Page 73 of From the Wreckage

Brielle

By the time Meghan and I haul our backpacks up the stairs to the apartment, I’m wrung out. Between Joey ambushing me after class and Meghan playing cheerleader to his “invite,” all I want is silence.

As soon as I push through the door, my phone buzzes with a video call. It’s Dad.

I force a smile, swiping to answer. “Hey.”

His face fills the screen, lined with exhaustion, but his eyes hold their usual warmth. “Hey, kiddo. Just wanted to check in. See how your first week’s going.”

“Good,” I say quickly.

Behind me, Meghan drops her bag on the counter and leans into the camera’s view. “Hi, Mr. Kincaid!” she chirps, then adds with a grin, “Convince your daughter to come with me to the football game this weekend. There’s a party after, and she could use a little fun.”

My glare could burn through steel. “Meghan.”

Dad’s smile falters. His brows pull together, concern edging into his features. “Football game?”

I mutter something about needing privacy and retreat to my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I sink onto the bed, phone propped against my knees.

Dad’s still watching me, suspicion in his eyes. “What’s going on, Bri? You look tired. And don’t give me that ‘everything’s fine’ crap.”

I exhale, the weight of everything pressing down on my shoulders. “Joey switched into my sociology class. He invited me to the game on Saturday. Meghan thinks I should go.”

His jaw tightens. “Joey. Christ.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just… Stay close to your friends, okay? Will Sophie and Melissa be there too?”

“Probably.”

“Then stick with them. Have some fun.” His voice softens, but then he sighs hard, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t want you with Joey. But you do need to get over…” His throat works, like the word itself costs him. “Everett.”

The name hangs in the air, heavy and final.

My chest caves, the echo of his voice slicing through me. I nod stiffly, but inside, I’m unraveling.

I force my lips into a weak curve, hoping it passes for a smile before I lower my gaze. My nails dig crescent moons into my palm, the only thing keeping me from breaking right there.

That’s the problem. I can’t get over Everett.

Hell, it’s barely been two weeks, and everyone expects me to move on. To bounce back from what we had. Or what I thought we did.

Every minute of silence reminds me of what happened. The memory of him not fighting for us cuts sharper than any gossip or lecture. And I still feel his touch in every phantom breath of air.

I end the call quickly, choking on the lump in my throat. Dad’s words replay, merciless. “You need to get over Everett.”

But how do you get over someone who makes you believe in forever—and then leaves you with nothing but empty promises?