No.
My stomach clenches, and I stop dead, like the ground has turned to ice.
Behind me, the back door creaks.
Aubrey steps outside and closes it gently behind her.
She doesn’t speak at first. She stands beside me, arms folded loosely, gaze aimed at the yard, like she’s giving me space to not be okay.
“You okay?” she asks finally.
“Fine,” I lie.
She doesn’t call me on it.
Aubrey takes a breath. “Mom asked about you the other day,” she says softly. “Like … really asked. She said she doesn’t know how to talk to you anymore.”
I swallow hard. “She never knew.”
“That’s not true,” Aubrey says quickly. Then hesitates. “Not before.”
The words hang there.Not before. Everything in my chest turns sharp.
I clench my jaw. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I’m tired,” she whispers. “I’m tired of watching you walk around like you’re made of knives. I’m tired of watching you punish yourself for something that wasn’t your fault.”
An ache settles in my throat.
I turn my head slightly. “Drop it, Aubrey.”
Her eyes shine, but she blinks it back hard. “You always say that. And I always do. And then nothing changes.”
“Nothing can change.”
“That’s bullshit,” she snaps.
I flinch, and she immediately softens.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean …”
“Yes, you did.”
She gives a small, helpless laugh. “Yeah, I did.”
Silence stretches between us. The oak tree rustles overhead, and the sound feels like a whisper I can’t understand.
Aubrey nudges me with her shoulder. “Just … don’t shut yourself off completely,” she says. “Not from everyone.”
My mind flashes to Melissa. To her laugh in my kitchen. To the way she watched me like she couldn’t decide if she was terrified or thrilled.
“I’m not,” I say quietly.
Aubrey studies my face. “Good.”
When we go back inside, my mother is in the kitchen, arranging something on a platter that doesn’t need arranging.
My father stands by the counter, drink in hand, posture stiff.
