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I could be imagining it, the slight redness of my lips that looks deeper than normal, but part of me thinks that with the way I let Ezra use my mouth last night…it would be entirely feasible to say they’re still a little swollen. The thought makes me as hot as it does angry.

I sweep my dark hair into a messy bun on top of my head, grabbing my toothbrush from the holder by the sink and slathering it with paste before aggressively going after my teeth in a series of rough passes. I’m tryingnotto think about the fact that it wasEzrawho wanted to talk, that it was him who had asked me to reach out when I was home only to treat me to radio silence; the entire thing only brings back the memory of this morning, of waking up alone and confused just for those feelings to morph into a bitter, cold feeling in my stomach that I would rather never repeat again, if at all possible.

I spit in the sink before rinsing the brush, only hearing the slight buzzing from the other room when I turn off the tap. I would like to say that Idon’tdrop my toothbrush in the sink and sprint back into my bedroom, but that would be a lie.

Which means I’m all the more disappointed to see it’s my mother calling instead.

“Hey,” I greet her, trying not to sound like Eeyore.

“Dani,” she says in her ever-chipper tone. “I was just calling to see if you wanted to have lunch tomorrow. Your dad and Patty heard about this new tapas place downtown, and we thought you might like to—”

I blame the stress. That has to be the cause of the choked sob that escapes me.

“Dani?” My mom immediately sounds worried. “Sweetheart? Are you okay?”

I wipe my eyes, traitorous bastards starting to leak. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“It’s just been a very long day.”

“Well, tell me about it.”

I puff out a breath. There is no way I can tell my mother about this morning, because it would mean I would have to tell her about last night. Which isnothappening. And legally, Ican’ttell her about my discussion with Bianca and how raw it had left me.

“It’s nothing,” I tell her. “Work has just been stressful.”

“Work is always stressful,” she presses. “It’s never made you sound like this.”

“I—”

I shut my mouth immediately. I have no idea what to say to her. No way to encapsulate whatever it is I’m feeling right now. I just know that the thought of sitting across from her and my dad and their respective spouses and pretending for one more damned day that it doesn’t kill me to know that they sacrificed half their lives for me is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

“Mom,” I say quietly. “Did you ever consider telling me the truth? I mean…sooner?”

My mother is quiet for several moments, and I know she’s taken off guard. It isn’t even what I meant to ask her, and I already feel guilty for letting it slip out.

“Of course we did,” she says finally, her voice strained. “So many times.”

“Then why did you wait so long?”

“Because your father and I both came from broken homes, Dani. When we had no one else, we had each other. Sometimes,each other wasallwe had. We never wanted that for you. We wanted you to have a better childhood than we did. One that you didn’t have to spend years getting over.”

But I’m still getting over it regardless,I want to say.How can I trust anything when my entire life was a lie?

But I don’t say that, because I can’t. After everything my parents sacrificed, I can’t bring myself to give them anything more to hurt over.

“Is that what this is about?” My mother’s voice is soft, searching. “Are you…Do we need to talk about this? You’ve always said that you were fine, but I’ve often worried that—”

“No,” I cut her off. “It’s not about that. Iamfine. I promise.”As fine as I can be.“It’s just been a long fucking day, and there are things I learned today about the case that are eating at me. That’s all. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t upset me, sweetheart,” she urges. “I always want to know what you’re feeling. Even if it’s hard.Especiallyif it’s hard. I want to be there for you no matter what.” She’s quiet for a moment, and then: “Sometimes I think that if we’d talked about this more, maybe you wouldn’t have locked yourself away like you did after Grant—”

“I don’t want to talk about Grant, Mom.” My voice is tight. “He left. He chose a job over me. That has nothing to do with me or you or Dad. It has everything to do with him. I just want to fuckingstoptalking about him, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Mom says quietly. “You’re right.”

For the millionth time since they sat me down and changed my life, I wonder how I can still be so bitter, with parents as amazing as them. It only further cements the truth thatI’mthe problem.