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Five months later

M y fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I stare ahead, watching moms with strollers glide over freshly poured concrete as they soak up the Santa Clarita sun. The rain from last night has vanished, but its trace remains in the glistening droplets clinging to baby tree branches under a clear blue sky.

I steal a glance at Allison’s bungalow—a fresh stucco build with brown shutters, tucked in a textbook soccer-mom subdivision. It was meant to be her dream come true: a fresh start. A good man by her side and the promise of a family just within reach.

But there’s already a “For Rent” sign perched in the front lawn, and the image is a pair of metal pliers clamped around my heart.

Swallowing hard, I cut the engine and slide out of the car. I’m not sure what I’m expecting today. Since everything imploded on that San Francisco runway five months ago, I’ve only seen Allison once, and it was far from a heartfelt reunion. Jasper’s funeral was a somber blur. She was so wrecked with grief that I stayed on the sidelines, managing only a fleeting moment with my former best friend—a bone-crushing hug that still lingers in my chest whenever I close my eyes and hold my breath.

I slipped out early, planning to reach out when the dust had settled, but I was met with radio silence.

Her mother eventually got in touch, telling me Allison had taken a much-needed getaway to South Africa to stay with her aunt while she recovered and processed the aftermath of our mutual hell.

Understandable. I know what it’s like to want to hide.

I also know running is only a bandage for a wound that keeps bleeding underneath. Sooner or later, it seeps through, forcing you to face it head-on.

I walk up the path to her olive-green door, each step heavier than the last. The freshly planted flowers along the walkway are vibrant, almost defiant against the weight of everything unsaid between us. I haven’t practiced this conversation, and I’m regretting that now. Words used to flow so effortlessly between us, but now they feel stuck, tangled somewhere between my ribs and throat. Lifting my hand to knock, I hesitate for half a second before letting my knuckles connect with the wood.

The door creaks open, and there she is.

Allison stands in the doorway, her auburn hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Shadows lurk under her eyes, and she forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach. She looks smaller somehow, as if the world has been pressing on her from every angle.

Her gaze meets mine. “You came,” she says, the words soft, almost disbelieving.

I nod, trying to steady my voice. “Of course I did.”

The tension between us hums like an invisible wire, pulled taut and waiting to snap. But for the first time since the funeral, we’re standing face to face.

It’s a start.

Before the silence thickens to smothering, I take a step forward because I’m not here to let it grow. “Can I come in?”

She blinks once, twice. Then she pulls the door wider and moves out of the threshold. “Yes…yes, come in. Please.”

Cardboard boxes litter the living room, stacked on countertops and dining chairs. My footsteps echo through the near-empty space while my eyes land on a pearly white couch and an adjacent end table. A framed photograph stares back at me: Jasper and Allison, smiling on a sun-drenched pier, their faces pressed close together. Her hair catches the light in a way that makes it glow, while his hand rests protectively on her shoulder.

They look happy. Untouched. Like the world hadn’t yet shown its teeth.

The sight freezes me in place.

I glance between the scattered boxes, each labeled in neat black marker— Kitchen, Books, Bedroom —all part of a life she’s trying to pack away, piece by piece.

“Sorry for the mess,” Allison says, stepping to the side. She wipes her hands on her jeans, her smile strained, eyes darting to the photograph on the accent table. “The renters are moving in on May first, and there’s still a lot to do. I guess we could have met at a café or something, but?—”

“I’m so sorry.” My eyes water, emotion creeping up my windpipe. “It’s a beautiful house.”

“Yeah,” she breathes out, faltering briefly. These words are hard, so hard to say. “Someone will be happy here.”

I swipe away a loose tear. “Where are your dogs?”

“They’re staying with my mom while I pack. It’s been easier getting things sorted.”

“Are you moving in with her?”

A slight nod. “For a little while, anyway. I need to get back on my feet, and the mortgage here was too much to cover on my bank salary. I’m thinking about relocating somewhere cheaper. I can’t fathom downgrading to another apartment. The dogs need a yard to run around in, and I just…” Her eyes glaze over, pain skating across her face. “I’ll be okay. Recovery takes time, you know?”

“You know I do.” I step closer, twisting my long hair over my shoulder. “If you need help moving, I can fly in at any time. I’m in the process of moving myself. We bought a fixer-upper, about an hour east of San Francisco.”

“We?”

“Um, yeah.” Clearing my throat, I chew on my cheek. “Isaac. He’s…”

Everything.

But I can’t get the word out—it doesn’t feel right talking about my everything when Allison stands before me, sifting through the shattered remains of her everything.

“He’s the man I’m seeing,” I finish, glancing away. “We met…in captivity.”

Her eyes pop. “Oh.”

“Not exactly the start of a fairy tale, but things are…good. Really good.” I wait for her to flinch, to back away, to shut down and ice me out. Part of me feels the need to apologize, or at least to soften the edges of my misplaced confession. “I mean, we sort of?—”

“I’m so happy for you, Ev.”

My eyes fill with fresh tears. Authenticity laces her words as a smile blooms, shining back at me, real and raw. I steal another glance at the photograph as guilt and relief battle beneath my ribcage. “You’re not alone in this,” I whisper, the words wobbly but pure. My gaze slides back to hers. Heart thumping, I reach for her hand, linking our fingers together. “I’m here for you.”

Her bottom lip trembles as she squeezes my hand. “I never wanted you to be alone, either. God —I tried, I tried so hard to reach you, to be there when?—”

“I know,” I croak, a geyser of tears spilling free. “I wasn’t ready.”

That’s what makes this so painful.

No one was ready; no one prepared for this. This goes beyond apologies and surface-level strain. We’re not the same people.

And yet…we are.

I think about what Queenie said to me once:

“People grow, and people regress. When they grow, they’re becoming a better version of who they already are. And when they regress, it means they’re too scared to grow.”

But people don’t truly change—not at their core, not at their essence. Allison is still Allison, and I’m still Everly. What connected us once is still there. Our experiences and scars have marked us, defined us in ways we can’t undo…but maybe that’s not what matters anymore.

My face crumples as the truth settles in, clearer than ever.

I close the gap.

Her arms extend the moment my feet start to move, and I collapse against her chest, scooping her up into a hard-earned hug.

“I’m so sorry I left.” I hold her tight, tears dampening our collars. “I’m sorry I couldn’t forgive you fast enough. If I had done something different, maybe he’d still be?—”

“No.” Allison pulls back, taking my face between her palms. “It’s not your fault. None of this was your fault.”

My grief pours out in gulping, agonizing sobs. “H-he tried so hard to find you…to save you.”

And I watched him die; I watched him bleed out before my eyes. Another fragment of my past, gone with the wind.

I feel guilty. I feel pulverized.

Allison grips me by the biceps, her hands shaking as mascara streaks down her face. “Everly,” she murmurs. “He did the same for you.”

Grief is such a complicated thing.

It can crash over us like a heavy tide, pulling us under, only to release us with a sharp, cruel breath. Sometimes it’s quiet—an unspoken weight that lingers, subtle but constant. It can scream, or it can whisper, reminding us of what we’ve lost and what we can never reclaim. It doesn’t heal.

It teaches.

And in its wake, there’s an unexpected kind of peace—the kind that comes with the painful understanding that some parts of us are meant to stay broken.

I look at Allison, her tear-streaked face still a mirror of the girl I once called my best friend, and I realize I’m not so alone in my brokenness.

“Do you think it’s too late for us?” The question is for her, for the universe, for me . I need to know if there’s still a chance to rebuild, to take the jagged pieces of what we had and make something whole—or at least something that doesn’t cut so deeply.

Her grip on my arms tightens, as if she’s trying to anchor both of us in the now. “It’s never too late,” she says. “Not while we’re still here, willing to try.”

Her words are a lifeline, a flicker of hope. I nod, the ache in my chest unbearable but somehow less lonely. “I want to try.”

Her lips curl into a sad, bittersweet smile. “Then we start here.”

It’s not a solution; it’s a beginning.

And for the first time in a long while, that feels like enough.

We drink tea at her kitchen island, seated side by side on two barstools. Our tears dry and our voices strengthen, the stories we share holding a little less weight. She asks me about Isaac, and the truth pours out less guilty this time as I fill her in on what I call our…evolution.

It’s not a picture-perfect romance. What bonded us in the beginning will always remain. Our ghosts won’t scatter, and our pasts won’t dissolve just because we want them to.

But maybe learning to live with them is the point. Isaac isn’t my salvation, and I’m not his. We’re something quieter, something steadier—two broken souls learning how to be whole alongside one another, even if the cracks still show.

“It sounds complicated,” Allison says, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “But also kind of perfect.”

“Yeah.” I smile. “We just fit, in some strange way. And something tells me we’re both in it for the long haul, whatever that may look like.”

“Marriage? Babies?” Her brows waggle, her eyes brighter. It’s as if my small happiness is infecting her somehow.

My cheeks warm at the notion. “We’re not rushing into anything, but…” I fiddle with the hem of my blouse, my fingers brushing my lower belly. “I wouldn’t say no to starting a family someday.”

I may or may not have settled on a house with a third bedroom, perfect for a nursery— eventually .

Allison grins, her dimples glimmering back at me. “The world needs more spider enthusiasts. Get ‘em a magnifying glass and one of those bug-catching kits as soon as they can crawl.”

I laugh, our words trailing off as we sip our tea and simmer in the silence that feels more like a familiar embrace than a chasm. And when morning gives way to afternoon, Allison discards our mugs in the sink and glances at me from the other side of the island.

A smile hints.

She leans over to the Alexa and says, “Alexa—play ‘The Scientist’ by Coldplay.”

For one brutal heartbeat, my throat narrows, chest tightening. I close my eyes, sinking into ancient, dark memories. But as the first notes crest and my friend meets me at the edge of the kitchen, a warm familiarity takes over. Something inherently sweeter.

Allison’s eyes glitter with fresh tears. “Dance with me?”

I rise, the space between us shrinking in a silent, knowing pull. As she steps into my arms, I’m taken back to a moment when we were sixteen years old.

The living room morphs into a theme-park backdrop.

A lifetime ago.

Innocence and living.

People sing along beside us, dancing, laughing under the smoldering sun, while we cling and sway and make music that reaches deeper than any note or melody.

The living room hums with the soft rhythm of our tear-filled laughter, echoing with the same lightness that filled those carefree days. Our favorite song weaves through the air like a thread connecting us to the moment—then and now—reminding me that even the hardest struggles can lead to something beautiful.

Not all walls are unbreakable.

Not all walls are forever.

Some just need a little time to crumble and a little hope to tear them down.