Chapter 6
Raven
Five days in Philly, and I’m breathing easier than I did after the attack outside Matteo’s apartment. Christ. What a fucking mess.
Nope, I’m not thinking about that now. Not ever.
Anyone who says denial and avoidance aren’t working coping mechanisms is a fool.
Hopefully, I won’t be thinking of it at all when my week off is up. Ugh, or maybe sooner. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family to bits. But man, they’re exhausting after almost a week together.
This is what I get for not booking an actual vacation when I requested the time off weeks ago. In my defense, I thought I’d spend the time exploring Cleveland. But after the attack… event I’m not thinking about, I needed some family time.
I let my gaze wander around my childhood bedroom, which feels frozen in time. Debate trophies line my bookshelf, their gold-plated figures eternally raising tiny metal arms in victory. Next to them, framed photos capture moments I’d almost forgotten.
Leo and me at sixteen, gangly limbs and braces, squinting into the late spring sun. Both of us hugging Baxter, our golden retriever, who sadly crossed the rainbow bridge many years ago. But he still lives in these snapshots, tongue lolling and eyes bright.
My high school valedictorian medal hangs from the corner of my mirror, alongside ticket stubs from concerts I barely remember attending. The room should feel childish, maybe even embarrassing.
I stretch my legs across the pale blue comforter, wiggling my bare toes. No stilettos here, no tight skirts or anything designed to turn heads. Just cutoff jean shorts frayed at the edges from too many washes and a tank top that’s so soft it practically melts against my skin.
In Cleveland, I’m Raven—sharp edges and a sharper tongue, always armed with a comeback and an escape route. Here, I’m just Lena. Lee to those who’ve known me since before I had front teeth.
“Lee.” Mom’s voice floats up the stairs. “Come help with dinner, sweetheart.”
“Coming,” I call back, feeling a smile spread across my face without having to force it.
I bounce off the bed, my feet finding the exact spots on the hardwood floor that don’t creak—a skill gained during years of sneaking in past curfew.
The house smells like summer, Dad’s barbecue sauce already wafting through the air. It’s a family secret recipe, supposedly passed down from some great-great-grandfather who cooked for a general during the Civil War.
Dad insists it’s historically accurate. Leo and I maintain he got it off the back of a ketchup bottle in the nineties and changed it just enough to claim ownership.
As I descend the stairs, my hand slides along the banister worn smooth from years of the same movement. Photos line the stairwell wall—a visual timeline of the Carter family history.
My parents’ wedding, Leo and me as infants, family vacations, graduations. Little squares of perfection, neatly framed and arranged.
Mom stands in the kitchen, her blonde hair—a shade or two lighter than mine thanks to her colorist—pulled back in a neat ponytail. She’s wearing white capris and a navy blue top that makes her look like she stepped out of a catalog.
She’s stirring something in a bowl, but looks up when I enter, her face breaking into a smile that creates tiny crinkles around her eyes.
“There’s my girl,” she says, abandoning her mixing to pull me into a hug. She smells of that expensive perfume Dad buys her every Christmas. “It’s so good to have you here, sweetheart. But are you sure you’re okay? It’s not like you to come home for this long. Or… that suddenly.”
This is about the ten thousandth time she’s asking me. “Yes, Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes but hugging her back just as tightly. “I missed you all, that’s it. Promise.”
“Are you sure?” She sighs. “Are you in trouble?”
“Mom, come on,” I say as soothingly as I can. “I’m twenty-eight and not twelve. I don’t need bailing out of any trouble.”
“You’ll be eighty-eight and I’ll still ask,” she retorts, releasing me to return to her mixing. “It’s in the mom handbook, page thirty-seven. It clearly states that you should never stop questioning your children.”
I laugh, leaning against the counter. “Well then. If the handbook demands it,” I quip. “What culinary masterpiece are we creating tonight?”
“Your dad is doing his barbecue chicken and burgers. I’m making potato salad and those skewers you and Leo always fight over. Speaking of which…” She gestures to a pile of vegetables on the cutting board. “… your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to make these into something edible.”
“Challenge accepted.”
I grab a knife and start to chop a red pepper into neat chunks. The repetitive motion is soothing, requiring just enough attention to keep my hands busy but leaving my mind free to float.
“How’s Cleveland? And the new apartment, are you still liking it?” Mom asks. “It was so nice of Piper to help you out. I still can’t believe she’s married now.”
Shaking my head, I work my way through my mom’s mountain of questions. She’s like a damn hydra, though. Each answer leads to ten new questions, and I freaking love it.
I finish chopping the vegetables and begin sliding them onto skewers. Pepper, mushroom, zucchini, repeat. When I’m done, I leave Mom to it and walk outside.
Dad stands at his command post, right next to the enormous stainless steel grill that Mom calls his midlife crisis.
As always, he doesn’t wear his glasses when he’s working the grill. Which is probably good with all the smoke billowing around him as he flips burgers with the precision of a surgeon, spatula moving in practiced arcs.
He’s wearing the Grill Sergeant apron Leo and I bought him for Father’s Day five years ago. Its once-bold lettering now faded from countless washings. A beer sweats in his free hand, and he looks completely in his element—king of his backyard domain.
“How’s it looking?” I ask, carrying the tray of vegetable skewers onto the patio.
Dad gives the skewers an appraising look. “Colorful. Healthy. Everything a side dish should be.” He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But between us, the meat is still the star of the show.”
“I heard that, Henry,” Mom calls from the kitchen window, her superhuman mom-hearing powers fully intact. “And those vegetables are the reason your cholesterol isn’t through the roof, so show some respect.”
Dad winks at me, then raises his voice. “Yes, dear. Vegetables are God’s gift to mankind. I worship at the altar of fiber.”
Through the open window, I catch sight of Mom rolling her eyes, but the smile playing at her lips gives her away.
As a car pulls up, I squint and shield my eyes from the sun just long enough to confirm it’s my twin, Leo, and his boyfriend Ollie. Another perfect relationship. Even though it should make me feel like the fifth wheel, it doesn’t.
“Leo!” I shout, running toward him.
“Lee-Lee,” he grins, dropping the bags he’s carrying and pulling me in for a hug when I reach him. “How’s my favorite girl?”
Once he lets me go, Ollie pulls me in for an embrace. “Ready to confess yet?” he asks good-naturedly.
And just like that, the usual banter starts. Ollie knows I stole a concert ticket from him years ago, just as he knows I’ll never admit to it. What he doesn’t know is that I still have it stashed in my trophy box.
Back inside, Mom orchestrates kitchen activities with the efficiency of a field general. “Ollie, sweetie, can you grab those serving platters from the top shelf? Leo, the dressing for the salad needs to be whisked again. Lena, I need you on corn duty.”
Leo and Ollie move around each other with the ease of people who know each other’s rhythms by heart. Leo reaches for the glasses in the cabinet just as Ollie slides past with a stack of plates, their movements synchronized without a word exchanged.
“Hey, corn star,” Leo calls to me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Heard you’ve been living dangerously in Cleveland. What’s this about almost getting arrested for skinny dipping in a public fountain?”
I nearly drop an ear of corn. “What? I never…” Then I catch his smirk. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Language,” Mom interjects without looking up from her potato salad.
“Sorry, Mom. Leo is such a butt-opening.” I correct myself, sticking my tongue out at my twin. “And for your information, all my swimming has been done—”
“Boring,” Leo interrupts. “The Lena Carter I know once mooned the entire debate team on a dare.”
“That was one time,” I protest. “And they deserved the treat of seeing my ass for the gold-star performance during cross-examination.”
Mom sighs dramatically.
Ollie laughs, his hands full of silverware. “If it makes you feel better, Vicky, Leo still sleeps with his childhood stuffed penguin.”
Leo gasps, clutching invisible pearls. “OMG, the betrayal. And in my own home.”
“Mr. Waddles is an important part of our relationship, babe. I’ve made my peace with it,” Ollie says, leaning over to kiss Leo’s cheek.
I can’t help but smile at their easy affection.
“Speaking of relationships, are any handsome men catching your eye?” Mom asks, smoothly changing the subject.
I suppress a snort. “No comment, your honor,” I say, mimicking a courtroom witness.
Leo whistles. “That’s a yes if I’ve ever heard one. Spill it, sis. Who’s the unlucky guy?”
Images of Matteo flash unbidden through my mind; his beautiful, scarred face, his gray eyes darkening as he looms over me, his hands gripping my hips, his mouth…
Nope. Not going there. Not in my parents’ kitchen with my twin’s psychic abilities potentially picking up my inappropriate thoughts.
“The only relationship I’m committed to is with my career,” I reply primly. “And possibly a new bakery I’ve found.”
“Dinner is served!” Dad’s voice booms from outside. “Everyone outside while it’s still daylight.”
Saved by the barbecue. I grab the bowl of corn and make my escape before anyone can interrogate me further.