Chapter 20 Something To Stab Them with
Something To Stab Them with
Remi
Isettle into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked under me, the other bouncing lightly to the rhythm in my head. The sun is starting to dip behind the trees, casting a soft gold glow across the hardwood floors and white walls that feel too clean to touch.
The house is quiet again.
Uncomfortably so.
The kind of quiet that makes you feel like you should whisper even when you're alone.
So I pull out my guitar.
Not to make a statement.
Not to lure the girls out of hiding.
Just… to fill the silence with something that isn’t so hollow.
I strum softly. One chord. Then another. It’s familiar—this one small thing I carry that’s entirely mine. Not messy. Not complicated. Just melody.
I play something slow. Nothing with words yet. Just warm, finger-picked notes that hum through the room like the sound of rain on a window.
And I feel it before I see it.
That slight shift in energy. A shadow that wasn’t there a moment ago.
I don’t look up.
But I know they’re there.
Two shapes standing just barely in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Payton’s probably leaning on the fridge like she doesn’t care. Paige is probably holding her breath, peeking around the corner with wide, curious eyes.
They’re not subtle.
They’re not supposed to be.
So I let them think I haven’t noticed.
I keep playing.
The tune shifts into something a little brighter, something soft and bouncy—a slowed-down version of “Begin Again” by Taylor Swift, because I’m not stupid, and I know exactly how to speak their language.
The air thickens.
Still no words.
Still no movement.
But I can feel them listening. Watching.
Waiting.
Then I hear little feet run up the stairs.
I let the final chord fade gently, like a secret I’m tucking away instead of throwing at them.
The final strum of the guitar fades out like a breath I’ve been holding all morning.
I set it down gently beside me, letting the silence of the living room settle around me like fog. But it doesn’t stay quiet for long—because the quiet has never sat well in this house, not when the girls are distant and everything feels off.
I’ve barely gotten two full sentences out of them since they walked in yesterday. They haven’t made eye contact. Haven’t asked to bake or told me about their weekend. They’ve retreated. Closed off. And I can’t let them stay there.
I shoot to my feet, determination sparking through my chest, and walk straight to their rooms.
No hesitation.
The door to their room is cracked open, and I can hear the faint scratch of pencil on paper.
Paige is sprawled across her bed, earbuds in, flipping through a book about crystals she picked up from the library. Payton is on the floor, sketchbook open, hunched over like she’s trying to disappear into the pages.
I push the door all the way open.
They didn’t say much last night.
They haven’t said much all day.
I knock softly, even though they already know I’m here. “Can I come in?”
Paige glances up from her sketchpad and nods. Payton doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t tell me to leave either. So I step inside.
“I wanted to say something yesterday,” I start, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “But I didn’t want to push.”
Paige stops sketching.
“I just… I meant it when I said I’d be here when you got home. And I was. But even being here didn’t feel like enough. Because you came back to this house after a weekend that never should’ve happened, and I didn’t know how to fix it.”
Payton’s pencil stills.
“I can’t undo what happened with your mom. I can’t promise there won’t be more hard days. But I can promise I’m not going anywhere. Not for the easy parts. Not for the messy ones either.”
Silence stretches for a beat too long.
Then Paige shifts on the bed. “Was that song about us?”
I blink. “What?”
“On the guitar,” she says. “The one you played this morning.”
“Oh.” I smile, cheeks heating. “Kinda. I guess I was thinking about you when I wrote it.”
Payton finally looks up. Her voice is quiet. “Even after we didn’t talk to you?”
“Especially then,” I say softly. “Music helps me say things when I don’t know how to say them out loud.”
She looks at me for a long moment—eyes guarded but curious. And then, in the smallest voice:
“It was really pretty.”
My chest tightens. I walk a little closer but stop just short of the bed. “So are you two.”
Paige rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now. Payton doesn’t smile, but she scoots over and pats the space between them.
My throat tightens as I sit.
We don’t say anything else.
We don’t need to.
Because this?
This is trust.
This is healing.
This is home.
“Now,” I say, standing taller, forcing the mood to shift, “enough sulking. Dance party lunch starts in ten minutes.”
Paige perks up. “Wait—what?”
“You heard me. Sandwiches, snacks, glitter cups with lemonade, and music that’ll shake the walls. Bring your best moves.”
Payton gives me a look. “I’m not dancing.”
“You don’t have a choice,” I tease, smiling. “I’m making tuna melts and putting on your Billie Eilish album. So you better at least pretend to enjoy yourself.”
That earns me a flicker of a smirk. Barely there, but I see it. I turn and start towards the steps.
“Paige!” I call down the hall. “Bring your disco lights!”
Ten minutes later, the living room is chaos in the best way.
Lights flash. Billie’s voice hums through the speakers.
Sandwiches are half-eaten, cups are knocked over, and hair is flying as Paige twirls in her socks.
Payton—after pretending she was just eating—starts moving to the beat, arms flailing in a way that makes us all laugh. Even me.
They’re coming back to life.
And just like that, the house feels like home again.
That’s when I hear the creak of the stairs.
I spin and find Coleman standing at the bottom step, keys in hand, shirt rolled to his forearms, eyes wide like he’s just stepped into a different dimension.
He takes in the scene—the girls dancing, laughing, music playing, me grinning like a lunatic in the center of it all—and then he locks eyes with me.
Something softens in his face. Like he’s remembering why he let me in in the first place.
He walks over to kiss the top of the girls’ heads, murmuring something that makes them giggle. Then he turns to me.
My breath catches.
Because all I can think about is his kiss. The way he tasted. The way I felt underneath his hands, like I was being unraveled and held together all at once.
I shouldn’t want him to do it again. Not now. Not with the girls watching.
But I do.
God, I do.
His hand lifts, and I swear I hold my breath… but he doesn’t kiss me.
Instead, he brushes his knuckles down my cheek, slow and reverent.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he murmurs. “You’re joining us for dinner.”
I nod—slow, soft, dazed.
Then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him and I just stand there, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape.
“You liiiike him,” Paige sing-songs behind me, voice gleeful.
“What?” I blink, turning.
“Dad,” she says, grinning. “You like Dad.”
Payton doesn’t speak right away, but her eyes—those sharp, observant eyes—narrow just slightly. “He likes you too.”
“I—what—no,” I stammer, waving them off. “Eat your sandwiches.”
“You’re blushing,” Paige cackles.
“I’m not—”
But I am.
And I’m smiling too.
Because maybe… they’re letting me in again.
And maybe this time, I can stay.
Dinner felt… normal.
Not pretend-normal. Not polite-conversation-over-roasted-chicken normal.
Real normal.
The kind where Paige kept interrupting herself with giggles and Payton argued over how many pepper flakes to put on her pasta. The kind where Coleman rolled his eyes but kept smiling every time one of them made a face, and where I didn’t have to overthink every word I said just to keep the peace.
They’re back.
Back to the girls I adore. Back to this version of home I never meant to find.
And yet—I’m curled in bed now, staring at the ceiling, and all I can think about is her.
Stella.
God, I hate her.
I hate what she does to them. What she takes from them. How she turns these vibrant, funny, wildly creative girls into quiet shells of themselves in just a few days.
And I hate what she’s done to Coleman.
He tries to hide it. The weariness. The strain. The guilt he carries like it’s stitched into the seams of his suits.
But I see it.
I see him—and I still can’t believe he was ever married to someone like her.
Sure, he can be cold sometimes. A little too structured. A little too controlled. But under all that, he’s good. And kind. And when he lets himself be soft… he’s sweet.
He makes extra pancakes when Paige is having a rough morning. He keeps Payton’s sketchpad on the shelf above his desk like it’s the most important document in the house. And he notices—really notices—the things that matter.
I close my eyes, sighing into the dark.
He kissed me like he meant it.
Like I wasn’t just a phase or a mistake or someone filling in the gaps of his broken life.
And that terrifies me.
Because if I let myself believe it… I won’t be able to un-feel it.
I glance at the clock. Almost midnight. I’ve been waiting for signs of life to quiet, for the soft shuffling and muted voices to stop.
I want to make sure they’re asleep. Safe. Settled.
Then a shadow glides past the door.
My whole body jerks upright.
My heart kicks into overdrive. The shadow’s gone before I can fully focus—but it wasn’t heavy like Coleman’s steps. It was smaller. Lighter.
Probably Paige heading into Payton’s room. I ease back against the pillow.
Another few minutes pass.
Then the shadow moves again—this time in the opposite direction.
Something tightens in my chest.
Wait… why would she be going back?
I sit up fully now, breath caught somewhere between panic and logic. And then, because my brain is not logical at midnight, I leap out of bed without thinking.
No shoes. No weapon. Not even my phone.
“If someone is in this house…” I mutter, creeping toward the door like I’m about to face off with a serial killer, “they better pray I don’t find something to stab them with.”
A horrible thought flashes through me.
Does Stella still have keys?
She better not.
If she even thinks about stepping foot—
A tiny shape comes into view by the edge of the hallway.
I freeze.
Paige.
She’s standing near my doorway in an oversized sleep shirt, blanket bunched in her arms, bare feet curled inward like she’s trying to disappear into the floor.
I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“You didn’t want to go to Payton’s?” I whisper.
She shrugs one shoulder. “She was in the bathroom.”
I nod, stepping closer.
“I don’t like to go in there when she’s up,” she adds, voice soft. “She might ask why I do it.”
My heart cracks down the center.
There’s no way to ask what it is without breaking the moment.
So I don’t.
I just take a step back toward my room and lift a hand in silent invitation.
“Come on, Button.”
It’s the first time I’ve called her that. Coleman uses it sometimes. I’d been afraid to borrow it. Afraid it would feel like too much too soon.
But the way her eyes light up?
It feels just right.
She smiles—really smiles—and pads after me, blanket trailing like a cape.
I hold back the covers and she climbs in without hesitation, curling into the pillow like she’s done it a thousand times.
“Only rule about sleeping in my bed,” I whisper, “is we don’t talk about why. So this is the perfect place for you to sleep.”
She gives me a sleepy nod.
And when I crawl in beside her, she shifts closer until her cheek is resting against my shoulder.
God, I love this kid.
I don’t know how it happened so fast. Or so deep. But it’s there—this fierce, aching love that makes me want to protect her from everything and hold her through all of it at the same time.
We lay there quietly, her breaths steadying, her fingers curling under the blanket like they’re hiding secrets.
Then I hear it.
The soft scuff of footsteps down the hall.
They’re familiar. Barefoot. Slow.
I don’t move—don’t want to spook her.
Then the door eases open.
A figure appears in the doorway.
Payton.
She lingers, staring, her arms wrapped tightly around herself like she’s debating whether she should even be there.
Her eyes flick between me and Paige.
She doesn’t say anything.
She doesn’t have to.
I lift the blanket slowly—no words—just invitation.
She moves.
Soft, silent steps cross the room.
Then she’s climbing in, careful not to wake her sister.
She settles on my other side, facing me, the weight of her quiet presence somehow heavier than anything I’ve carried all day.
I don’t say a word.
Just reach out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
She closes her eyes.
And I lay there, sandwiched between two girls who have wrecked me in the best, most irreversible way.
Maybe this isn’t traditional.
Maybe I’m not their mom, or even someone who belongs here forever.
But for tonight?
I’m theirs.
And they’re mine.