Chapter 14 I See You Now
The house looked exactly the same as it had in my first life. Quiet. Suburban. Harmless.
A facade.
I barely stepped onto the driveway before the front door swung open.
My mother filled the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight, the picture of controlled disappointment.
“Ashley. Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“I’m aware of the time,” I said.
Her eyes flashed. “Apple came home at two in the morning. Alone. Do you realize how dangerous that is? How worried I was?”
“I’m fine.”
“You think saying you’re fine makes it true?” she asked sharply. “You disappear all night, you come home at sunrise, and I am supposed to pretend that is normal?”
“It was one night,” I said.
“One night is all it takes for something to go wrong.”
There it was.
Not concern. Not relief.
Accusation.
“Apple is still asleep,” she continued. “She cried when she came home. She said she didn’t know where you were.”
I’m sure she did.
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“That isn’t the point.” She snapped. “You’re seventeen. You don’t get to stay out the entire night. You left your sister alone at that party and disappeared to God knows where.”
“I didn’t leave her,” I said flatly. “She disappeared first.”
That made her pause.
Not because of what I said.
Because of how I said it.
The old Ashley would have folded by now. Apologizing. Explaining. Trying to smooth things over. Trying to earn something that was never going to be given.
That version of me was dead.
“Don’t take that tone with me,” she warned.
I stepped past her and into the house, bending to slip off my shoes.
She followed, still bristling.
“I waited up for you,” she said behind me. “Do you understand how that feels?”
I did.
More than she ever would.
But empathy was a currency I no longer spent here.
“You can go to bed,” I said. “I’m home.”
She blinked.
A small, startled reaction, like she didn’t quite recognize the person standing in front of her.
“This conversation isn’t over,” she insisted.
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
I turned and headed for the stairs without looking back.
Behind me, she tried to recover, to reclaim the authority she felt slipping.
“You can sleep for a few hours,” she called after me. “We’ll talk later. About your behavior. When I’m less upset.”
I didn’t answer.
A few hours later, after a shower and a brief attempt at sleep, I came downstairs.
Morning light softened the edges of the house, but it didn’t change anything underneath.
Dad sat at the kitchen table, reading the news on his tablet. On Saturdays he stayed home until around ten, then vanished onto the golf course like clockwork.
Mom hovered near the stove, already fully done up. Hair curled. Makeup perfect. Clothes carefully chosen, like she expected to be seen.
Apple sat at the counter, legs crossed, hair freshly washed, wrapped in one of those soft pastel sweaters that made people coo about how delicate she was.
She looked up the moment I walked in.
“Morning!” she chirped. “Are you okay? You disappeared last night. I was worried!”
Worried.
Sweet.
Perfect little sister.
The same girl who, in my past life, wore that same sweet smile while she drove a knife into my gut.
“Morning,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.
Mom didn’t look at me at all. She stirred something on the stove with unnecessary force.
“You scared me. I thought something happened,” Apple added.
She watched me too closely, waiting for a reaction.
Then she tilted her head. “You didn’t answer my texts.”
“I was busy,” I said.
Her brows lifted, just a hint. “Doing what?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
Apple blinked, surprised by the boundary. She wasn’t used to me having any.
Dad glanced up from his tablet.
“You came in late,” he said. “Your mother said you got home at six?”
I held his gaze for a moment.
My feelings toward him were… complicated. He had been absent. Biased. Willfully blind. But never cruel in the way she was.
In another life, that had been enough for me.
“She ditched me,” Apple said lightly, like it was a cute story. “But it’s fine. I got home.”
I watched her closely. The tilt of her head. The softness of her voice. The tiny, practiced tremble in her lashes.
Apple had perfected this act long before we were old enough to name manipulation.
Dad frowned. “Ashley, that’s not acceptable. You’re too young to stay out all night, and you left your sister alone. Anything could’ve happened.”
“Apple is only eight months younger than me,” I replied, walking to the counter and pouring myself a glass of water. “I’m sure she’s capable.”
Mom spun around, ready to pounce. “She could’ve been hurt! You didn’t watch her, just like you didn’t all those years ago. I hoped you’d learn responsibility by now.”
Right on cue, Apple’s eyes filled with delicate, shimmering tears.
I lowered my gaze so they wouldn’t see the disgust. It was always the same script.
Apple was helpless.
Apple was delicate.
Apple was the victim.
The survivor.
“I was a child back then too,” I said. “Just like she was.”
Mom’s lips thinned. “Don’t use that tone—”
But Dad lifted a hand, silently asking her to stand down.
Mom immediately shifted her attention to Apple. “How are you feeling, honey?”
I buttered two slices of toast.
Apple sighed dramatically. “Better now. I was just… overwhelmed. Parties can trigger my anxiety.” She fluttered her lashes at Dad. “But Anton was so sweet. He helped calm me down.”
Mom stroked her hair with a tenderness she rarely spared for me. “You’re so strong, sweetheart.”
“Anton? The McAllister boy?” Dad asked.
Mom brightened instantly. “He’s very handsome.”
I stood there, watching them talk like I wasn’t even in the room. A familiar shift. It didn’t matter what the conversation started as. Somehow, it always curved back to her.
Everything did.
Apple let out a soft, shy giggle. “Mom,” she murmured, like she was embarrassed by the attention.
Then she turned to me.
“Ash… you’re quiet this morning. Are you upset with me? Did I do something?”
A laugh almost slipped out. Apple was talented indeed. An artist of petty cruelty.
Flirting with the boys I liked. Sleeping with them just to prove she could. Turning every birthday, every moment that was supposed to be mine, into something that revolved around her.
She craved dominance, especially over me.
“No, Apple,” I said, reaching for a second toast. “You haven’t done anything.”
Her smile flickered, a glitch in her mask.
“Anton mentioned something… I didn’t know you liked him.” She bit her lip, soft and apologetic. “If I had known, I never would’ve…”
Dad looked confused.
Mom’s gaze snapped to me, sharp, expectant. Waiting.
For what?
Tears. Anger. A scene.
Apple hid behind her mug like a saint.
I took another bite of toast.
Her performance was flawless. Word for word, expression for expression. An exact replica of the one she gave in my past life.
Back then, I had been the one who came home first. Soaked in beer. Humiliated. Only to find out she had hooked up with the boy I liked.
It had gutted me.
“It’s fine,” I said, meeting her gaze.
She blinked, thrown.
Apple didn’t thrive on calm. She thrived on reaction. She needed jealousy, hurt, rivalry. Without them, she had nothing to push against.
“It’s really not fine,” she insisted softly. “It breaks the sister code. I feel so awful. Sisters shouldn’t ever want the same guy. That’s, like… girl code times a thousand.”
Dad sighed. “You girls need to sort that out. Just don’t make it a drama.”
Mom lifted her coffee. “Exactly. Boys come and go. No need for theatrics.”
“Oh, of course not,” Apple said quickly. “I’m over it. Anton and I barely meant anything.”
She tilted her head. “It just would’ve been nice to know Ashley liked him too. Then I could’ve backed off before he got… attached.”
I grabbed two pancakes, placed them on my plate.
“Don’t worry,” I said calmly. “We barely talked with Anton. I’m not upset. You can have him.”
Apple froze for a fraction of a second.
Then her smile came back. Thinner. “Oh. Well… good.”
Her gaze dropped to my plate.
“Wow, Ash,” she said with a light laugh. “You sure have an appetite. If I ate like that, I’d look like a cow.”
I looked up, meeting her eyes.
In my first life, comments like that had worked.
They had stayed with me. Dug in. Shaped me.
I had starved myself because of them.
I’d always been tall for my age, but by the time I hit 5'10, my body was all long limbs and sharp lines. Later, in college, when I finally started eating properly again, I filled out more. Softer in places. Fuller.
And still, I walked with my shoulders curled inward.
Trying to take up less space.
Trying to be easier to look at.
More acceptable.
I could still hear my mother’s “helpful” comments, clear as day.
“You’d be pretty if you were just… smaller. More delicate. Like a real girl.”
“Your height makes everything look inappropriate on you.”
“You should wear plain clothes so you don’t stand out so much.”
Mother and Apple were both 5′3, the “proper feminine height,” as she liked to say. Shorter, softer, easy to fuss over.
I apparently “took after my father,” who stood at 6′2.
In high school, Apple was a little insecure, a little chubby. But in the future, with time and some strategically purchased plastic surgery, she’d reinvent herself into a fitness influencer with big boobs, a tiny waist, and a sculpted butt. Millions would gush over her “hard work”.
This time, I wasn’t going to shrink myself to make anyone else comfortable.
I lifted a shoulder.
“I’ve always had one of those ‘eat whatever and never gain a pound’ metabolisms,” I said. “You wouldn’t know what that’s like.”
Color rose up Apple’s neck. She forced a smile through clenched teeth.
“You seem different today… distant.” Her smile stayed soft, but something tightened at the corners of her eyes. “Is everything okay?”
Endless humiliation and torture changed people.
Of course I was different.
“I didn’t sleep much,” I said.
She nodded quickly, too quickly. “You always get a little… off when you’re tired.” A beat. Then, carefully, “Are you sure you’re not mad at me?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not mad.”
She reached out, touched my hand gently. “I really did worry. And I’m so glad you’re not upset about Anton. I’d feel awful. And you know, you can talk to me. About anything.”
I slid my hand out of hers.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
Her smile reappeared, bright and sweet, but her eyes didn’t match it.
I rose from the table, chair scraping lightly against the floor, and headed for the stairs.
What I didn’t see, was the way her expression shifted the instant my back turned.
The sweetness dropping.
Her eyes narrowing.
Her entire face tightening into something darker, irritated, unsettled.
Upstairs, I closed my bedroom door and leaned my forehead against it, drawing in a slow, controlled breath.
God.
I had been so easy to manipulate.
Soft. Eager. Desperate for scraps of approval that were never going to come.
Not anymore.
That version of me was gone.
I had been given a second life. Another chance.
This time, I wasn’t living for them.
I was living for myself.
But first, I needed independence.
Safety.
A way to stand on my own without anyone pulling the rug out from under me.
I needed money.