Chapter Twenty Five #2
They settle in without asking permission, which is exactly what I need because if anyone gave me the choice, I would pick isolation out of habit. Ellie passes out the coffee and Emma opens the pastry bag like she’s hosting brunch.
Ellie glances down the hallway, then back at me. “Did Jace stay over?”
I nod. “He left before you got here.”
Emma’s expression flickers with something gentle. “How are you feeling about that?”
I stare into my cup, watching the coffee swirl. “Good actually. Right.”
Ellie narrows her eyes. “You sound sure.”
I nod once. “I am.”
Emma smiles softly. “That’s allowed, you know.”
Ellie slides a pastry toward me. “Eat something anyway. Even emotionally stable people need carbs.”
“I am emotionally stable,” I say, picking it up.
Ellie arches a brow. “That’s new. I’m documenting it.”
I take the pastry.
We sit at the counter with coffee and sugar and the quiet hum of the heater in the background. Nobody pushes me to talk further, which is another reason I love them. They know the difference between support and interrogation.
Ellie takes a sip of her coffee, then says, “I want to be clear. If I see Sierra’s mother in public, someone needs to hold my drink.”
“Ellie,” Emma says, warning.
“What?” Ellie demands. “I’m serious. I’m going to kick her ass.”
I make a sound that might be a laugh and might be a broken inhale. “Please don’t get arrested on my behalf.”
“I won’t get arrested,” Ellie says confidently. “I’ll win.”
Emma shakes her head, but her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile.
We talk in small, careful pieces at first. Safe things. The coffee. The fact that Ellie’s hair is slightly frizzy because she clearly left the house in a hurry. The pastries that Emma insists she ‘accidentally’ bought too much of.
Then Ellie says, more quietly, “Do you want to talk about Jace?”
The question lands soft, not sharp.
I hold my cup in both hands and stare at the steam. “I don’t know what there is to say.”
Emma leans on the counter, watching me. “Start anywhere.”
I take a breath. Let it fill my chest. Let it leave slowly.
“He looked like… someone took the floor out from under him,” I admit.
Ellie’s face tightens. “Yeah.”
“I’ve never seen him like that,” I continue, and my voice goes lower without meaning to. “Not even when we were younger and fought. This was different.”
Emma’s brows draw together. “Different how?”
I swallow. “Like he was trying not to break in front of everyone, and the only thing keeping him upright was… control.”
Ellie nods once, sharp. “That tracks.”
“And,” Emma says gently, “how did that feel for you?”
My throat tightens. ‘Like watching someone drown in slow motion.’
I force myself to speak anyway. “It made me want to… fix it.”
Ellie snorts. “You can’t fix men.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I say, but my voice wobbles.
Emma reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You wanted to take his pain away.”
I nod once, because yes. Exactly.
Ellie’s tone shifts into something sharper, protective. “You can support him without carrying it for him. That’s the line.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Ellie asks, eyebrow raised.
I glare at her. “Yes.”
Ellie holds my gaze like she doesn’t believe me, then sighs and takes another sip of coffee. “Fine. I’ll accept that for now. Temporarily.”
Time passes in pieces.
We move from the kitchen to the couch. Emma puts on some mindless background show that none of us actually watch. Ellie scrolls through her phone and mutters threats at the universe like it’s personal.
I answer a couple of texts. Nothing meaningful. Mostly people asking if I’m okay, which is a useless question because the answer is obvious and the truth is too big to fit in a message.
Ellie looks up. “Okay. I need you to tell me something, and I need you to be honest.”
I brace. “Okay.”
“Are you angry at Sierra?”
A dull pressure settles in my chest. Anger would be simpler. Anger would be clean. Anger would let me draw a line and never cross it again.
But what I feel isn’t clean. “I don’t know,” I admit.
Ellie’s eyes narrow. “Sarah.”
Emma’s voice stays soft. “It’s okay if it’s complicated.”
I stare at the television, not seeing it. “I’m angry at what she did. I’m angry at the timing. And I’m angry because she changed my future without ever thinking about the consequences for anyone else, because she took a choice away from me.”
Ellie nods like that’s the correct answer.
“But,” I add, and the word tastes strange, “I also… understand why she did it.”
Ellie’s lips press into a line. “That’s empathy, not forgiveness.”
“I know,” I say again, and I do. Mostly.
Another knock at the door comes, and I can feel who it is. Something in my body shifts, but it doesn’t tip into panic. Maybe because the worst already happened. Maybe because I can’t be surprised anymore.
I stand, smoothing my sweatshirt down, then walk to the door.
Sierra stands on the porch with her hands clasped tightly in front of her, posture straight but brittle. She looks smaller in daylight. Fragile and stripped down. Like whatever armor she used to wear didn’t survive the night.
Her eyes flick over my shoulder once, seeing Ellie and Emma, then return to my face.
“Hi,” she says, voice thin.
Ellie’s presence behind me is solid and unmistakable. Not threatening. Just watchful.
I step aside anyway. “Come in.”
Sierra walks in slowly, shoulders tight, like she’s braced for impact. Like she expects to be told she doesn’t belong here.
Ellie doesn’t move, her arms are crossed. Expression closed but controlled.
Emma’s face is gentler, eyes cautious.
“I’m not here to make this easier on myself,” she says. “I just… need to say something.”
I nod once. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
No qualifiers. No excuses.
“I hurt you and I hurt Jace. And I did it in the worst possible way.”
Her voice cracks, but she keeps going.
“I didn’t plan it,” she admits. “That’s not an excuse. It’s just the truth. My mother said what she said, and I snapped.”
Ellie shifts her weight, jaw tightening, but she stays silent.
“I made a choice and ruined lives,” Sierra says quietly.
Emma speaks gently. “You didn’t ruin everything.”
Sierra exhales. “I feel like I did.”
I take a breath. “Okay, go ahead, I’m listening.”
Her shoulders drop. “I don’t really know what to say, I just needed to ay it to you myself.” She admits quietly.
“I just needed to say it to you myself.”
Ellie finally speaks, voice level. “Okay. Then say it straight.”
Sierra nods. “I didn’t think about you or anyone else when it happened. I was so focused on surviving my own mess that I didn’t think about who else would get hurt.”
Emma’s hand finds mine.
“What you did took something from me,” I say quietly. “Even if you didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not pretending it didn’t hurt.” I reply.
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
I hold her gaze, then say it. “I forgive you.”
Her breath catches.
Ellie turns toward me. “Sarah—”
I shake my head slightly.
“Not because it didn’t matter,” I continue. “But because I don’t want this to own me.”
Tears spill down Sierra’s face but she doesn’t wipe them away. “Thank you,” she whispers.
Ellie exhales slowly, then says, calmer, “Take care of yourself.”
She gives me one last nod, then steps back toward the door.
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
The door shuts, and the house feels like it exhales.
Ellie stares at me like she’s deciding whether to argue or respect me.
Finally she says, “That was… emotionally responsible. I hated it.”
I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “I didn’t do it for her.”
“I know,” Ellie says. “But forgiveness doesn’t mean it hurts any less.”
“I know.”
Emma’s eyes soften. “I’m proud of you.”
The words land warm, even as my body feels exhausted.
The rest of the day becomes what Ellie called it, a girls’ day.
Not in the glossy, montage way. In the way where we exist in the same space and let the silence be safe again.
Emma insists on making food, which is ridiculous because it’s my house, but she does it anyway. Ellie puts on music and complains about every song choice like it personally offended her.
At some point, we move to the floor in the living room with blankets and snacks like we’re teenagers, and Ellie starts talking about nothing on purpose.
A reality show. A weird customer at a bookstore. A dumb fight she witnessed online.
It’s noise, but it’s the good kind. The kind that reminds you the world is still here.
Eventually, Ellie goes quiet, her gaze sliding to mine.
“Have you two talked about what happened?”
My stomach tightens. “No.”
Emma’s brows knit. “Do you want to?”
I hesitate. “I think… eventually.”
Ellie nods once. “That makes sense.”
Emma shifts closer. “Do you think the two of you can figure out what this looks like now?”
The question makes my chest tighten again.
“I don’t think it goes back to what it was,” I say.
Ellie nods once. “That’s fair.”
Emma’s voice is gentle. “And you don’t feel like that’s on you alone?”
“No,” I say. “I just want to be here when he’s ready.”
Ellie’s expression softens slightly, like she believes me. “Good. Because he doesn’t need saving. He needs space to feel it, and you can’t feel it for him.”
Emma adds quietly, “But you can be the place he comes back to.”
That sentence lands somewhere deep. ‘I want to be that place.’
The afternoon drifts. We eat. We talk. We don’t talk. We watch half a movie and pause it three times because nobody is actually paying attention.
At some point, Ellie gets up and stretches. “Okay. I have to go. If I don’t show my face at home, my sister will assume I’m dead and start a search party.”
Emma stands too, gathering cups. “I should head out too. I’ve got that thing later with Ethan.”
Ellie points at me. “Text us. If you don’t text us, I’m coming back.”
“I will,” I promise.
Emma hugs me again, soft and tight. “You did good today.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t feel like I did.”
Emma pulls back and looks me in the eye. “That’s because you’re still in it.”
Then they’re gone, and the quiet returns.
This time it isn’t huge.
It’s just… there.
I clean up slowly. Not because the mess is big, but because moving gives my hands something to do. I throw away empty cups, fold blankets, reset the living room into something that looks like a house again instead of a landing spot.
When everything is back in place, I stand in the kitchen and realize I don’t know what to do with myself.
So I grab my phone.
I stare at it for a long time.
I don’t want to chase him. I don’t want to pressure him. I don’t want to become another person who expects him to perform grief on command.
But I also don’t want to sit here all night and pretend I’m fine.
Me: Are you okay?
Then I delete it.
Me: Do you want to come over?
Then delete it.
Finally, I type:
Me: I’m here. No pressure.
I stare at it for a beat, then hit send before I can overthink it.
The response doesn’t come immediately and that's okay.