Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
EVEREST
She looks between us like she’s seeing ghosts. Like she’s trapped in some nightmare that won’t let her wake up.
“That’s your cousin,” my mom breathes, her voice cracking. “That’s my niece.”
The room tilts. Cove goes still beside me, her hand limp in mine.
“…What?” she whispers, voice like paper crumbling in a quiet room.
My brain can’t make sense of the words. Cousin? Niece? I squeeze her hand. I think I squeeze her hand. I’m not sure if I’m still breathing.
“My dad…” Cove starts, but then stops. Shakes her head like she’s trying to knock something loose. “He said he had a sister. But she died. I never knew her name.”
My mom flinches.
Punch is still dripping off the shattered glass on the hardwood floor. The scent of citrus and cranberry fills my nose. Everything feels like the air is vibrating with wrongness.
“Dead,” Mom whispers. “He told you I was dead?”
“Wait,” I manage to say. “Wait, Mom—what the fuck are you talking about?”
She stares at Cove, like she can’t look away.
Her lips part, trembling. “Your dad—he’s my brother, Everest. Your uncle.
He took off with his infant daughter years ago.
Cut us off. Changed his number. I never saw him again.
I never even saw a photo. Not one. And then you walk in with her and I just…
I saw it. The eyes. The mouth. She looks just like him. ”
My legs give out before I realize I’m falling. I sink, bracing myself against the cold wood like it might keep me grounded.
“No,” I say. I say it again. “No, no. That’s not—no. We’re not—”
Cove yanks her hand away from mine. I reach for her, but she’s backing up. Her face is a mask of disbelief, her body trembling as she stares between the two of us.
“I need to—I need to call my dad,” she chokes out, one hand flying to her mouth. “I think I’m gonna—”
She bolts.
She makes it to the porch before I hear the sound—retching. My stomach twists like it wants to follow, like my body can’t decide what it wants: to chase after her or to collapse where I am. I stumble toward the front door.
“Let her go,” my mom says sharply. Her hand catches my wrist, fingers digging in. “Everest. Let her go.”
“She’s sick—she’s—she just—”
“She needs air,” my mom says, softer now. Her voice breaks. “She needs to process. So do you.”
I don’t know how I stay on my feet. My knees are made of jello. I watch the door until it shuts, quietly this time. Not a slam. Just the finality of something slipping out of reach.
Gone. She’s gone.
“Mom,” I say, barely able to form the word. “Tell me this isn’t real.”
She doesn’t answer. I turn back toward her slowly. She’s shaking. Crying. Her hands flutter like they don’t know what to do—wipe her cheeks, wring themselves dry, pick up the broken glass at her feet.
“I didn’t know,” she says. “Everest, I swear to God, I didn’t know it was her.”
I move to the wall and slide down it, my back against the drywall. My chest hurts. I can’t seem to fill my lungs.
“You said he was your brother.”
She nods. “My older brother. Jacob. He left. Decades ago. After a fight—he didn’t want me in his life anymore. I tried Everest. I sent letters. I called. Everything was returned or blocked.”
“And Cove was with him?”
She nods again, tears streaming now. “He had a daughter. She was an infant. I didn’t even know her name. Your grandparents tried to find him. They never could. And then when your grandfather passed, I gave up. I had to.”
I close my eyes. My head falls back against the wall and I squeeze my hands into fists. My heart is breaking. I can feel the pain. The kind that comes in waves and leaves nothing but salt behind.
“I love her,” I say. The words fall out of me, soft and small.
My mom lowers herself to the floor beside me.
“I didn’t know,” I say again, like I’m begging her to believe me. “I didn’t know, she’s not….not a friend. Not someone I grew up with. I didn’t even know she existed until now.”
“I know, baby,” my mom whispers, brushing my hair off my forehead like she used to when I was a kid with a fever. “I know you didn’t. This isn’t your fault.”
“But it still happened,” I whisper, throat tight. “I kissed her. I touched her. I stayed the night. I wanted forever with her.”
A sob escapes from somewhere deep inside me. Raw and real and ugly.
My mom pulls me into her arms. I fold into her like I haven’t in years. Not since before I was too big, too old, too stubborn to be the kid who needed comfort.
She holds me like I’m still that boy.
“This isn’t your fault,” she says again. “The world did this. Jacob did this. He stole her away and he never gave any of us the chance to know her. You didn’t do anything wrong, Everest.”
“It feels wrong,” I whisper. “I don’t even know what to think. I love her. God, I love her. But now—now it’s ruined.”
She doesn’t answer.
Because maybe it is.
I don’t know how long we stay like that. Eventually, I pull away. My hands are shaking when I reach for my phone.
I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t know if she’ll even read it. I don’t even know where she is.
But I send the text anyway.
Me: I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.
And I sit in my childhood home, surrounded by shattered glass and silence, waiting for a reply that may never come.