Chapter 23
twenty-three
ELLIOTT
The drive back to Morgan’s was silent, but the air inside the car felt like it was vibrating.
Morgan was in the passenger seat, her head pressed against the glass, her breath fogging the window in rhythmic, shaky hitches. Penelope sat in the back, her jaw set so tight I could practically hear her teeth grinding.
I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, my mind a violent loop of that one image: the photo. Vanessa’s father, holding her hand. Vanessa, looking frail and broken, trying to take a single step.
The night of your parents’ funeral. I’d been playing those words on loop in my head.
The words were a physical weight in my chest. While I had been staring at my ceiling in my bedroom she had been fighting for her life.
While I had been spending the last ten years curating an icy, sharpened hatred for her, she had been carrying a silvery roadmap of it on her skin.
“She lied,” Morgan whispered, her voice cracking the silence. She didn't move her head from the glass. “For ten years, Elliott. Every time we went to the beach, every time we had a sleepover... she had an excuse. She had a story.”
“I’m sure she felt like she was protecting us,” I said, though the words felt like ash in my mouth.
“Protecting us?” Morgan snapped from the passenger seat, looking at me in disbelief.
I caught Penelope’s eyes in the rearview mirror; they were hard and bright with unshed tears.
“She treated us like we couldn't handle the truth. She went through those surgeries—plural, Elliott—alone. Because she thought we were too weak to show up for her.”
“She didn't think we were weak. She thought she was a burden.” I said in her defense because I knew Vanessa and so did Morgan. Maybe she was too mad to see it right now but it was true.
I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, but nobody moved. The silence settled back over us, heavier than before.
“The night of the funeral,” Morgan said, finally turning to look at me. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. “I remember waking up and she was gone. I was so angry. I thought she just... couldn't deal with the sadness. I thought she’d run away because it was too much for her.”
I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the headrest. It hit me then—she hadn’t told them the real reason she’d left that night.
Only she and I knew the truth of why she’d walked out of that house, and even then, I’d only known half of it.
I had spent a decade convinced she was selfish.
I’d looked at her at the party, in the house, and in my own bed, and all I had seen was a woman who had escaped the wreckage unscathed.
I’d looked at her scar and I hadn't even asked. I’d seen the trauma and I’d looked away because it was easier to keep her as the villain.
“She almost died, Morgan,” I said, the realization hitting me with a fresh wave of nausea. “We almost lost her, too and we never knew.”
Morgan let out a jagged sob and covered her face with her hands. Penelope reached forward, squeezing Morgan’s shoulder, but her gaze was fixed on the back of my head.
“What are you going to do, Elliott?” Penelope asked. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. “You’ve been harder on her than anyone. You’ve spent weeks in that house together. Did you ever... did you ever see it?”
I thought of the night I’d stood at the foot of her bed. I thought of the ice bath, the way her leg had locked up, and the way I’d looked at her scars while she slept. I’d seen the wreckage, but I hadn't known the when. I hadn't known she had been bleeding out while I was mourning.
“I saw it,” I whispered. “But I didn't know what I was looking at.”
“She’s not going to Cabo,” Morgan choked out. “How can she? After this? She thinks we hate her.”
“She’s going,” I said, my voice returning with a sudden, sharp clarity. I restarted the engine. I needed to get back. I needed to see her, even if she wouldn't look at me. “I’ll make sure she’s there.”
“Elliott, leave her alone for tonight,” Penelope warned. “She’s with her family. Let her breathe.”
I didn't answer. I waited for them to get out, watching them walk to the front door—two women who had just realized their best friend was a stranger.
As I backed out of the driveway, I didn't head home.
I drove. I drove past the spot where the accident had happened—the spot where my parents' lives ended because they were on their way to pick up Vanessa.
I hated her for that, and because while we were suffering the loss, she had gone on holiday to Arizona.
Now, now I saw the cruel irony.
I drove until the sun started to threaten the horizon.
I had called her a monster. I had called her a liar. And the worst part—the part that made me want to rip the steering wheel off—was that she had let me. She had taken every insult, every cold look, every bit of my misplaced rage, and she had worn it like it was her penance.
She wasn't the monster. I was.