Page 33 of What You left in Me

I can’t help but think about how this house doesn’t really belong to anyone. Not to my mother, long gone. She’s been dead long enough that her scent is a memory you can only catch in summer linen closets and the last book she left facedown. Not toEleanor, no matter how many rentals she bolts onto the bones. Not even to Dad, no matter what all the goddamn paperwork says, even though he pays the taxes and opens the door for everyone.

My childhood home is no more than a stage set built on the foundation of something that used to be so, so alive.

###

I pour myself two fingers of bourbon and take a sip. To think, I’d been nursing this very drink when it all went to hell. Now, the liquor just tastes like regret. I set it down and watch the light go through it. The glass leaves a ring on the antique where Eleanor will see it and pitch a fucking fit. I can’t even pretend to give a shit.

Upstairs, I hear floorboards creak. Eleanor can dress this house as much as wants; it has old bones that give whoever haunts it away. Tonight, the movement can only be Ariane. There’s no one else left.

I could draw a map of the path from the third stair-step that always gives, to the landing that swallows sound, to the far corridor where the wallpaper still has a bubble she used to press because it made her laugh. I don’t move toward it even though every part of my body wants to. But the tether in my chest pulls, taut, insistent, a line tied years ago and refused every time I pretended I didn’t feel it.

I sit on the bottom step like a trespasser and let memory do what it wants.

I already buried one parent. I can’t bear to bury another.

My phone is buzzing in the pocket of my jacket. When I fish it out, I find notifications from Eric, three missed calls;Scarlett, two messages that are equal parts claws and perfume; airline reminders reminding me of the first-class seat that will not see me tomorrow.

I type the only email that matters.

Eric, cancel everything. Personal emergency. I’m off grid for God knows how long. Keep the Toronto deal warm. Handle Scarlett.

He’ll translate it into something that doesn’t start a fire. That’s why he gets paid.

I shut the phone off and the quiet goes from loud to cavernous.

I take the bourbon again and make it halfway through the swallow before the upstairs step creaks a second time, farther down the hall, softer, settling. I can see it: her slipping into a too-hot shower, water thundering over the places my hands warmed, the velvet dress pooling on tile like a green lake, her palm braced on cool wall while she tries to wash off something she’s already wearing under her skin. Guilt will come for her first like it always does in these situations. Then anger, then negotiation.

She’ll make a list: mother, stepfather, fiancé, optics.

She’ll put me at the bottom.

I don’t regret the kiss. I don’t regret a fucking second of it. If that makes me messed up, join the club; I built the clubhouse and locked the door from the inside. I’ve tried for ten years to be the version of myself who can come back, nod, toast, leave. Tonight blew that right out of the water. I’m done negotiating with appetites that were born when I wasn’t looking. Yeah, she’s my step-sister but it’s not like I give a shit. At least we’re not related by blood. That’s what I tell myself.

Staying in this house with Ariane while Julian plays perfect fiancé is going to be a problem. If I have to watch himwrap an arm around her shoulders and talk to her like he’s translating life into bullet points, I’ll find something else to break so I don’t break him.

I set the glass down next to the ring it already left and climb the stairs. At the landing, I pause. Her door is shut. There’s light under it. I could knock. I could walk past. I could be a better man than I am.

I do none of those. I stand there a breath too long, before turning toward my room. Sheets I won’t sleep on. A chair I’ll wear down with pacing. A balcony where the lake cuts a black grin across the night like it knows I’ll come outside and try to scare it into telling me what happens next.

I crack the balcony door for air and the cold reaches in like a hand. The dock is a pale slash. Somewhere out there the boards remember bare feet. I lean my forearms on the rail until they ache and close my eyes like that’ll save me.

I should have left years ago without looking back.

Now, I can’t.

There’s a list of things that need to get done tomorrow. Hospital at dawn. Talk to the cardiologist without Eleanor translating. Get a private nurse on retainer so the CCU doesn’t turn into a press pool. Audit the alarm logs because if one local gossip blogger steps foot on this property to “check in,” I want to know which cousin of a cousin let them through the gate. And work… fine, I’ll thread that needle too. Eric can run point on everything that doesn’t require my signature. If he complains, I’ll buy him a boat and name it Shut the Fuck Up.

I take my phone back out, power it on, and start typing:Ariane…

What? What would I say that wouldn’t break something we can’t fix?Are you okay?Stupid and trite.I’m not sorry?True, and pointless.

I lock the screen and let the message rot in drafts.

Across the hall I hear a muted click, the sound of a lamp chain or a clasp or a ring against wood, and the tether tightens again until I can feel it in my teeth. I breathe through it, remembering the way she looked when she said we can’t, like she was trying to convince both of us and failing.

“You already did,” I tell the empty room, and the dark nods like it’s been waiting for me to catch up.

I close the balcony door, kill the lights, and lie down on top of the covers because sleep is a joke and I’m not laughing. The house creaks once, twice, settling around me like a beast. I leave my eyes open because I’ve learned not to miss the moment a night decides to turn.