Well, my half-brother.
Maybe there are photos somewhere. Did Brett and the others keep any old pictures? Or was it too painful for them, losing a friend?
The waves keep rolling in, steady, indifferent. They don’t care who I am, what I’ve done, or how I got here. The ocean swallows secrets and regrets.
I wish I could do the same sometimes.
But sometimes I don’t.
I was never soft.
He made sure of that. She made sure of that.
I learned early that power doesn’t come from love. Itcomes from control. The ability to read people like open books, to find their weak spots, to twist them just enough to get what I need. A well-placed lie. A carefully timed smile. A whispered secret that never belonged to me.
It didn’t make me any friends, but it’s how I survived.
I’ve played people like chess pieces, made them move the way I wanted. I learned how to shape myself into whatever someone needed, only to turn it against them when the time was right.
I tell myself it’s not malicious. That I don’t do it for sport, only necessity. But is that true?
Sometimes, I enjoy myself.
I told the women to lay off River. I told Emily to sabotage the cookoff. I manipulated Evie to get here in the first place, knowing full well she’d been through hell at my father’s hand, and I used it against her.
I’m not a nice person.
I used to tell myself that it wasn’t my fault. That my parents made me who I am.
The wind picks up, carrying the scent of salt and something faintly floral. I close my eyes and breathe in the fragrance of the sea as I try to imagine a different version of myself. One who doesn’t use people, but who instead cherishes them.
And maybe someone will eventually cherish me back.
Right.
I’m not sure that version of me exists.
Besides, the women are already all divided up into friendships—Ariel and Emily, June and Heather, Sienna and…
She’s kind of a third wheel. Maybe I should try to?—
Oh, hell. No one would buy it.
I’m not buying it myself.
I stare out at the water.
I could turn back now, slip into old patterns, weave myself deeper into the game. It would be easy. It’s what I know.
Or I could try.
Just once.
Not to manipulate. Not to win.
Just to be.
The thought feels fragile, like a flickering candle against a storm.
