Betty’s POV
It feels strange being back here.
I don’t know what I expected—maybe that the house would look different or that stepping through the door would suddenly make everything from the past year fall into place. Instead, it’s just... quiet.
The air was stale when I walked in, the kind of musty smell you get when a place has been closed up for too long. Dust clung to the surfaces of the picture frames lining the hallway, and I traced one with my finger, leaving a clean streak over the photo of my mom and me at some long-ago birthday party. I set my bags down by the door and stood there for a while, just staring at the space.
The furniture was exactly the same—Dad hadn’t bothered to move anything after we left. The couch still sagged in the middle, and the kitchen chairs were still the ones Mom picked out because “they looked like something from a farmhouse.” But without her, everything felt hollow.
I thought coming back would be comforting. Instead, it feels like I’m borrowing someone else’s life.
The fridge was empty. What was I expecting? Not that I had high hopes, but opening it and seeing only a half-stick of butter and an old ketchup bottle still stung a little. I grabbed my phone and ordered takeout from the burger place down the street.
By the time the food arrived, the sun had set, and the shadows in the house stretched long and eerie across the walls. I spread my feast out on the coffee table in the living room, deciding that sitting on the floor would somehow make it less depressing. The burger was greasy, the fries were soggy, and the milkshake was half-melted—but it was still the best thing I’d had all day.
The TV played some old sitcom rerun, the laugh track echoing in the silence like it was mocking me for being here alone.
And then there was a knock.
At first, I thought I imagined it. Who would even know I was here? Stacey hadn’t called since she left for camp, and Marcus... well, Marcus wouldn’t just show up like that.
I grabbed the closest thing to defend myself with—a throw pillow—and tiptoed to the door.
When I opened it, Brent was standing there with his hands shoved into his pockets and that lazy grin of his plastered across his face.
“Hey, Bethany,” he said casually, like this was the most normal thing in the world.
“Brent?” I blinked at him, still holding the pillow like some kind of weapon. “What are you doing here?”