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“Rude.” Mykel clutches his chest. “After the trauma we just experienced?”
Anne’s laugh turns real this time. “You’re such a drama queen.”
“Says the one who married an ice block.” Mykel winks at Landon, whose eyes narrow in response. “And a scary one.” He shudders, turning toward Brandon’s SUV. “Shotgun!”
The living room feels too small for all this baggage.
Mykel sprawls on the floor, tie loose and jacket discarded, his restless fingers tapping against the hardwood. Anne sits on the couch like she might bolt any second, shoulders rigid, while Landon is beside her, arm slung around her waist, his thumb making small circles against her hip.
I’m on my second—no, third—glass of whatever expensive chocolate-tasting whiskey Brandon opened up, sitting between his legs on the couch. The alcohol burns a path down my throat before dulling everything to a manageable buzz.
“So.” Mykel spreads his arms wide. “Do we spin the bottle and trauma dump, or what?”
Anne gives him a pointed look. “Mykel.”
“What? We’re all thinking it. Our mother killed your mother. That’s, like, three soap operas worth of fucked up.”
“It wasn’t that simple.” Anne’s words are so quiet I almost miss them, but they land like a stone in still water.
“What do you mean?” I straighten, something in her tone setting off alarm bells.
Landon entwines his fingers with Anne’s. She gives him a slight nod before continuing. “I’ve had years to process this since Dad told me. I was angry for a long time. At Lydia, at Dad for covering it up, at the whole situation.”
“Why would he cover it up?” Mykel sits up fully, all traces of humor gone.
“To keep our family together,” Anne says. “He didn’t want more children growing up without a parent.”
The bourbon turns to acid in my stomach. “And you just… accepted that?”
“What was I supposed to do?” Anne meets my eyes. “Tear apart what was left of our family? Make you and Mykel suffer more? What good would that have done?”
Brandon’s arms tighten around me, and I press into his warmth. Anne suffered for all of us.
“But why? Why did mom do it?” Mykel asks. “I never saw her fight with Clara.”
“She was jealous.” Anne’s voice is quiet but firm. “Of my mother.”
Mykel’s brow furrows. “What?”
“Clara still lived with us. Even after the divorce,” I explain, the words bitter on my tongue. “And we… we all loved her. We’d spend afternoons with Clara, baking cookies, doing art projects.”
“I remember that.” Mykel’s face softens with recognition. “She taught me how to draw birds. And butterflies, though I never got those right.”
“Lydia couldn’t stand it,” Anne continues, her fingers tight around Landon’s. “That Clara was still part of our lives. That she couldn’t replace her, no matter how hard she tried.”
“All because of jealousy?” Mykel asks.
“Sometimes that’s all it takes,” I say, remembering the desperate look in my mother’s eyes that night in the garage. “To make someone do something unforgivable.”
“So Dad just…” Mykel shakes his head. “Let her get away with it? For family harmony?”
“He made his choice,” Anne says firmly. “I’ve made mine too. I’ve chosen to move forward.”
The bourbon threatens to come back up. I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to run to the bathroom.
“Breathe,” Brandon whispers against my ear.
“If I had said something?—”