wall, the faint mess of clothes we’d left behind. It didn’t feel cinematic. It felt lived-in, real. The kind of morning that comes after the storm has passed, and you’re both still learning to breathe. Crest finally sat up, running a hand through his hair.

“You have to go in early today?”

I nodded, rolling onto my back. “Staff training for new employees at noon. But I can be late.”

He gave me that half-smile of his, the one that looked like he’d thought of something funny but decided to keep it to himself. “You hate being late.”

 “Maybe today I don’t mind.” I joked.

He leaned down, kissed me once, slow, unhurried, like a thought he didn’t want to finish. Then he pulled away, and I watched him move through his morning routine. The careful way he buttoned his shirt, checked his watch, poured coffee. Crest did everything with intention, like he’d built a blueprint for calm and decided to live by it. When he handed me a mug, I noticed he’d made mine exactly right. One sugar, a splash of cream, no asking.

“You remember.” I said.

 “I pay attention.”

I laughed softly. “Architects always do.”

He leaned against the counter, watching me as I sipped. “You look lighter.”

 “Maybe I am.” And I meant it. I felt it in the quiet spaces between us, the ease that came from leaning on him. He reached for my hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my palm.

 “You’re mine to love, mine to care for, mine to cherish.” He said quietly. I looked up, searching his face for the usual restraint, but there was none, just warmth, and a kind of honesty that came without warning. I didn’t need to say anything back. My  silence said it all.