29. Lola #2
It’s quiet for a second. My head pounds. The house smells like cinnamon and dust and something boiling on the stove. It’s too warm here. Tiredness clings to my hair and my spine. A door creaks. Footsteps. Their mom stands in the entryway, her robe cinched, slippers making sad squeaks on the wood.
She looks right at me. “Oh, honey,” she says softly. “I’m so sorry about your mother. If you need anything, anything at all, you just ask.”
I nod, staring into the chipped mug. My hands are shaking. I hide them in the heat and steam.
Sophie glances at her mom, soft eyes all extra worry, but barely says anything. She just scoots closer, thighs pressed tight to mine, like she can glue the pieces back together if she holds me hard enough.
“It’s really okay,” I whisper. “You don’t need to treat me differently.” The lie is sour.
Their mom lingers, arms crossed, robe tied too tight. She’s pretending not to scrutinize me. She wants to come sit beside me on the couch and touch my hair, maybe say that I’ll be fine, time heals, all that fake comfort.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she says, “I’m making lasagna. You like lasagna, Lola?”
Sophie beams. “She does! She loves anything with cheese. She told me.”
The mug is unsteady in my hand. I sip, careful not to slosh. I nod, again. “I do. My mom used to make it sometimes. With bread, too.”
Brody’s body goes tense beside me. I sense it. The shift in the cushion, the way his knee is locked against mine. I don’t look at him.
Sophie leans in. “I can make garlic bread, too,” she says. “We’ve been getting really good at it, right, Brody?”
He shrugs. “I do the cutting. Soph burns the edges.” His eyes flick to me and then away. He wants to ask what Marcus did but he holds it in. Maybe he already knows.
Sophie pokes him. “Liar. He eats most of it before it even hits the table.”
I almost have to smile. The dumb arguments. The warmth. Their house is loud, even in silence. Every spoon on the kitchen counter, every step on the floor upstairs. It feels alive.
“Is it okay if I stay for dinner?” My voice is small, already expecting a no. I stare at the mug, the brown whorls on the inside lip.
Their mom waves it off, already moving for the kitchen again. “Of course, sweetie. You’re always welcome. Stay as long as you want.”
Sophie yanks the blanket higher on my knees. “We’re having a movie night, too. Brody picked the last one, so now it’s my turn to choose. No killing, no blood-obsessed detectives, just something dumb and sweet. You have to vote with me, right, Lola?”
I nod. She grins, wild and bright.
Brody snorts, mouth twisted but not unkind. “You’ll put them both to sleep.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” Sophie says, smug. “It’s self-care. Not trauma bonding over horror flicks.”
I glance sidelong at him, and my pulse goes unpredictable.
Brody’s arm is splayed out behind me, dominating the couch, close enough to smell the warmth on his skin.
For a second, I forget about the world outside their living room.
That thin membrane of safety, the way laughter and garlic and soft lamplight can almost keep the dark out.
My head tips toward Brody’s arm, just for a second, like if I get close enough I can borrow some of his solidity, some of that wolfish rage he always carries like a weapon.
But the quiet eats at me. I hear the ticking clock. The oven timer. My own unsteady breath, the way it catches every time the door moves, every time the wind shifts, every time I remember Marcus’s hand on my thigh and the way my mother’s perfume fades more each day.
Sophie starts the movie. I let her tuck me in as Brody’s leg press solid against mine, a wall I could break myself against if I wanted. I try to watch, try to laugh when they laugh, but the film blurs at the edges, all pastel colors and canned laughter that never really reaches me.
Brody glances at me, eyes searching. I know he wants to fix it. I know he can’t. He brushes his knuckles across my knee, like he’s promising something he shouldn’t promise. Like he wants to be my anchor but isn’t sure I’d let him.
Halfway through, Sophie falls asleep, forehead pressed to my shoulder. Brody nudges her, but she just groans. Brody and I are left watching the credits, the room breathing that sleepy, haunted quiet only grief can make.
He leans in. “You want to stay the night? I’ll tell my dad. Sophie’ll make up the cot in her room.”
I want to say yes. I want to stay. I want to carve out some piece of this normal and keep it forever. But something in me is already retreating, already thinking about Marcus waiting just across the lawn, the phone calls, the curfew, the threat in the word ‘mine.’
I shake my head. “He’ll be angry if I’m late. You know how he is.”
Brody’s jaw clenches. “He can fuck himself.”
“Yeah,” I say, but it doesn’t sound like me.
He stands to walk me to the door, careful not to wake Sophie. Their mom calls goodnight from upstairs, voice warm and tired. At the door, Brody stops me with a hand at my wrist. The porch light flickers, dust motes spinning in the yellow air.
I look up at him and for a second, it’s just us. It’s summer nights and secret grins, hands on backs under the stars, before everything cracked open.
“If you need me, you call,” he says, voice careful. “I’ll come get you. No matter what. You hear me?” I nod, not trusting my voice. He leans forward, presses his forehead to mine. “I mean it, Bambi.”
I slip out into the night; the air is colder now.
The leaves stick to my sneakers as I walk home fast, head down, arms wrapped around my ribs to keep them from splitting open.
Lights are on in the house. Marcus is waiting, always waiting.
I can feel the hook in my chest, the leash around my neck, the ache in my bones that says this is not over. Nothing is ever over.
But for a few hours, I remembered what it felt like to belong—to a family, to a friend, to myself.