2. Knox
Knox
Today is going to be fucked, but at least I get to see her.
That counts for something. Even if she hates my guts, I’ll take her scowls and scorn over nothing at all.
That side of her is mine. She doesn’t give it to Owen—with him it’s all sunshine and smiles, all pretend.
I know the real Sawyer. Better than anyone. And I love watching her drop the act.
I close the book on black holes I’ve been reading and put it on my nightstand for later. I’ve hidden away enough this morning. It’s time to show face downstairs. I hear them talking, smell the coffee brewing, and Ella wasn’t next to me when I woke up which means she’s down there too.
My parents are at the breakfast nook when I come down, and Ella’s smiling beside them.
Always smiling, especially around my parents.
She wants them to like her. She wants this thing between us to work.
And the effort she puts in to make it happen exhausts the shit out of me.
Every word carefully chosen, body language practiced, even her laughter is too well-timed.
Eight months in and she still tries this hard.
She’s like an understudy memorizing the main characters in case she gets called in for their role.
The thing is, they already like her. My father likes her family name and the connections that come with it and my mother thinks she’s a nice girl with respectable upbringing. Their approval was never going to be the problem. Hell, my father’s the reason I’m dating her to begin with.
I wish she wouldn’t try so fucking hard.
She’s wearing a white designer sundress, hair done, already perfect by 8 AM. Fucking white dress—not a smart idea. She looks good, though. Like she woke up this way. Maybe she did. I didn’t pay attention. But I know Ella Moretti has never looked like she’s trying even when she’s trying her hardest.
The lake house felt different when I was a kid.
Fuller, louder, alive. My mother used to fill the place with people every summer, friends and neighbors spilling out onto the back porch, cases of wine going faster than anyone could count.
Now it’s just the four of us rattling around in it, and sometimes I catch my mother wandering around touching the surfaces, looking like she’s mentally preparing for guests who aren’t coming.
I’m a few steps away when they notice my arrival.
“There he is.” My father raises his mug in my direction. “Thought you’d sleep all morning.”
“It’s eight.”
“You’ve got yourself an early bird.” He nods toward Ella. “This one’s been up since six.”
Ella turns and gives me a careful smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“You should’ve woken me up. We’re running late.”
She glances down into her mug of coffee. “You needed the rest.”
She’s right. I tossed and turned all night, thinking about seeing Sawyer today. Not going to let her know that.
I move past her to the cabinet and grab a glass, filling it with water from the tap because the coffee smells burned, or maybe it’s just the store brand shit my parents buy now.
Either way, I don’t have the patience for it this morning.
I lean against the counter and check my phone.
8:02. Owen said nine, which means we need to leave soon.
We don’t have time to diddle ourselves all damn morning.
“Knox.” My mother’s voice carries that particular note of warning she’s perfected over thirty years of managing the men in this family. “Come sit.”
“I’m fine here.”
My father’s eyes cut to me over the rim of his mug. That look. It doesn’t need words. It’s in the severeness of his expression. I hold it for a second then look back at my phone.
We’re going to be late if they don’t wrap up whatever this is—this Disney Channel family morning breakfast bullshit my father just fucking loves. Ella perched on a stool, my mother in her robe, everyone exactly where he wants them.
Except me.
“Beautiful morning.” My father sets his mug down and leans back, looking out toward the lake. “Weather’s supposed to hold all day. Good day for everyone to be together.”
He’s been saying some version of this my entire life.
Family together, just like it should be, and I’ve learned to translate it accurately.
There are people who belong inside that sentence and people who don’t, and my father has been drawing that line for years without ever having to say it out loud.
He doesn’t have to say Sawyer’s name. He never does. He just looks at me like that, eyes slightly narrowed, lips in a straight line, and the message lands exactly where he intends it to.
I take a long sip of water.
“We need to get going. I don’t want to be late.”
Ella looks up. “But didn’t Owen say 10?”
“No. He said 9.”
She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Oh, my bad. Well, isn’t Owen always late?”
My father lets out an amused huff. “What did I tell you, son? She fits right in.”
Ella beams, wrapping her fingers around her mug. Her eyes meet mine, and her face falls flat when she sees that my expression doesn’t match that of the man she’s trying too hard to please.
My mother asks her something about the park, whether she’s been before, and Ella turns toward her with that bright smile. I stop following the conversation and check my phone again. 8:07.
I pull up the tracking app without thinking about it.
Sawyer’s blue dot sits at the rental cottage address off Route 9, exactly where it was twenty minutes ago when I checked it upstairs.
Still there. Not moving. They haven’t left yet either, which means I was right about Owen and his complete inability to be anywhere on time.
I lock the screen before anyone can see what I’m looking at.
“I’m going to get some air,” I say to no one in particular.
My father looks up. “We haven’t finished—”
“Five minutes.”
I don’t wait for a response.
The back porch is quiet, the lake flat and silver in the morning light. I sit on the railing and pull my phone back out. The dot still hasn’t moved.
I’ve decided what I want to do today. What I want to say to Sawyer. Or some version of it, something small enough to walk it back if I have to. I’ve been running through it since last night and I still haven’t landed on the right words. Every version either says too much or says nothing at all.
The truth is I’ve been saying the wrong things to her for years. On purpose. It was easier to be cruel than to want something I’d already decided I couldn’t have, and then her father fucked everything up, her whole family really. They made the choice for me.
I don’t know if I’ve ever forgiven her for that. For being his daughter, her daughter. For being the one thing I wanted that I never got to keep.
And then she chose Owen.
So, yeah. Cruelty was easier. It still is—but I’m going to say something today anyway. That’s decided.
The sliding door opens behind me and Ella steps out, mug still in hand. She leans against the railing a few feet away. Close but not close enough to touch. She’s learned my boundaries, at least. A perk of her always watching and calibrating.
“Hey.” She looks out at the water. “Sorry if I said something wrong in there.”
“You didn’t.”
“You just seemed—”
“I’m fine, Ella.”
She’s quiet, thankfully. I take that moment to breathe and watch the still lake. A bird cuts across the tree line and disappears into the pines. Warm air breezes, making ripples in the water.
“Are you nervous?” she asks. “About seeing them?”
She means Owen and Sawyer. It’s an olive branch—she’s offering me an out for my shitty mood. It’s socially acceptable, generous even, thinking there’s a singular reason. Smart too, because she’s not entirely wrong.
“No,” I say.
She nods, but I know she doesn’t believe me.
We stand there for another minute, the morning breeze moving around us, and I think about how Ella deserves someone who comes downstairs and is actually glad to see her.
Someone who doesn’t check his phone twice before he’s even said good morning.
Someone whose first thought of the day isn’t about another woman entirely.
I don’t say any of that either.
“We should go,” I say, pushing off the railing. “I don’t want to be late.”
The Wonder World parking lot is already half full when I get there, families arriving early before the heat turns oppressive. I find a spot near the entrance and cut the engine, sitting for a second with the windows down, watching the newest coaster running its track in the distance.
I check my phone. 8:47.
Owen hasn’t texted, which means they’re either on their way or he forgot to let me know, both equally likely.
I open the car door and pull up the app.
The dot is still at the cottage. Not moving.
I want to see her so badly it pisses me off.
That’s the most accurate way I know to describe it.
It’s been that way for longer than I’m willing to admit and it doesn’t get easier.
It just gets more familiar, this specific combination of wanting and resenting the wanting.
Ella’s scrolling her phone in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, doing that thing where she’s pretending not to notice that I’ve checked my phone four times since we pulled in. She’s good at pretending. Better than me, that’s for damn sure.
“They’re probably just running late,” she says without looking up.
“I know.”
“Owen’s always late.”
“I know, Ella.”
She goes back to her phone. I go back to the app. Still there at the cottage. Still not moving.
I lock the screen, but it stares at me from the dash, begging me to watch that blue dot like it could make her arrive faster.
Ten minutes pass. Ten minutes of Ella humming a Taylor Swift song, children screeching as a family parks and unpacks beside us, and me bouncing my knee, taking off and cleaning my aviators on my shirt multiple times before putting them back on again. I wish I brought my damn book.
I text Owen. We’re here. Where the fuck are you?
His response comes back fast. On our way, relax.