Chapter 6 #3
Even knowing this strange, invisible pull goes both ways, I’ll keep my distance.
I rake my fingers through my hair, my breath shaky, trying to calm the riot inside me. The heavy, suffocating guilt rolls in. Who am I if I can’t control this? And what will become of me, of my sister, if I let it win?
My parents’ house looks the same as it did when I left.
The porch swing still groans on its rusted chains, swaying slightly in the breeze like it’s greeting me with a tired sigh.
The siding is a tired beige, patched here and there, and the front door remains that same shade of soft blue, chipped at the corners and weathered from time.
The grass is overgrown, curling around the mailbox post and creeping up through the cracks in the driveway. The old station wagon is still parked at the edge of the gravel driveway, dented and loyal.
This house smells like home, earthy, lived-in, and faintly of the lemon wood polish my mom’s sworn by since the 90s.
The moment I step inside, I’m hit with the scent of onions and butter and something baking, probably her chicken pot pie.
There’s a squeak in the floorboard under the entry rug.
The same one I tried to sneak past a thousand times as a teenager.
Before I can take another step, my dad sweeps me into a bear hug.
“Oh, sweetheart, welcome home.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I hold him tight. His flannel shirt smells faintly of sawdust and motor oil. “I missed you.”
He pulls back to beam at me with that gap-toothed grin that used to embarrass me in middle school but now makes my throat tighten. His hair’s gone fully white now, and the lines in his face are deeper, but his eyes still crinkle the same way when he smiles.
“How’s Paris? You must love it, we haven’t seen you since you left!”
“It’s only been two years, Dad,” I say with a small laugh, though guilt pricks at the back of my neck. “I’ve just been busy. Classes, work, life… You know.” I shrug, eyes flicking around the room before I ask, “Where’s Mom?”
“Dining room with your sister,” he says, already turning and leading me through the narrow hallway lined with family photos in mismatched frames.
Abigail in her prom dress, me in a crooked cap and gown, the three of us at Christmas one year when I still had braces.
My baby photo hangs right outside the dining room, just above the thermostat.
Mom still calls me her happy accident, says she and Dad thought they were done after Abigail, and then, boom, surprise.
The living room is small and cozy, filled with mismatched furniture, two faded armchairs, a lumpy couch, and an old TV. The curtains are heavy and yellowing at the edges, filtering the afternoon light in a way that makes everything look a little nostalgic.
When I step into the dining room, the sight of my mother brings a smile to my face.
She gasps the second she sees me, eyes wide behind her reading glasses. “Blair!”
Her arms are already open, and I rush into them. Her hug is soft and warm, and she still wears the same lavender perfume she’s used since I was twelve. Instantly, I’m back in high school, running late, watching her pack my lunch and scold me about forgetting my gym shoes.
“You look so chic,” she says, brushing a crumb off my shoulder like she’s trying to clean up my whole life. “Like one of those girls on TV,” she continues, making me chuckle.
“God, I missed you,” I say, hugging her again.
“I missed you, too, honey.”
My mom is in her sixties now, her strawberry-blonde hair cropped short and frizzing at the temples.
Her sweater has a stain on the cuff, probably from cooking.
She used to work as a school secretary at the local elementary school and still volunteers there sometimes, mostly to keep from going stir-crazy.
My dad, Paul, used to do carpentry, handyman stuff, mostly.
Built half the neighborhood’s shelves and patched more than one leaking roof.
He retired a few years ago, though he still picks up odd jobs to feel useful.
They’re not rich, never have been, but they’ve always been proud, stubborn, and big on secondhand charm.
Abigail’s voice slices into the warmth. “Where’s Calvin? I thought you came together?”
Before I can answer, that smooth baritone cuts through the room.
“I’m here,” Calvin says, stepping into the doorway like he owns it.
His presence commands attention, even here in a room filled with clutter and love and memories older than me.
“I had to take a call,” he adds, tucking his phone away, “but I’ve turned it off.
” He offers Abigail a tight smile. “I’m all yours. ”
My mother eyes him with polite interest, that look she gives when she’s still deciding if she likes someone. My father gives him a firm nod, familiar but still assessing. Abigail, of course, glows like a chandelier.
I swallow hard. The last ten minutes in that car still sizzle against my skin, no matter how hard I try to shake them off.
“Mom, Dad,” Abigail says brightly, looping her arm through Calvin’s, “you remember Calvin, my fiancé.”
“Of course,” my mother says, smiling as she wipes her hands on a dishtowel. “So nice to finally have you over properly, Calvin. Last time was such a rush.”
Calvin takes her hand. “It’s lovely to see you again, Mrs. Miller. I’ve been looking forward to this.”
Dad steps forward, offering a firm handshake. “Calvin, welcome to our home.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here, thank you for inviting me,” he returns with equal steadiness.
“Come on, let’s eat before it gets cold,” Mom says, ushering everyone toward the dining room before Dad starts his usual twenty questions.
Chairs scrape softly against the hardwood as we take our seats. Abigail sits beside Calvin, her hand brushing his arm every few seconds like she can’t help herself. My parents take their places at either end, Dad already reaching for the breadbasket, Mom fussing with the napkins.
I slide into the seat across from Calvin, close enough to feel his presence, not close enough to touch. Or so I think.
He shifts slightly, his knee brushing mine beneath the table.
I freeze.
The contact is fleeting, but deliberate. I glance up, and he’s already watching me with that dark, intent look that makes it hard to breathe. I cross my legs slowly, pretending to adjust my napkin.
Conversation inevitably drifts toward Calvin.
My dad leans forward, firing off a steady stream of questions about his work, his goals, what he and Abigail see for their future.
Calvin handles each one with effortless charm, a faint smile playing at his mouth.
He’s too good at this, answering with the kind of polish that makes you wonder what’s real beneath it.
I can tell Abigail is nervous because she shifts in her seat, her hand fluttering toward her wine glass before she forces a laugh. “So?” she says brightly, tilting her head at me. “How was the ride over with Blair?”
I almost roll my eyes. The deflection couldn’t be more obvious if she’d waved a neon sign.
Calvin doesn’t miss a beat. He turns toward her, but his eyes flick briefly to mine. “It was great,” he says smoothly. “I’d say we bonded, didn’t we, Blair?”
My heart stutters. His words are loaded, but he delivers them so casually it’s hard to call him out without looking paranoid. I glance up, and sure enough, he’s already watching me.
I force a smile. “We sure did.”
His knee brushes mine again, this time firmer. A line crossed. And kept.
The heat blooming low in my stomach is mortifying. I hate how my body responds to him, this man I shouldn’t want. This man whose ring my sister is wearing.
I try to focus on my food, but my fork feels useless in my hand. I can’t taste anything. All I can feel is him lighting me up from the inside out without so much as a word.
Our conversation over dinner is polite. Innocent, even. Calvin talks about work. My dad mentions the weather. My mom fusses about Paris. Abigail laughs too loudly at a joke that isn’t funny.
And all the while, under the table, he doesn’t move his leg.
Neither do I.
By the time dessert is served, I feel like I’m going to combust. My chest is tight. My skin too hot.
I dare a glance at him.
His jaw is relaxed, his hands folded neatly on the table. But when his thumb idly brushes the stem of his wine glass, I see the tension there, the crack in the facade.
He feels it too, yet he isn’t stopping.