Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Colton
Sunday morning arrives too soon.
I barely slept. Not because of regret, but because my body still hasn’t figured out how to come down from Friday night. From Melissa. From the way she looked, how she tasted, hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes still soft with something that felt dangerously close to intimacy.
I tell myself I’m fine. That this is manageable. That I’ve handled worse than a woman who makes me feel things I can’t categorize.
Then my phone rings. My sister Aubrey.
I stare at it for a moment before answering.
“What?” I say—because with my sister, politeness is optional.
“You’re coming to dinner,” she announces.
I close my eyes. “That wasn’t a question.”
“Nope. It was a courtesy warning. I’m outside.”
I glance toward the windows in time to see her car pull up from the security cameras I have on the front of the building.
Of course she is.
“You’re relentless.”
“And you love me,” she says brightly. “Ten minutes.”
She hangs up before I can protest.
By the time we’re on the road, she’s already talking about work, about some contractor who tried to overcharge her, about a coworker’s dramatic breakup. Anything except the reason she dragged me out of my penthouse on the one day I’d planned to do absolutely nothing.
I keep my focus on the road, hands steady on the wheel, jaw already tight.
“You’re being quiet,” she says.
“I’m driving.”
“You always drive like you’re transporting a heart for transplant,” she replies. “Relax. We’re not in a rush.”
I don’t respond.
We pass through Manhattan and over a bridge, and then the city begins to thin, the skyline turning into a distant shape behind us. It always feels like crossing into another life—one I don’t belong to anymore.
Aubrey watches me from the passenger seat.
“You look different,” she says finally.
I glance at her. “Different how?”
She smirks. “Looser. Distracted. Like you haven’t been a complete asshole all weekend.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “High praise.”
“I mean it,” she presses. “You seem … lighter.”
My grip tenses around the steering wheel.
“Don’t start,” I warn.
“I’m not starting,” she says quickly. Then softer, “I’m noticing.”
Silence fills the car for a few miles, the kind that doesn’t feel comfortable; it just feels loaded.
Aubrey shifts in her seat. “You almost didn’t answer my call.”
“I answered.”
“After three rings,” she counters.
I keep my eyes forward. “What do you want, Aubrey?”
Her gaze stays on the windshield. “I want you to show up.”
“I am showing up.”
She scoffs. “Physically, sure. You always show up physically. You’ve been showing up physically since you were—” She stops herself, swallowing. “Since forever.”
Something sharp flares in my chest.
“You don’t get to use that,” I say.
“And you don’t get to pretend it didn’t happen,” she shoots back, voice tightening.
I exhale slowly through my nose. “Why now?”
“Because Mom called me crying last week,” Aubrey says. “And before you roll your eyes … no, she wasn’t being dramatic. She sounded … sad.”
I feel the familiar anger immediately take hold. Protective in a way that doesn’t make sense anymore.
“Sad,” I repeat. “That’s convenient.”
Aubrey flinches like she didn’t expect the bite. “I’m not defending them.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
She turns toward me fully. “Colton, I’m not asking you to forgive them. I’m asking you to stop disappearing.”
I let out a short laugh. “I’m a doctor. My job is literally to be at the hospital.”
“You know what I mean.” Her voice drops. “You disappear from me too.”
That touches a deep shame that sits inside of me.
I don’t look at her. “That’s not true.”
Aubrey watches me for a long moment. “It is,” she says quietly. “Sometimes, I call you, and it’s like you’re there, and sometimes, it’s like I’m talking to a wall you built when you were a teen and never tore down.”
A lump forms in my throat. I hate that she knows me like this. I hate that she’s right.
“I don’t have the energy for this,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” she says, soft but firm, “you didn’t back then either. And you still did it anyway.”
My jaw flexes. The road stretches ahead, empty and long.
Aubrey clears her throat. “We don’t have to stay long. Just dinner.”
“Dinner is never just dinner there.”
“I know,” she whispers.
The house looks exactly the same. Same manicured hedges. Same wide front porch. Same pristine white siding that makes it feel more like a museum than a home.
My chest feels encased in iron the moment we pull into the driveway.
I haven’t lived here in over a decade, but my body remembers it anyway. The way the air feels heavier, like it presses down on my chest. The way certain memories cling to the walls whether I want them to or not.
Aubrey reaches for the door handle, then pauses. “If it gets bad …” she starts.
“I’m not going to have a breakdown in the driveway,” I snap.
Her mouth twists. “That’s not what I meant.”
I blow out a breath. “Sorry.”
She nods once, accepting the apology without making it a thing.
Inside, everything smells like lemon polish and something roasting in the oven. The foyer is spotless. The staircase gleams. A framed family photo sits on the entry table.
I don’t look at it.
My mother appears first, posture straight, expression pleasant in that distant way she’s perfected.
“Colton,” she says, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “You look well.”
I nod. “You too.”
Her perfume is the same one she’s worn since I was a teenager. It hits my senses and pulls me backward for half a second, into a time when this house wasn’t quiet like a tomb.
My father follows, offering a firm handshake instead of a hug.
“How’s work?” he asks.
“Busy.”
“Good.”
That’s the extent of it.
We move to the dining room, the table set with military precision. Everything has a place. Everything has a rule. Even the candles look like they’re afraid to drip wax in the wrong direction.
Aubrey does most of the talking, filling the silence, steering the conversation away from anything personal. Mom mentions a charity event. Dad talks about a neighbor’s renovation. Aubrey updates them on her latest project.
I nod when I’m supposed to. Smile when required. The longer I sit here, the more my skin itches with the need to leave.
“So,” my mother says eventually, folding her napkin in her lap, “are you seeing anyone?”
The question hits like a stone dropped into still water. Aubrey’s eyes flick to mine. I hesitate a beat too long.
“No,” I say.
It isn’t exactly a lie. It also isn’t exactly the truth.
My mother hums, as if she already expected that answer. “That’s a shame,” she says. “You’re not getting any younger.”
My fork scrapes the plate. I still it.
Aubrey’s voice is sharp. “Mom.”
“What? It’s a normal question.”
For a second, I imagine Melissa at this table. The thought is so absurd that I almost choke. She’d burn this entire room down with one honest sentence and not even realize she’d done it.
My father clears his throat. “Your schedule is probably difficult for … relationships.”
The way he says the word makes it sound like a foreign concept.
“Maybe,” I reply.
“And your temper doesn’t help,” my mother adds lightly, like it’s a joke.
A chill slides down my spine.
Aubrey sets her fork down with a soft clink. “That’s not fair.”
My mother looks at her, brows lifting. “It was an observation.”
“No,” Aubrey says, voice tightening. “It was a dig.”
I force my expression into neutral. “It’s fine.”
Aubrey’s eyes flash. “It’s not.”
I don’t want this to turn into a fight. Not because I care about their comfort, but because I can’t stand the sound of raised voices in this house. It’s like my body expects the other shoe to drop.
My mother exhales. “We’re only trying to connect.”
I laugh under my breath before I can stop myself.
My father’s gaze sharpens. “Something funny?”
I meet his eyes. “No.”
Dinner continues like that. It’s polite and controlled. Emotionally distant. Every word feels measured, weighed, approved before it’s allowed to exist.
At some point, my father mentions the old oak tree in the backyard. How they’re thinking about having it cut down.
“It’s dying,” he says plainly.
My stomach twists.
“Maybe it needs care,” I reply, sharper than intended.
He studies me for a moment. “Sometimes, care isn’t enough.”
The room goes quiet as that sits too close to the resentment none of us will name.
I push my chair back. “I need some air.”
No one stops me.
Outside, the backyard looks smaller than it used to. The oak tree still stands tall, branches stretching wide. Shadows pool beneath it.
I don’t go closer. I can’t.
I stand near the back steps, breathing in cold air, counting the seconds until I can leave. My eyes drift to the right, toward the side of the house where the windows are darker, curtains always drawn.
My feet move without permission, one step, then another, before my brain catches up.
No.
My stomach clenches, and I stop dead, like the ground has turned to ice.
Behind me, the back door creaks.
Aubrey steps outside and closes it gently behind her.
She doesn’t speak at first. She stands beside me, arms folded loosely, gaze aimed at the yard, like she’s giving me space to not be okay.
“You okay?” she asks finally.
“Fine,” I lie.
She doesn’t call me on it.
Aubrey takes a breath. “Mom asked about you the other day,” she says softly. “Like … really asked. She said she doesn’t know how to talk to you anymore.”
I swallow hard. “She never knew.”
“That’s not true,” Aubrey says quickly. Then hesitates. “Not before.”
The words hang there. Not before. Everything in my chest turns sharp.
I clench my jaw. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I’m tired,” she whispers. “I’m tired of watching you walk around like you’re made of knives. I’m tired of watching you punish yourself for something that wasn’t your fault.”
An ache settles in my throat.
I turn my head slightly. “Drop it, Aubrey.”
Her eyes shine, but she blinks it back hard. “You always say that. And I always do. And then nothing changes.”
“Nothing can change.”
“That’s bullshit,” she snaps.
I flinch, and she immediately softens.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean …”
“Yes, you did.”
She gives a small, helpless laugh. “Yeah, I did.”
Silence stretches between us. The oak tree rustles overhead, and the sound feels like a whisper I can’t understand.
Aubrey nudges me with her shoulder. “Just … don’t shut yourself off completely,” she says. “Not from everyone.”
My mind flashes to Melissa. To her laugh in my kitchen. To the way she watched me like she couldn’t decide if she was terrified or thrilled.
“I’m not,” I say quietly.
Aubrey studies my face. “Good.”
When we go back inside, my mother is in the kitchen, arranging something on a platter that doesn’t need arranging.
My father stands by the counter, drink in hand, posture stiff.
Aubrey steps forward first. “We’re heading out,” she says.
My mother looks up quickly. “Already?”
“I have work tomorrow,” I say.
My father’s gaze flicks to my face. “Of course you do.”
It sounds like an accusation. Or maybe I’m so used to hearing one in his tone that I can’t tell the difference.
My mother wipes her hands on a towel. “Colton … we would like you to come around more.”
I stare at her. At the lines around her eyes. At the tightness in her mouth.
“Why?” I ask bluntly.
Her face tightens. “Because you’re our son.”
That should mean something. It doesn’t feel like it does.
Aubrey’s hand touches my arm in a subtle, steadying way. A silent, Don’t.
I nod once. “Good night.”
On the way out, my gaze drifts again toward the hallway. The framed photos. The closed doors. The part of the house that feels like a wound stitched shut.
I don’t look too long. If I do, I might tear it open.
The drive back is quieter. Less forced.
When I pull up in front of Aubrey’s place, she hesitates before opening the door.
“Whatever you’re doing lately,” she says, “don’t sabotage it.”
I grip the wheel. “You don’t know what I’m doing.”
She smiles faintly. “I know you. And I know that look.”
I swallow. “I don’t know how not to.”
Her eyes soften. “Learn,” she says simply.
Then she gets out and closes the door, leaving me alone with the echo of that word.
When I get back to my apartment, the silence feels different than it did this morning. Less empty. Less hostile.
I pull my phone out without thinking.
Me: You survive your Sunday?
The reply comes almost instantly.
Melissa: My couch is judging me for not leaving it.
Something warm loosens in my chest. I type before I can overthink it.
Me: Your couch should mind its business.
Melissa: It’s a very opinionated couch.
I stare at the screen, smiling like an idiot, and it hits me how quickly she’s become my relief. My exhale. My escape.
That’s dangerous. That’s exactly why I should stop. And it’s exactly why I don’t.