The neighborhood is tomb-silent when I finally coast into our driveway, legs burning from pedaling through streets I barely remember traveling.
Both cars sit in their usual spots, dark and silent like sleeping sentinels. Parents came home while I was falling apart by a lake, and my father had no idea his daughter spent the evening kissing her stepbrother in their kitchen.
Lucky them.
I lean my mother's bicycle against the garage wall and slip through the front door like a ghost, every footstep measured and deliberate. The house holds its breath around me, shadows pooling in corners that feel unfamiliar despite calling this place home over a year now.
The stairs creak once beneath my weight and I freeze, heart slamming against my ribs, but no bedroom doors open. No concerned voices call out into the darkness.
My bedroom door locks with a satisfying click.
Then the bathroom door, sealing off the only passage between his world and mine.
Sleep doesn't come.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, tracing patterns in the shadows that shift each time a car passes on the street below. His hands ghost across my skin in phantom touches I can't shake.
The weight of his body between my thighs.
The desperate sound of my name in his mouth.
Because you were the only beautiful thing I'd ever touched.
The confession plays on loop, wearing grooves into my brain until I can't tell if I'm remembering or inventing. Did he really say that? Did his voice really crack on the words like something inside him was breaking?
I pull my pillow over my face and scream into it.
The sound disappears into cotton and feathers, swallowed whole by fabric that doesn't judge. When I surface for air, nothing has changed. The ceiling still holds no answers. My body still burns where he touched it.
And somewhere in the wreckage of this sleepless night, I finally admit the truth I've been running from since that kitchen.
I don't hate him anymore.
Maybe I never did.
***
Morning arrives with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Sunlight streams through curtains I forgot to close, illuminating every puffy eyelid and blotchy cheek in the bathroom mirror. The crying left its mark like a signature I can't forge over.
Thank God for concealer.
I spend twenty minutes rebuilding my face into something presentable. Each brush stroke feels like armor, layer after layer of pigment between the world and my devastation.
You're fine. You're completely fine. You've survived worse than this.
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
My legs feel like they belong to someone else as I descend the stairs. Each step requires conscious thought, deliberate placement, the kind of effort that used to be automatic.
Exhaustion has carved itself into my bones.
The kitchen sounds reach me before the doorway does—the clink of silverware, the rustle of newspaper, the murmur of morning conversation between people who slept peacefully through the night.
Caleb is already at the breakfast table.
His head lifts when I enter.
Our eyes meet across plates of scrambled eggs and toast, and the impact knocks the breath from my lungs. Everything from last night crashes back—his mouth, his hands, his confession, my retreat.
I look away first.
The coffee pot becomes my entire focus as I pour with hands that refuse to steady. Dark liquid trembles in the ceramic mug, betraying every emotion I'm trying to bury.
"Good morning, sweetheart." My father sets down his newspaper with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "You look tired. Late night studying?"
"Something like that." The lie slides out smooth and practiced.
I settle into my usual chair, hyper-aware of Caleb's presence two feet to my left. His fork moves through eggs with mechanical precision, but he hasn't taken a single bite.
"I have some wonderful news." My father's voice carries that particular warmth reserved for announcements he thinks will please me. "I ran into Richard Bennett at the club yesterday afternoon."
My stomach plummets through the floor.
"Richard mentioned that Lucas has been spending quite a bit of time with you lately." He beams across the table like he's presenting me with a trophy. "I have to say, I was delighted to hear it."
Across the table, Caleb's fork pauses mid-motion.
"Lucas seems like a wonderful young man." Catherine adds from her seat beside my father, her tone warm and approving. "Richard and Patricia raised him well, and that family has always been so involved in the community."
"Lucas is..." I search for words that won't detonate the invisible bomb sitting at our breakfast table. "Nice."
"More than nice, apparently." My father's eyes sparkle with paternal satisfaction. "Richard seemed to think things were progressing rather well between you two, and I must say, I wholeheartedly approve."
His knuckles go white around the fork.
The metal groans softly under his grip.
I watch from the corner of my eye as tension coils through Caleb's shoulders, his jaw hardening into granite. He still hasn't looked up from his plate since our eyes first met.
"The Bennetts are good people, Serena." My father continues, oblivious to the silent war erupting beside him. "Solid values, excellent future prospects, the kind of foundation any father would want for his daughter."
"Nothing's progressing," I say carefully, each word measured to minimize damage. "We're just friends, Dad."
"For now." He winks at me like we're sharing a delightful secret. "These things take time to develop properly, and there's no rush whatsoever."
Catherine nods her agreement, reaching over to squeeze my father's hand with an affection that makes my chest ache.
"I'm just so glad you're spending time with the right sort of people," my father adds. "Quality connections matter, sweetheart."
The chair scrapes violently against the hardwood.
Caleb stands so abruptly that his water glass wobbles, threatening to spill. His expression is carefully blank, but his eyes burn with something dark and wounded.
"I have somewhere to be." The words come out clipped and rough.
He doesn't look at me as he leaves.
The front door slams hard enough to rattle the windows.
"Well." Catherine blinks in surprise at the empty chair. "I wonder what's gotten into him this morning."
"Young men." My father shakes his head with fond exasperation. "Probably some athletic commitment he forgot about until now."
I stare at my untouched coffee and say nothing.
The ceramic has gone cold in my hands, steam long dissipated into the morning air. Somewhere outside, his car engine roars to life and tears down the driveway with more aggression than any vehicle deserves.
Breakfast continues around me like nothing has happened.
Catherine refills my father's coffee, and he thanks her with a kiss on the cheek. They discuss weekend plans and grocery lists and the mundane architecture of married life.
I push eggs around my plate and think about the sound of that slamming door.
My phone buzzes against my thigh.
The screen illuminates with Lucas’s name, and I almost laugh at the cosmic timing of it all. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
Lucas: Sorry I left you yesterday. Dinner this week?
I should say no.
I should create distance from everything—Lucas, Caleb, the entire tangled mess I've made of my carefully ordered existence. Getting closer to Lucas means watching Caleb's face harden every time we're in the same room.
It means choosing the safe path over the one that makes my blood sing.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard for a long moment.
Me: Sure.
Because maybe normal is exactly what I need right now.