“What’s up?” Sandro tells him.
Somehow, they end up taking over the call with talks about the Christmas Day football game, and I have to pry the phone back from him to talk to Lani before we get on the plane.
We board. We land. And then we’re standing in front of a white house with a teal door and a beautiful Christmas wreath…and my stomach pitches in that roller-coaster way, even though it’s from happy nerves this time.
Bash barely gets the doorbell fully pressed before it flies open. “Oh my goodness,” a woman who isalleyes and warmth like her son says as she pulls me intoa hug like she’s been waiting all day to give it to me. Over my shoulder, Bash says, “Hey, Mom, remember me? Youractualson?” and she swats at him without letting go of me.
She finally releases me to fold him into her, too. Behind her, a man with Bash’s broad shoulders and radiating calm stands, shaking my hand gently. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Lydia,” he says, then side-hugs his son with that quiet pride a dad is supposed to have.
We stay downstairs for a while, just talking and catching up with his parents, while his mom ropes everyone in to helping her cook dinner.
All the food is in that waiting stage with nothing to do when his mom says the sentence that changes the air in the room. “You can go put Lydia’s bags in the new guest room.”
I nod, starting to walk where she points up the stairs, and then I see Bash freeze like someone hit pause. He goes still, eyes flicking up the stairs, the color draining in that way I recognize too well.
“New guest room?” His voice is careful and tight.
His mom smiles, like she’s proud. “We thought…since you said you were going to take the couch and let her have your room, it was time to—well, time to clean out Isabel’s room. We wanted it to be ready when you came. Thought it was the perfect push to finally do it, you know. It was…just time.”
Bash’s jaw works for a moment. Then he moves. Fast. He takes the stairs two at a time. I’m stuck and confused for a moment. Then, when my brain catches up, and I look over at his parents’ shocked and sad faces, I don’t even think. I head up the stairs too, catching the end of a hallway and a door that opens into a room that smells like fresh paint and lavender. It’s a perfectly nice guest room. White duvet, plants, a framed print that saysBe Still.
Bash is on the floor against the bed, elbows on his knees, hands pressed to his eyes. The soundthat comes out of him is small and tears something inside me.
I hover in the doorway for half a second, hating that I don’t know the right thing to do and hating that there probably isn’t one. “Bash,” I say, softly.
His parents appear behind me. He looks up at the sound of my voice, eyes wet, and the look hits me like an impact. Then he looks past me to them, and the hurt cracks open into anger.
“Why would you do this without telling me?” he asks. His voice isn’t loud. It’s worse; it’s the quiet that breaks.
“We thought—” his mom starts, hands twisting. “We thought you’d be happy. It’s been years, Sebastian. It was time.”
He shakes his head, breath hitching. “You took the last part of her that I had, and didn’t even warn me.”
His dad steps forward. “We’re sorry, Son. We thought this was what you would want too—”
“It’s not…” he spits. “It wasn’t…” he shakes his head. “I—I feel like you just ripped her away from me all over again… Why would you—” his voice gets loud, and I can see him trying to get his thoughts together, his emotions. The anxiety is obvious in my eyes.
There’s a tremble in his shoulders I recognize. It’s like the floor is tilting under him and his body is trying to find balance and can’t. He tries to take a breath, and it sounds like it hurts.
I turn to his parents, voice low. “Can I have a minute with him?” They nod immediately and back away. I step into the room, closing the door with a soft click.
I slide down onto the carpet in front of him, leaving a careful distance, and mirror his posture so he doesn’t have to climb up to meet me. “Hey,” I say. “Look at me.”
He does, barely. Everything in him is frayed—nostalgia and loss and the shock of it tearing through the careful stitching he’s done. The part of me that always wants to run is so very still.
I take his hands, tug them gently from his face, and place one on my locket. “What do you feel?”
He blinks, confused. “Cold,” he whispers.
“Good. Cold. The floor?”
“Scratchy.”
“Good. Two more things.” I keep my voice slow, like we have all the time in the world. “Air?”
“Smells like…” He swallows. “Paint.”
“And me?”
