Chapter 40
FORTY
LANI
I wake slowly.
Not because I’m rested.
Because I’m warm.
For a moment I don’t understand why. The air in Gran’s house is usually cool in the mornings, the kind of cool that creeps under doors and settles along floorboards. But I’m cocooned in something heavier, layered and close.
Smoke. Salt. Tea. Oud. Rain. Sweetness.
Memory returns in fragments.
The box.
The folding.
The sofa corner.
The…nest.
My eyes open, and I find myself half-curled into the cushions, Sol’s shirt twisted under my shoulder, Koa’s flannel bunched at my hip, Kai’s hoodie pressed against my back like a barrier, Finn’s t-shirt still tucked against my chest.
I don’t move immediately.
The ache is still there. But it’s dulled. It no longer feels like something clawing from the inside out. It’s lower now. Manageable. A steady throb instead of a sharp fracture.
I press my face deeper into the fabric before I can stop myself, inhaling slowly.
My body answers. Instant relief. It’s humiliating. And devastating.
I sit up slowly, disentangling myself from the layered fabric, and the cool air hits my skin instantly. The absence is noticeable. My senses sharpen, searching.
I swallow.
I don’t want to need this.
I force myself to stand, even though the nest behind me feels like gravity. My body protests the distance as I step away from it, a faint prickling under my skin like static building again.
“Get a grip,” I mutter to myself.
The bathroom is colder than the living room. I twist the shower on too hot and stand under it longer than necessary, letting the water beat against the back of my neck.
It helps. A little. But when I reach for the shelf automatically, the absence hits harder than the cool air did.
There’s no ocean-toned shampoo and conditioner. No ridiculous overly expensive body wash that smells faintly of caramel and salt.
Just my grandmother’s plain lavender soap.
I use it. But it feels wrong. Too light. Too clean. It washes away the layered scents clinging to my skin, and as the water runs down the drain I feel something else go with it – that faint buffer of comfort I’d built around myself.
By the time I dry off, my chest feels hollow again.
I return to the living room without consciously deciding to.
The nest is still there, slightly rumpled from sleep.
It looks deliberate now.
Obvious.
My cheeks burn faintly.
I should dismantle it.
But I don’t. I can’t bring myself to.
Instead, I gather the clothes more tightly, carrying them to my bedroom this time. The bed is too large without someone else’s presence, too wide and flat and exposed.
I arrange the clothes carefully along one side, layering them again – Sol’s darker fabric as base, Koa’s flannel spread open, Kai’s hoodie tucked near the pillows, Finn’s t-shirt placed closest to where I lie.
It’s more intentional now.
Not accidental.
The instinct doesn’t feel embarrassing anymore.
It feels necessary. Natural.
I climb into the bed and curl on my side, drawing the fabric around me like insulation. The relief is almost immediate. Not complete, but steadying.
The hours blur. I drift in and out of shallow sleep. When I wake, I adjust the layers without thinking, pressing my cheek into different fabrics, pulling one closer, pushing another beneath my knees.
At some point I realise I’m scent marking them.
It’s subtle at first – my fingers lingering along seams, my cheek pressed deliberately against collars, my palm flattening over fabric as if I’m anchoring myself there.
Then it becomes conscious.
I breathe into Sol’s sleeve.
I curl into Koa’s flannel.
I drag Kai’s hoodie closer, pressing it against my throat.
I clutch Finn’s shirt at my chest and let my scent bleed into the cotton.
It’s instinctive.
Protective.
Mine.
The betrayal still burns when I let myself think about it. The terrace. The word bet. But my body doesn’t differentiate between hurt and attachment. It just knows absence.
The doorbell rings mid-afternoon.
The sound jerks me upright, heart racing.
For a split second I think they’ve come.
The idea hits low and dangerous.
I wait.
No second ring.
I slip from the bed reluctantly, wrapping Kai’s hoodie around my shoulders as if I need armour, and pad down the hallway.
When I open the door, no one is there.
Just another delivery bag that’s still warm.
I stare at it for a long moment before stepping forward.
That’s when I notice the garden. The soil in the pots is dark and damp again. The hanging baskets are upright and freshly watered. The small fern near the front step that always droops by midday is bright and lifted.
I look toward the other house instinctively but the windows are still. No movement. No shadows shifting behind glass. No one is standing there watching.
My disappointment is immediate and irrational. I tell myself I should be grateful they’re not pushing. That this quiet distance is respectful.
Instead, it feels like standing at the edge of something and realising no one is coming to drag you back.
And for some reason, that really hurts.
Fight for me, I want to scream. But of course I don’t. Instead, I carry the food inside. It’s another of my favourite dishes, meaning Finn must be responsible for it because we’ve shared the most meals together. I eat half of it sitting at the kitchen table, hoodie sleeves covering my hands.
It tastes right. Familiar. And it makes my chest ache.
Afterwards, I wander aimlessly through the house again. The quiet feels thicker now. The layered scents in my bedroom pull at me like a tether.
I return to the bed without resisting.
I sit there for a long time, staring at the clothes, at the careful folding, at the absence of notes.
They didn’t explain. They didn’t justify. They just…provided what they thought I needed.
The anger has cooled into something more complicated. It doesn’t erase what they did. It doesn’t erase the humiliation. But it doesn’t erase the care either.
That contradiction sits heavy in my chest.
Eventually, I reach for my phone.
My thumb hovers over several names before settling on one.
Aisling.
If anyone can cut through this without sugar-coating it, it’s her.
I stare at the screen for a moment longer.
Then I type.
Are you free?
And hit send.
Aisling doesn’t text back, she calls.
I hesitate for half a second before answering, suddenly unsure whether I want a voice in my ear or not. The house feels fragile around me, as if even sound might crack something I’ve only just managed to hold together.
“Tell me you’re not dying,” she says immediately, no greeting, no softness.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, thin and brittle. “Not currently.”
“Good. I’m outside.”
I sit upright too quickly, the nest shifting around me. “What?”
The doorbell rings.
I glance at the layered clothes, at Sol’s dark shirt draped over the pillow, at Kai’s hoodie pooled near my hip, and then at the doorway.
“Give me a minute,” I mutter, already moving.
I don’t dismantle the nest. I don’t have time. But I do pull the bedroom door to and pray that she doesn’t go snooping.
When I open the front door, Aisling stands there with her arms folded and her expression set somewhere between concerned and unimpressed.
“You look like hell,” she says bluntly, stepping inside before I can argue.
“Good to see you too.”
She kicks off her shoes and walks straight into the living room, scanning the space with quick, assessing eyes. She doesn’t comment on the quiet, on the heaviness that still lingers in the air, but I know she feels it.
“I saw them this morning,” she says, turning back to me.
My stomach tightens instantly. “Who?”
She raises a brow. “Don’t play dumb. Koa, Kai, Finn. They were at the café before opening.”
My pulse kicks.
“And?” I ask, aiming for indifference and failing.
“They look wretched.”
I swallow. “As in hungover?” I try, hopefully.
“As in someone-shot-their-dog levels of wretchedness,” she replies dryly.
“They don’t have a dog.”
She silences me with a look.
“Finn looked like he hadn’t slept. Kai was snappish. Koa didn’t speak at all.”
My gaze flicks away before I can stop it.
Aisling notices. “Right,” she says slowly. “So. What happened?”
I cross my arms, suddenly cold despite the warmth in the house. “They were discussing when to call off their bet.”
Her brows lift. “Ah. Okay.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
She tilts her head. “Define bet.”
I stare at her. “You knew?”
“Specifics? No. But they always do one. They’re infamous for them.”
The ground shifts slightly beneath me.
“What do you mean, always?”
Aisling sighs and drops onto the sofa without waiting for permission. “Every summer since they were teenagers. Younger, probably – I wasn’t around then but I’ve heard the stories. They run a challenge. Something stupid. Something competitive. Usually harmless.”
“Harmless,” I repeat flatly. The pain in my chest doesn’t feel harmless.
“They’re bored billionaires,” she says, not unkindly, with a shrug. “They manufacture entertainment. It’s juvenile. It’s infuriating. It’s also rarely malicious. They’re not bad people, Lani.”
I feel something twist uncomfortably inside my ribcage.
“What kind of challenges?” I ask quietly.
She shrugs. “Who can survive longest without spending money. Who can disappear for a week without being found. Who can run a business venture into profit fastest. Who can sleep—” she stops, studying my face more closely. “Oh.”
“What?”
“It was about you, wasn’t it?”
The shame hits hotter than the anger did. “Yes.”
Aisling exhales slowly. “That’s new. There’s usually several women involved.”
“That’s not comforting,” I point out and she cringes.
“It shouldn’t be,” she says. “But it also means it escalated.”
My throat tightens. “They said it started as a challenge.”
“That tracks,” she replies calmly. “It probably did.”
I press my palms against my eyes for a moment, trying to steady the swirl of humiliation and confusion threatening to rise again.