Page 13 of What You left in Me

And I’m apparently the only one dwelling on what a rare turn of events that is. Because, without further ado, he just lowers himself onto the opposite end of the dock. There’s enough distance between us that I don’t have to feel nervous—not that it stops me.

“Julian not here yet?” he questions, and it feels pointed.

I roll my eyes, and put down my book beside me, before leaning back on my palms. “Why are you so obsessed with him?”

“Just making conversation,” he says, voice even.

“Sure,” I say in a tone that is anything but believing. “That’s what people say when they’re terrible at conversation.”

He lifts his brow. “You sayingI’mterrible at it?”

“I’m saying you’re a work in progress,” I tease. “But hey, scowling at the lake counts as communication for you, right?”

His mouth twitches, almost but not quite a smile. “Scowls and spreadsheets. It’s a full-time gig.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. “Wow. No wonder women must be lining up. Who wouldn’t wantthat?”

He looks at me then, direct and steady, and says, “You’d be surprised.”

Everything stills. My laugh lingers in my throat, caught between amusement and intrigue. We look at each other for long enough that I notice the faint scars on his face.

Finally, I shake my head and grin. “God, you’re impossible.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he says flatly.

I study him for a beat; at the somber way he holds himself up. This is the last place he probably wants to be—with the sunshine, the paper lanterns, and the illusion of a perfect family.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

His head turns, eyes locking on mine. “That makes two of us.”

I shrug, not bothering to argue because he’s right and we both know it. It’s the kind of truth that only needs tobe acknowledged. For a moment, the noise of the estate fades away, no tents going up, no florists arguing over hydrangeas, no clipboard snapping in Mom’s hands. Just him and me, sitting on the same worn dock, seeing more in each other than either of us will ever admit out loud.

It’s strange how easy it feels to talk to him despite the years of zero communication. We haven’t spoken in forever, but I suppose some things don’t rust. Being part of this house, under mom’s perfection and Richard’s blind optimism, means we speak a language other people can only guess.

I open my mouth, ready to say something, nothing important, but my phone buzzes in my pocket, so loud against the wood, shattering the quiet. I scramble to dig it out of the back-pocket of my shorts, glancing at the screen.

Mom:Where are you? One of the workers ruined the centerpieces.

Mom:You can’t just wander off, Ariane

I sigh and already miss the conversation we never had because there’s always something to fix. Always someone to answer to.

“Duty calls,” Finn says.

This time, he sounds more pitiful than mocking.

Chapter 5 – Finn – Ghosts of Lifetimes Past

The forest waits at the edge of the property like it’s been sitting there for ten years with its arms crossed, daring me to return. The grass is slick with dew, the air thick enough to chew, and the trail yawns open in front of me like it never forgot me. Roots claw through the dirt, moss climbs over the stone markers, branches lean in too close.

I start at a jog, setting a steady pace. Running is supposed to clear your head, but that’s only achievable if your head isn’t already a landfill of shit.

Every bend looks exactly the same. My mother used to run this trail with me, before the poison crawled inside her and started hollowing her out. She’d lace up her sneakers—beat up old things that were nothing like the sleek ones I’d picked up in Manhattan—and still manage to keep pace with me, even when I pushed too hard.

I can hear her now.“Running’s supposed to make you stronger, Finnick, not break you.”She’d say it every time, smiling, even when I knew she was out of breath.

I can still hear her laugh in the branches, see her ponytail bouncing, fucking feel the moment it all stopped mattering.