Page 67 of From the Wreckage

Brielle

The off-campus apartment normally feels freer than the dorms, but the walls are too white, the carpet too stiff, and the air too quiet. It feels unfamiliar. Foreign. Nothing smells like cedar and coffee. Nothing sounds like the lake lapping against the dock.

I drag my suitcase into my bedroom and drop it by the bed with a dull thud. It echoes in my chest. A fresh start, they call it. But the ache in my ribs feels like anything but.

“Bri?” Meghan’s voice floats from the kitchen. She appears in the doorway, auburn hair glossy, her smile practiced. “Finally. I was starting to think you changed your mind about coming back.”

Her tone is light, but her eyes search mine, sharp beneath the surface.

I force a smile, brushing hair out of my face. “Just… unpacking.”

Her gaze drops to the necklace at my throat—the sunflower pendant Everett gave me. My fingers twitch to hide it, but it’s too late. Her brow arches, her smirk subtle.

“So…” She leans against the frame, crossing her arms. “You and Everett James.” The name tastes deliberate in her mouth. “That seemed… intense, at your dad’s dinner.”

My heart stumbles. I glance down, heat burning my cheeks. “It’s… over.” The words scrape out, raw against my throat, like tearing a scab too soon.

Meghan’s lips part in mock-surprise, then press into a sympathetic pout.

“Oh, Bri. I’m so sorry.” She crosses the room and drapes an arm around me, guiding me to sit.

Her voice softens, smooth as velvet. “I know you cared about him. Everyone could see it. But maybe it’s for the best, you know?

Older guys… complicated pasts…” She pushes a lock of my hair from my face.

Her words sting, though they’re framed as kindness. I swallow hard, blinking back tears. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me.” She tilts her head, her tone syrupy sweet. “Tell me what happened.”

I look away, focusing on the floor, the ache in my chest too raw to put into words. “He let me go.” My lips tremble. “Didn’t even fight for me.”

Her arm squeezes tighter, her voice low and soothing. “Then he wasn’t the right one, Bri. If he couldn’t fight for you, he doesn’t deserve you.”

The words sound right. They should be comforting. But they twist like glass in my stomach.

Later, when Meghan retreats to her room, I sit alone on my bed with the sunflower necklace cool against my skin. My hand drifts to my suitcase, where the card Everett gave me is buried deep beneath my clothes. I don’t pull it out. I can’t. The thought alone makes my throat close.

Instead, I hug my pillow until tears soak the pillowcase. Images loop inside my head. The way Everett kissed me like I was the only person in the world. The way he whispered my name like it meant everything.

Disappointment crushes my chest. When it mattered most—when my dad caught us—he said nothing. He let the silence do the talking.

And the silence haunts me like a scream in the night. Worse than the gossip waiting for me back home in Silverpine. Worse than Meghan’s probing smile.

I choke back a sob, curling tighter into myself, as if I can hold the memories in place a little longer.

But the night stretches merciless and unending, and all I feel is the hollow ache where my head once rested against his chest.

The broken pieces of my heart are barren. Empty. A wasteland where Everett used to be.