Page 6 of What You left in Me

My face burned hot with anger, but no one else seemed to notice the insult.

Eleanor laughed thinly, and Richard poured him wine.

And I sat there, seventeen years old, pressing my nails into my palms so hard I left crescents.

I hated him then.

I hated how snobby he was, how cold… how he made the rest of us seem small just by standing in the room.

That night, when the table was cleared and the house had quieted, I slipped upstairs early. I didn’t want to see the way Mom smiled at him like she wanted his approval, or the way Richard lit up whenever Finn deigned to speak. I curled under my quilt with a book of poems and told myself I’d erase the day from memory.

But I couldn’t sleep.

Because through the vent in my room, voices carried.

Finn’s voice. Low, rough, and laced with laughter I’d never heard before. I crept to the top of the staircase, careful not to let the boards creak, and sat where the shadows kept me hidden.

He was in the hallway, phone pressed to his ear. His girlfriend had gone to bed already, I guessed, because his tone wasn’t meant for her.

“No, she’s fine,” he said, voice casual, bored. “Passes the time. Good in bed, though. I’ll cut it loose before Christmas. Already lining up someone better.” He laughed, short and cruel, the sound of a man who didn’t care if he broke things because he’d never be the one to clean them up.

My stomach dropped so fast I thought I might be sick.

Not because I cared about her. I didn’t, obviously. But the way he said it—the way he dismissed her, a person, one he carved her down to nothing with just a few words, felt like a warning to me. That was the real Finn Wagner. He was not just cold. There was something dangerous about him. He was someone who could hold you in his hands and then let you shatter without blinking.

I hated him. I told myself that a hundred times that night as I crept back into my room, heart thudding, cheeks hot. I hate him. I don’t care. I don’t care.But my body betrayed me, because I could still hear his laugh even when I pressed a pillow over my ears.

After that, I avoided him. At dinners, at holidays, at the rare moments he appeared at all. It was easy, because he stayed gone. Too busy for Christmas, too distant for summers, too successful for birthdays. His name was always on the RSVP list, but his chair always sat empty. And I told myself that was for the best.

Until now.

###

The foyer tilts back into focus.

I blink, and Finn is already moving toward the dining room with Mom’s hand at his elbow. The chandelier light glances off his dark hair. He’s somehow grown older, harder, and more dangerous than the boy who laughed into his phone while I hid on the stairs.

Not to mention, I’m engaged. So why am I even thinking about him?

But inside me, there’s still that girl lurking in the shadows, her heart racing and throat tight, whispering to herself:Don’t care. Don’t you dare care.

But the truth burns beneath my ribs: I do.

I’ve always wanted to impress him. How could I not, with the way Richard talked about him? Like he is the best person in the world.

I should follow Mom’s perfume trail and the click of her heels into the dining room; slide into the role she’s been rehearsing me for since I was old enough to walk. Smile, sit, and behave.

Instead, I pause in the foyer, staring at the reflection of the chandelier in the spotless floor. My reflection stares back, fractured by light, and I wonder if I’ll ever feel whole under this roof again.

“Sweetheart?” Richard’s voice drifts from the side hall. He’s halfway out of his jacket, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. He looks at me with that quiet warmth that never asks for anything. “You coming?”

“In a second,” I manage.

He nods, not pushing. “Don’t be long. Your mom’s holding her breath in there.” He smiles, soft and tired, and disappears into the dining room.

My mom’s moods and breaths. That’s what this house feels like most days, her inhale, her control, and her demand that nothing spill out of its lines. And me? I’ve been holding mine to match hers ever since I can remember.

I touch the tiny pendant at my collarbone, grounding myself in its heart shape. My heart won’t stop racing. My body remembers Thanksgiving, that hallway, the laugh I overheard through a vent. The vow I made to hate him. And yet… hereI am, pulse betraying me in the very place where my family is supposed to feel safe.