Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Julianna
The house smells like a contradiction—new and dusty, alive and forgotten. It’s unnerving, the way it feels both pristine and neglected, as if someone pressed a reset button without bothering to live here afterward. The furniture gleams with unused perfection, the paint on the walls still fresh enough to catch the faint scent of chemicals. And the decorations—they aren’t ours. They’re sterile, calculated, like Gustavo Valencia hired a designer to stage a house nobody plans to call home.
Why go through the trouble?
When I told my father I didn’t want to inconvenience his family, he just scoffed. No explanation, no reassurance, no acknowledgment that the family he left us for might even exist. Maybe they don’t come here anymore. Maybe there isn’t anyone at all.
But isn’t that why he left?
Mom said something once—something vague about him wanting a new start, maybe a new family. I was young, but old enough to piece things together. Old enough to hear the subtext in her voice, to see the cracks in her expression when she thought no one was looking. Maybe he cheated. She never confirmed it, never denied it either. And I never pushed for answers because, at the end of the day, all I really knew was that he wasn’t my father anymore.
It doesn’t matter really. I have to focus on Rayne and the move. Being here is too strange. The space is too quiet, too clean, as if it’s been holding its breath, waiting for someone—anyone—to give it purpose again.
I set the last box down in the living room, brushing my hands on my thighs as I glance around. “Rayne?” I call out, my voice echoing slightly. “Rayne, where are you?”
No answer. Of course.
I’ve said her name more in the past couple of months than I’ve probably said anything else in my life. It’s like throwing words into a void and hoping they’ll stick. She doesn’t respond. She never does.
A chill seeps into my chest, wrapping tightly around my ribs and refusing to let go. The fear claws at me, insidious and unrelenting, whispering of all the ways this could go wrong. What if one day I call her name and she’s not here? What if she runs, disappears into the world, and I can’t find her?
I don’t let myself linger on the thought. My feet are already moving, fast, too loud on the wooden floor as I search the house.
“Rayne!”
The kitchen is empty. The bathroom, the den—nothing. My pulse quickens as I take the stairs two at a time, each step amplifying the panic building in my chest.
When I reach the second floor, I find her.
She’s standing in the doorway of what will be her bedroom, clutching her stuffed rabbit so tightly it looks like she’s trying to keep it from slipping away. Her small frame is motionless, her hair hanging in limp strands around her face. Those big, brown eyes of hers drift blankly over the room, unfocused, unseeing.
She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even flinch as I step closer.
“What do you think?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound light, playful. It feels wrong, like I’m playing a role I don’t believe in. “This will be your room. We can paint it any color you want. Pink? Green? I like purple. Any color you choose. What do you think?”
Nothing. Not even a flicker.
I swallow against the lump rising in my throat, kneeling down so I’m at her level. My knees press into the floor, grounding me as I search her face for something—anything.
“Hey, Ray,” I say softly. “You’re going to love it here. There’s a big lake out back, and we can explore once we’re all settled. Maybe we’ll even find some ducks. You like ducks, don’t you?”
Her fingers tighten around the rabbit’s ear, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. It’s the only sign she’s even heard me.
I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, my touch as gentle as I can make it. But the second my fingers graze her skin, she flinches—just a small jerk of her head, but it knocks the air right out of me.
I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned, letting it fall uselessly to my side. My chest constricts, and for a moment, I can’t move, can’t think, can’t do anything but watch her as she drifts further into a place I can’t reach.
Come on, Julianna, do something. Anything. Say whatever comes to mind.
“Okay,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “Okay. We’ll figure it out.”
The words feel hollow, but I say them anyway. Because if I don’t, who will?
“Okay,” I say again, straightening up and brushing the dust off my knees. “You can take your time. Tonight you’re sleeping in my old room. The lady my father recommended should be here tomorrow with some furniture I chose from a catalog. For now, I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even glance my way, and I force myself to step back, my feet dragging as if my body is rebelling against the distance I’m creating. Her sadness feels like it’s seeping into my skin, suffocating and relentless. Give her time, the therapist said when she first moved in with me. But how much time? Weeks? Months? Years?
I know she’s grieving. I know she’s doing it in her own quiet, isolated way, just like I am. But that knowledge doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t help when every interaction feels like throwing words into a void and waiting for an echo that never comes. It doesn’t stop the doubt from creeping in, telling me I’m failing her in every way that matters.
I head to the kitchen, needing a distraction. The space is small but immaculate, every surface spotless, every appliance sleek and modern. It feels out of place here, almost too polished, like it’s waiting for someone to bring it to life. Maybe we can bond here, over something simple like cooking or baking. It’s a long shot, but I’ll cling to any flicker of hope I can find.
The faint creak of the floorboards behind me pulls me from my thoughts. I turn, startled, to see Rayne standing at the edge of the kitchen, her stuffed rabbit pressed tightly to her chest like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. She looks so small compared to everything around us.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my tone gentle, careful. “You want something to drink? Juice? Water?”
She doesn’t answer, but her gaze shifts briefly to the glass in my hand. It’s a small movement, barely there, but it’s something, and I hold onto it like it’s all I have.
I pour her a glass of water and set it on the table, stepping back to give her room. “There you go,” I say. “It’s clean. I checked.”
For a moment, she just stands there, staring at the table. Then, slowly, she shuffles forward. Her steps are hesitant, deliberate, as if she’s testing each one before committing to the next. She sets the rabbit on the chair beside her and climbs up, her small fingers trembling as she reaches for the glass.
She doesn’t look at me, but she drinks. And right now this feels like a win.
“We’re going to make this place really nice,” I say, leaning back against the counter, hoping I have her attention. “I’ll unpack your things as soon as we have your furniture. We’ll set up your new room with bunnies. Maybe we can put some glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, like the ones my dad put in my room when I was your age. Would you like that?”
She shrugs, the movement subtle, almost imperceptible. But it’s the closest thing to a positive response I’ve gotten all day, and I hold onto it like it means something.
I watch her drink, the silence between us stretching long and fragile, like a thread threatening to break. It’s not comfortable. It never is. But I’ve grown used to it—this constant unease, this gnawing feeling that I’m not doing enough.
“You know, your mom used to love when we visited this place,” I say, my voice quieter now, like I’m speaking to the room instead of her. “We used to play on a swing set outside. Maybe I can have one installed for you. What do you think?”
She finishes her water and slides off the chair, picking up her rabbit without a word. Her small figure slips out of the kitchen, disappearing down the hallway like a shadow fading into the night.
I close my eyes and let out a shaky breath, my hands gripping the edge of the counter until the cool surface presses into my palms. “I’m trying, Elena,” I whisper, the words breaking apart as they leave my mouth. “I’m fucking trying, but she’s just as stubborn as you were.”
The lake catches my eye through the window, its surface shifting as the wind picks up, rippling with an energy that feels both alive and distant. I force myself to move, to focus on the now. Moving forward. There are boxes to unpack, rooms to organize, a life to . . . what are we doing? Creating a new family from what Elena left, right?
Can I even do it?
I open the first box in the living room, pulling out picture frames and books, each one a fragment of a life that feels like it belongs to someone else. An ache builds deep inside me, a relentless voice whispering that I’m not enough. That I’ll never be enough.
But I have to keep trying. For Rayne. Because if I don’t, who will?