Page 5 of What You left in Me

I’m already half-prepared to ignore it, let it fade back into the background of this place when I see a shape at the dock, and every muscle in my body decides to wake up at once.

A woman is standing barefoot at the edge of the planks. Her brown hair, darkened by the dusk, is tied back in a loose bun and she’s wearing a blue sundress the same shade as the lake. Her bare shoulders are catching what’s left of the light. She bends, slipping off her sandals, calves flexing, balance effortless. Then, she straightens and turns.

Ariane Vale.

Not the kid I remember trailing after Eleanor with braces and awkward sweaters. Not the shy smile I ignored. This is awoman. One with defined cheekbones that could cut glass, and calm eyes that carry a disturbing wisdom. Her lips, even from up here, look so fucking soft. She isn’t smiling. The look on her face is watchful and contained.

Meanwhile, her body moves with grace, lean and sure, nothing clumsy in it. There’s a strength there, subtle but fucking obvious if you know where to look.

I take her in with a slow drag of my gaze.

“No one told me she’d look like that,” I mutter to nobody in particular.

Not a trace of the girl remains and that unsettles me more than if she hadn’t changed at all.

Downstairs, voices rise. Eleanor is corralling everyone to dinner. Before someone comes to call me and probably escort me to my own goddamn family dining table, I head for the stairs myself.

I step down to the foyer that smells like roses and pines, and there’s something unnatural about the pungent fragrance. My steps echo on the marble and, before I know it, she’s there. She’s coming out of the hall at the same moment, that slinky little sundress caressing every curve of her striking body.

Our eyes lock and ten years collapse into one taut second.

“Oh, Finn!” she says.

“Ariane,” I return, nodding once. My throat is tight, but I don’t let it show.

Eleanor sweeps in between us before anything else can pass. “Now, now, we’ll save the catching up for the table.”

I don’t say what’s clawing in my head:She’s not a kid anymore. And I wasn’t fucking ready for that.

Chapter 2 – Ariane - The Brother’s Back

“Oh, Finn!”

His name tastes like a foreign word, too heavy on my tongue, too intense for the warm hall light. I keep my voice polite and steady, the way my mother trained me to greet people we can’t afford to offend. My hands are tucked against the pale folds of my dress, so he won’t see how awkward I am.

He nods, the line of his mouth barely moving. “Ariane.”

The syllables sink into me, low and even, as if he’s testing them, as if my name is still a question he hasn’t decided whether to keep asking.

For one second, we’re just standing there in the foyer, the echo of our voices stretching between us. The chandelier scatters light across his face, the dark lines of his shirt, the cut of his shoulders. His eyes don’t look away. They pin me where I stand and suddenly, I feel stripped down in my own house, as if the walls and floors that know me as well as him are siding with him.

And then Mom sweeps in, perfume of roses smothering the moment, smile wide and practiced. “Now, now, we’ll save the catching up for the table. The Whitakers are waiting.” She’s already shepherding Finn forward like she always does, directing, controlling, and smoothing everything over before it can get messy.

But my feet don’t move. My body won’t let them. Because the last time I saw Finn Wagner, I promised myself I wouldn’t care what he was like. And yet here I am, watching him walk away, and all I can do is remember.

###

It was Thanksgiving. Maybe the third one after the wedding.

The house was packed with relatives, casseroles, and polite laughter that had nowhere to go. I was seventeen, still too young to wear heels but too old to be told to sit at the kids’ table. I wore a navy sweater dress that Mom bought me two sizes too small, as if she could stitch me into the young lady that she wanted me to become. My hair was in a tight bun because she said it looked neat that way. I spent most of the day carrying dishes from the kitchen to the dining room, the smell of turkey and butter sticking to my skin.

He arrived late. Of course he did.

The sound of his car had barely died when the door opened, and Finn walked in with a new girlfriend dangling off his arm like she’d been rented for the evening. She was everything I wanted to be. Tall, glossy, and with a stacked body men would gladly worship. She wore stilettos that sank into the front lawn when they crossed it, and she complained about the mud before she even said hello. Her lipstick was the color of wine, her laugh the kind that announced itself to people who mingled three rooms away. Everyone whispered about how pretty she was. Mom smiled like the woman’s presence proved something about our family, like Finn’s arm candy was another trophy to hang on the wall.

And Finn, God, Finn, he didn’t look at anyone else. Not Richard, not Mom, and definitely not me. He opened her coat for her, brushed his hand down her back like a claim, smirked at her shallow jokes.

When Richard asked about the city, Finn only shrugged and said, “It’s better than this fossil with plumbing.”