8. Sophie
SOPHIE
I’ve lost count of how many times I circle the living room, phone in hand, thumb reflexively swiping the screen.
Nothing. Then to the window, where headlights should appear—where, if the world had a shred of decency, I’d spot Trent trudging up the walk, sulking and safe.
Instead, there’s only the persistent tick from the ceiling fan.
The house is a tomb, and I feel buried alive.
I make another lap, bare feet sticking to hardwood. There’s a sharp ache at the base of my spine, a spasm in my right temple, but I can’t sit down. If I stop moving, I might shatter.
This is the price for trying to be honest—this endless, gnawing limbo. I thought things could only get better after all the secrets were out. But here I am, counting the minutes until my own little brother decides if I’m worth coming home to.
Then, finally, headlights strobe across the porch.
My pulse spikes. Now that I know he’s safe, I’ve gone from concerned to irate.
The car engine idles. There’s a beat—long enough, apparently, for Trent to collect every ounce of rage known to man—before the front door slams open.
He barrels in, soaked to the knees, hair flattened by fog, backpack slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t even glance at me. There’s only the faintest flicker of recognition before he turns for the stairs, hellbent on escape.
Not a chance.
I launch off the couch before he’s halfway down the hall. “Don’t even think about it.”
He freezes, then pivots, expecting—what? A lecture, a plea, a declaration of undying love? I don’t even know. But he doesn’t speak. He just stands there, dripping, radiating contempt.
It’s a standoff.
I’m so tired my teeth are numb. My hands are ice. But I don’t blink. I step forward, blocking the one-step-wide path to his room.
He tries to go left. I move left. Right? I’m already there.
Then he goes for a fake-out, but I grip his elbow—firm, not rough, just enough to yank him back to reality. Then I hold out my other hand. “Keys.”
He scowls. “Are you kidding me?” His voice is raw, all gravel and fury, somewhere between a growl and a sob. He’s shaking, but he’d never admit it.
“You heard me. Car keys. Now.”
For a split second, I think he’s going to hurl them in my face, but he settles for slapping them into my palm so hard it stings. “There. Happy?”
Not even a little.
I pocket the keys. Then I keep my stance, arms folded, feet planted, daring him to try me, but he doesn’t look at me. Instead, he stares at his sneakers, shoulders bunched, jaw clenched so tight I half-expect him to crack a molar.
“You’re grounded,” I say. “Indefinitely. We’ll talk about the specifics, but for now—no car, no privileges, no sneaking out, nothing.
” The words taste like ash, but I say them anyway.
I’m sick of Trent acting like he’s the grown-up in this relationship and I’m beholden to him.
I’ve tried to play nice. It didn’t work.
We’re not equals. And it’s time for him to learn that.
He rolls his eyes, jaw working like he’s chewing glass. “This is so?—”
“Don’t care,” I cut in, and my voice comes out a little wobbly, the exhaustion squeezing the edges.
“You don’t get to walk in at two in the morning after ghosting half your family, shove past me, and act like—like I don’t even exist.” I don’t bother to add that it’s the second time in less than a week that he’s pulled this stunt.
He finally looks up. One fleeting, incredulous glance.
I could fold. I could call it good with the keys, let him brood in his room, and pretend the next fight isn’t already locked and loaded. But that isn’t what gets us through. That isn’t what Mom would’ve done.
So I plant myself firmer, a whole person’s worth of regret and stubbornness.
He huffs, tries to sidestep again.
I block him. “We’re not done.”
He’s so angry I can feel it in the air between us. Like turning on the heater and the cold at the same time—the clash makes your skin crawl.
He tries to laugh it off. “You gonna call the cops if I don’t sit?”
“No, but I’ll make sure you regret it.” I jut my chin toward the kitchen. “We need to talk. Now.” It lands with the finality of a dropped gavel. I may regret it later, but right now, I’m proud of how firm I’m standing.
He shrugs, pretending not to care, but he’s trembling again—just enough for me to notice.
I lead the way to the kitchen, never taking my eyes off him. I flick on the light, which somehow makes the whole thing feel more exposed, less manageable.
I don’t wait to see if he follows. I just keep moving, as if momentum alone can keep me from shattering. Behind me, his footsteps are a sullen echo.
He slumps into the chair farthest from mine, arms folded, gaze fixed on the spot where the fridge hums. I sit across from him, setting his keys in the middle of the table like a dare, and force myself to meet his eyes.
“We’re going to say everything that needs to be said,” I manage. “And you’re not leaving the table until we do.”
He grunts—an ancient, universal expression of teenage indifference. But he’s here.
I crack my knuckles, pulse racing, suddenly unsure how to start. All the reasons, the explanations, the desperate need to make it okay are lost in the fog of panic and fatigue. So, I just start with the truth.
“I messed up,” I say, voice barely more than a whisper. “But you don’t get to treat me like a stranger in my own house because I made a mistake. I’ve never done that to you, and you’re not going to do it to me.”
His jaw flexes, but he says nothing.
I exhale, digging my nails into my palm until it hurts. For a minute, neither of us says anything. I check the clock—not because I care about the time, but because the red LED glare is easier to handle than his scowl.
Silence. That’s what grief does; it stretches every heartbeat between people until the gaps feel insurmountable.
He picks at a loose seam on his sleeve. Nothing fancy—just picking, and picking, eyes fixed on the motion until he’s sure I see it. He doesn’t look up, thinking he can outlast me.
I start simple. “You’re not leaving the table.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” The words are flat and lifeless.
I count to four in my head. “I’m serious.”
He shrugs.
I try again. “Disappearing for hours, turning off your phone, slamming the front door like you want to take the frame with it—Not. Okay.”
He flicks his eyes at me. “I didn’t realize you cared.”
Immediately, the backs of my eyes burn. “Of course I care?—”
He cuts in, voice a near-whisper. “About yourself, maybe.”
My hands curl against the table, nails digging into Formica. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to treat me like I’m some stranger who doesn’t bust her back to keep this roof over us.”
“Sure. Whatever you say.” He picks at the thread again, never quite unraveling it, just winding it tighter.
Ordinarily, I’d back off. Give him space to cool down. But I can’t. Not this time.
I press on. “You went out. Didn’t text. Let me worry all night. Not cool, Trent. Not safe. If you keep acting like the rules don’t apply to you, then you’re proving everyone right about what the Holloways are capable of, and I know you’re better than that.”
He laughs, sharp and mean, but the sound flatlines almost instantly. “Since when do you care what people think?”
I can’t help it. “Since you became the thing people talk about on this stupid island. Since my mom died. Since I realized there’s nothing left holding us together except us. You and me and this table and a whole heck of a lot of regret.”
Now he’s really silent.
Fine. I go for the jugular. “I get it. I do. You’re mad about Noah and me.
About how long we waited to tell you, that I kept something from you.
And you have every reason to be pissed off.
But it wasn’t about you, Trent. It was about me being scared and not wanting things to fall apart if it didn’t work out.
I didn’t want you to get caught in the crossfire, and—yeah, I probably should’ve known you’d find out anyway, but hiding it felt safer. For both of us.”
When I look up, he’s staring at my face—shocked, I think, that I’d admit it out loud.
He drops his gaze. “Yeah, well, guess what? You can lie to yourself all you want. It doesn’t make it better.”
“I’m not lying.”
He shakes his head. “You want to know why I left last night? Why I keep leaving?”
My stomach flips. “Yeah. I want to know.”
He doesn’t say it right away. He sits with it, the anger simmering into something denser—uglier. Then, so quietly I barely catch it, he says, “Because you weren’t there when I needed you.”
I blink. For a second, I lose my footing. I have no idea what he’s talking about. I’m always here. “I was here all night, worried?—”
His fist hits the table, not hard but enough to rattle the keys between us. “Not now. Not because of some fight. When Eleanor died. You were nowhere, Soph. I needed someone. I needed you, and you just…weren’t there. At all.”
The words gut me. But he’s not done.
“Rebecca was.” He says her name like a curse, and the next part comes out ragged, shredded on the way up.
“Not you, not any of my so-called family. It was Rebecca who sat with me for hours and, like, actually gave a crap if I was losing my mind. Because I was. I was losing it, and you were…where, exactly?”
Every defense I thought I had collapses. I try to speak, but he plows ahead.
“And every time you pretend like we’re all good, like you didn’t totally drop the ball when I needed you the most, it’s just proof that you don’t care. You don’t. Not really. Because if you did, you would’ve been here.”
My vision blurs. I reach across the table—just an inch, just enough—but I can’t quite bring myself to touch him. Not that it would matter if I did. He’d pull away anyway.
“Trent.” I try to get his attention back, but he won’t look up.
His shoulders are hunched, arms locked, he’s as far away as he can get without leaving his seat.
I lower my voice, fighting back the tremor. “I’m sorry. I’m so—God, I’m so sorry I let you down. I wish I’d been better. But I can’t go backward. All I can do is show up now, and keep showing up, even when I screw up. That’s what I want for us.”
His eyes are wet but furious. It’s not just rage anymore; it’s heartbreak and disappointment and every unsaid thing we shoved under the rug over the last two weeks. “I didn’t want Rebecca to be the one making it okay,” he mutters. “She’s not even family. You are.”
I nod, numb. “I know. And I failed.” It didn’t matter that it was my mom or that I was lost in grief and barely holding it together.
In his mind, he should have been the priority.
And I guess, maybe that’s true. “But I’m right here now.
And I swear to you, this is the last time you get left alone with bad news. ”
He lets out a shaky breath. Not forgiveness. Not even acceptance. Just…less resistance.
I let my hand rest on the table, flat, palm up. Waiting.
“Some days I feel like I’m the adult, Soph. Like you do everything for everyone but me.”
His truth hurts. But it’s better than silence.
“I deserved that,” I say. “All of it. I wish I’d told you about Noah. I should’ve—I just didn’t want to risk another thing blowing up in your face. But I guess I was wrong.”
He softens. Slightly.
“I don’t care if you date,” he says, voice small. “I just want you to stop pretending I’m, like, made of glass. Or invisible.”
“You’re not invisible,” I snap, tears pricking hot. “But Trent, if you don’t want me to think you’re made of glass, you have to stop exploding every time someone drops the ball. You are the reason I get up in the morning. You’re all I have left.”
He shifts, finally looking at me—really looking. There’s hurt there, but something else, too. Relief, maybe.
Somewhere between the blame, the silence, and the apology, something shifts in the room. It isn’t dramatic. There’s no music, no sudden hush. Just the two of us, breathing a little easier.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, and this time it lands. “Seriously. You are the most important person in my life. I never wanted to screw things up. I just kept thinking if I could handle everything on my own, nothing else would fall apart.”
He doesn’t roll his eyes. He doesn’t pull away. And for the first time in months, I see the kid I raised.
He lets his arms loosen, one elbow dropping to the table. “That’s the problem, Soph. You don’t have to handle it on your own.” His tone is softer now, even if he still won’t quite look at me. “You’re allowed to need help. Or even just not know what you’re doing.”
There are tears, threatening at the edge of every syllable, but I keep my voice steady. “If I could go back, I’d do it differently. I’d tell you everything, even when it felt awkward or hard. I’d let you in, instead of thinking I was protecting you by keeping quiet.”
He picks at nothing, fingertips tracing a scratch in the table’s surface. “I just want you to trust me. That’s all.”
For a while, we just sit. The ache in my chest is still there, but it’s lighter.
He’s the one who breaks the silence. “When Eleanor died, it was like everything just…stopped. Nothing felt real. Rebecca didn’t have the perfect answer or anything, but she didn’t leave. She just sat with me. Sometimes she didn’t even talk, just stayed, and it helped.”
The admission is so raw it nearly undoes me.
I nod, pushing past the knot in my throat. “She sounds like a great friend.”
He shrugs. “She is. Even when I tried to push her off, she didn’t bail. She got it. I mean, her family’s a mess, too.”
I can’t help the watery laugh. “Is there anyone on the island whose family isn’t a disaster?”
He grins, quick and fleeting, but real.
My hand is still palm-up on the table, a silent peace offering. It takes him a second, but he brushes his knuckle against my fingers—just a glancing touch, like he’s testing the water. I want to hold on, but I don’t push. I let the quiet settle, let it say what we can’t.
After a while, I risk the next question. “So, can we try again? With Noah? Maybe even Danny? I know it’s asking a lot. But I think it’s worth it. I think you’re worth it.”
He looks away first, staring at the tiniest fleck of something on the table. “It’ll take time.”
“That’s fair. I’m not about to force the Brady Bunch. I just want less drama, more honesty. Starting now.”
He snorts—his specialty. “You should call Rebecca. You’d get along.”
For the first time all night, I let my body relax, tension melting right through me. The emotional hangover crashes down, and I swipe at my cheeks, blinking fast.
Trent makes no move to leave, which in itself is a victory. His posture is almost casual now, arms resting instead of barricading. And when I finally push back my chair, gathering empty glasses and the leftover evidence of our argument, he gets up, too.
“I’ll try. With Noah and Danny. But if they start with the lectures, I’m out.”
“No lectures,” I promise. “Just…next time, let’s talk before one of us ends up hurling a chair.”
He almost smiles. “You’d lose.”
“I’d win on style points.”
He laughs, faint but genuine.