Aubrey steps forward first. “We’re heading out,” she says.
My mother looks up quickly. “Already?”
“I have work tomorrow,” I say.
My father’s gaze flicks to my face. “Of course you do.”
It sounds like an accusation. Or maybe I’m so used to hearing one in his tone that I can’t tell the difference.
My mother wipes her hands on a towel. “Colton … we would like you to come around more.”
I stare at her. At the lines around her eyes. At the tightness in her mouth.
“Why?” I ask bluntly.
Her face tightens. “Because you’re our son.”
That should mean something. It doesn’t feel like it does.
Aubrey’s hand touches my arm in a subtle, steadying way. A silent,Don’t.
I nod once. “Good night.”
On the way out, my gaze drifts again toward the hallway. The framed photos. The closed doors. The part of the house that feels like a wound stitched shut.
I don’t look too long. If I do, I might tear it open.
The drive back is quieter. Less forced.
When I pull up in front of Aubrey’s place, she hesitates before opening the door.
“Whatever you’re doing lately,” she says, “don’t sabotage it.”
I grip the wheel. “You don’t know what I’m doing.”
She smiles faintly. “I know you. And I know that look.”
I swallow. “I don’t know how not to.”
Her eyes soften. “Learn,” she says simply.
Then she gets out and closes the door, leaving me alone with the echo of that word.
When I get back to my apartment, the silence feels different than it did this morning. Less empty. Less hostile.
I pull my phone out without thinking.
Me: You survive your Sunday?
The reply comes almost instantly.
Melissa: My couch is judging me for not leaving it.
Something warm loosens in my chest. I type before I can overthink it.
Me: Your couch should mind its business.
Melissa: It’s a very opinionated couch.
