Chapter 12

The next day I pack some things into a bag and come down the stairs where Dad is waiting with a worried look on his face. 

"You don't have to go, sweetheart," he tells me again. He was not wholly against it, I could tell he was worried about Noah. He has only be gone a couple of days and when we tried to call him it took many hours before we heard from him so it’s not as if I don't understand his worry, but I wished sometimes he would put his foot down, for my sake. 

"It’s okay," I tell him. "It's just for a couple of days until I am sure he is doing fine." I press my lips together and shrug my shoulders. I can't back out now, though my mind is racing through all the possible conversations I would have with Noah. How I would explain my moving into his house without annoying him. 

Dad sighs, looks reluctant but I know it's just for show. He would never go against mom, he followed her will like a puppet sometimes, like he couldn't think for himself. Like that time mom forced me on stage to perform even though I told her I was scared. I was only eight at the time and the school cast me in it's Christmas carol play. I wasn't playing any important part but one scene that had a single line to say. 

Dad saw me plead with mom that I didn't want to go, didn't like standing in front of people and he still let me go. He gave me all the reassurances in the world. 

"Daddy's right here, sweetheart. You can do this. You are strong, baby." He'd kissed me and sent me out onto the stage, where I stood frozen unable to remember my one single line even with the cue board held up for me backstage, I stood like a deer in headlights and I wet myself in front of the whole school and everyone's parents. 

That memory is a trigger, so I steer clear of it. Tell myself I don’t blame Dad. This is the right thing to do for Elena, for William, for Mom. Even if Noah doesn’t want me there. 

“All right, sweetheart. Since your mind’s made up, I can’t stop you.” Dad grabs my bag and carries it out to the car. 

I linger in the living room, pacing a little, glancing up the stairs once, then again, half expecting to see Mom. Half hoping she’ll come out, say goodbye. I’m being the good daughter, doing what she wants. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll see me this time. 

But she doesn’t. 

She doesn’t even open her door. 

I drop my gaze to my feet. That familiar ache swells in my throat, tight and painful, but I push it down. 

I’m used to it. 

I’m used to it. 

I repeat it over and over, like if I say it enough times it’ll shrink the jagged emptiness in my chest. But it doesn’t. It just sits there, wide, hollow and growing. 

“You ready, sweetheart?” Dad calls from outside. 

I swallow hard. “Yeah. I’m coming.” 

I walk out without looking back. The ride takes all of five minutes, but each second stretches. 

I barely recognize the neighborhood. It used to be just Noah’s house and a couple others scattered on this lane. But now? The street’s full. Manicured lawns sparkle like polished emeralds. Everything looks new. Fresh. Alive. 

Except for Noah’s place. 

His house feels like it’s stuck in time, like I’m walking into an old black-and-white movie. As we pull into the driveway, my throat tightens. 

That porch, God, that porch. 

That’s where I told him. Where I cracked myself open, handed him every feeling I’d buried, and waited to be turned away. I knew he’d reject me. I knew. And still, when he did, it shattered me. 

Three years later, and that night still curls in my chest like a bruise that never heals. I hate that it still hurts. Hate that it still makes me feel small. So I don’t think about it. But now I’m here. Right back where I was. 

Dad sets my bag down as I stand there, caught in the echo of that awful, rainy day. Me, dripping wet. Noah, trying so hard not to break my heart. I try to smile now, try to move past it. I have to. I’m not just here for a visit. I’m here to stay. And if I can’t face this memory without falling apart, then I’m toast. 

Especially when I’ll be living right next to the man responsible for it. 

“Dad, you don’t have to come in with me,” I say, reaching for the bag before he can make it up the steps. 

He pauses mid-step, a flicker of relief and hesitation mixing on his face. It’s one thing for me to show up, uninvited and insistent. But dragging Dad in there too? That would be pushing it. Noah doesn’t like confrontation. He doesn’t like being rude. If Dad walks in, Noah’ll feel boxed in. Cornered. Like he’s under attack in his own home.