“Proof of what?” I mutter.
Nash’s eyes flick up to mine, apology written all over his face. “That she left you. Or that she didn’t. Depending on the day.”
I scrub a hand over my face, pressing my palm hard against my eyes as if I can push the images out of my skull.
Because they’re already there.
Faith in a dress, standing beside Evan, smiling for the camera.
Faith typing away at a laptop in some sleek office with her father looming behind her.
Faith nodding and saying yes because saying no comes with consequences.
“Tell them to stop,” I say again, quieter this time. “Please.”
Nash nods once. “I’ll try.”
He leaves after that, closing the door behind him. He’s afraid a loud sound might shatter me.
Maybe he’s right.
Because as soon as he’s gone, the office feels too big and too small at the same time.
Too much empty air. Too much silence.
My phone sits on the desk, face up, stubbornly blank.
And suddenly the anger is gone. It’s replaced by something else, something heavy and nauseating.
Acceptance, trying to creep in. The kind that might as well be giving up.
When Belinda got sick, I learned how to shut down hope because hope makes you stupid. Hope makes you reckless. Hope makes you believe in outcomes you can’t control.
I learned how to prepare for the worst so it wouldn’t destroy me when it arrived.
That’s what my mind is trying to do now.
It’s trying to brace.
It’s trying to build walls.
It’s trying to tell me:
She’s not coming back. She chose that life. You were a mistake. Move on.
By the time dinner rolls around, I haven’t eaten all day.
Mom notices, of course.
She always does.
She’s at the stove when I come into the kitchen, Maggie McCoy in full matriarch mode, apron tied tight, sleeves rolled, feeding people because it’s the one thing she can control.
She looks at me once, and her face falls.
“Sit,” she says.
I don’t argue. I sit.
