Chapter 52
Ethan
The house is too quiet once Lily is asleep.
Mom and Dad left an hour ago, headed to Aunt May’s for the night. They’d hugged Lily twice each, lingered too long in the doorway, and pretended they weren’t relieved to step out of the house. I don’t blame them. Grief had settled in its corners. It seeps into furniture, into routines.
I’m on the front porch when the silence finally becomes unbearable.
The old wooden boards creak under my weight as I lower myself onto the step, a brown paper bag resting beside me.
Inside it: a bottle of beer I probably shouldn’t be drinking and a small, threadbare stuffed bear Lily insists on sleeping with but had forgotten downstairs tonight.
I’d picked it up absentmindedly, meaning to bring it back up later, and now it sits beside me.
The porch light hums softly overhead. The night is cool, spring edging toward summer, the air smelling faintly of lilacs and damp earth. Somewhere down the road, a dog barks. A car passes. Life continues.
I tilt the bottle to my mouth and take a long pull.
Footsteps sound behind me.
I don’t turn. I know who it is before the screen door opens.
Claire steps out carrying a small plate wrapped in foil, leftovers, probably for me. She always thinks of everyone else first. It’s one of the things that makes loving her dangerous.
She pauses when she sees me, silhouetted against the porch light.
“You know,” she says lightly, “it’s illegal in some states to drink alone and brood like that.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Good thing we’re not in those states.”
She hesitates, then steps forward, setting the plate on the small table near the door. I pat the step beside me.
“Sit,” I say. “Have one with me.”
She arches a brow. “Can you still not drink alone?”
I grin around the mouth of the bottle. “Apparently not.”
She shakes her head, but there’s fondness in it. She crosses the porch and sits opposite me, folding her legs beneath her instead of taking the spot beside me. The distance is deliberate. I respect it.
I take another sip, then lower the bottle and look at her properly.
She looks… tired.
Not the surface-level exhaustion I’ve seen all week, that comes from long days and short nights, but something deeper.
Her shoulders are slightly slumped, her mouth set in a way that doesn’t quite hide the downturn at the corners.
Her eyes, usually so bright they seem to catch the light, look dimmer tonight.
Like she’s been holding something heavy in her heart.
Brandon.
The thought surfaces.
I won’t lie to myself: since the moment I came back and found out she was dating someone, some small, shameful part of me has been praying for it to end.
Not because I think I deserve another chance, but because the idea of someone else having her, building a life with her I once thought would be mine, felt unbearable.
But now, seeing her like this, after the breakup, the guilt hits hard.
Whatever happened today didn’t end cleanly. It never does.
I don’t ask. I don’t need to; I had seen enough the previous day. The quiet between us feels calm.
We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes. The bottle sweats in my hand. The night presses close.
“You, okay?” I ask finally.
She considers the question, eyes unfocused on the dark yard. “I will be.”
I nod. It’s a Claire answer. Honest without being revealing.
She glances at the bear beside me and smiles faintly. “You stole her bedtime buddy.”
“She left him downstairs,” I say. “I was going to bring him back up.”
“She’ll forgive you.” A beat. “Eventually.”
We both smile at that.
The moment stretches. The crickets sing in the background.
I want to tell her everything.
I want to tell her that I’ve thought about her every day since I left. That I replay the moment she had walked out of that house in my nightmares, the sound of the door closing echoing over and over again. That I’ve carried the weight of what I did like a stone in my chest for a decade.
I want to tell her that seeing her again. Even more graceful and so achingly beautiful, feels like being punched and seized at the same time.
But my feelings don’t matter.
Especially not now.
So, I say the only thing that I can. The only thing that’s true without being selfish.
“I’m proud of you,” I say quietly.
She looks at me, surprised. “For what?”
“For choosing yourself,” I reply. “That’s not easy. It never was for you.”
Her gaze softens, something unguarded flickering there before she schools it. “You don’t even know what happened.”
“I don’t need to,” I say. “I know you.”
A small breath leaves her, shaky but not broken.
“I’m sure your friends would be proud too,” I add, keeping my tone light. “Especially Jenny. She was never subtle about her opinions on your taste in men.”
Claire lets out a startled laugh. It’s like watching the sun break through cloud cover.
“God,” she says. “She really wasn’t.”
“She hated me,” I say with feeling.
“She didn’t hate you,” Claire counters, smiling. “She just… didn’t trust you.”
I wince. “Fair.”
Her smile turns distant. “Do you remember when she tried to follow us on our first date?”
I laugh, the sound bubbling up before I can stop it. “She would’ve gotten away with it too if she hadn’t been on a bicycle.”
“And if she hadn’t tried to chase your dad’s car,” Claire adds, laughter spilling over now.
I can see it so clearly, the memory vivid as if it happened yesterday. Jenny’s blonde hair whipping wildly in the wind, her face set in fierce determination as she pedaled like her life depended on it, while Claire and I watched her grow smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.
“She was a dot by the time we hit the highway,” I say.
“And still trying,” Claire laughs.
Her whole face opens when she laughs. It always did. It’s not just her mouth, it’s her eyes, her cheeks, the way her nose crinkles just slightly. Her green eyes caught the porch light, bright and alive, and for a moment I forget how to breathe.
I wished the world would stop right there.