She folds the note back up with slow, deliberate movements, like her hands are the only part of her body she can control right now.
I take a step toward her. “Lyla—”
“Don’t,” she says, her voice so quiet I almost don’t catch it. She doesn’t look at me, just stares down at the paper in her hands.
The space between us feels cold.
I want to close it anyway. Want to take the note from her, crush it, tell her none of this matters because he’s gone and we’re still here. But I don’t.
Because she takes another step back, and that hurts worse than the storm that night.
Her shoulders draw in, her whole frame tightening like she’s trying to hold herself together from the inside out.
“I just… I need a minute,” she says, blinking hard.
I nod, even though everything in me wants to argue. Wants to tell her a minute won’t be enough, that I can’t stand here and watch her shut me out.
But I promised myself I’d give her the truth. And now that she has it, I have to give her the space too.
Without saying another word, she slips past me, the faint scent of her shampoo lingering in her wake, and moves like a ghost across the street to her house.
Aaron’s house.
And the sound of her front door closing feels final in a way I’m not entirely ready for.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lyla
Ishut the door and press my back to it, my pulse so loud in my ears it drowns out the rest of the house.
The note is still in my hand. It feels heavier than paper should — like it’s been weighted with ten years of secrets.
I want to throw it. Tear it. Burn it until the ashes scatter and I can pretend I never saw the way my brother’s handwriting curved into finality.
Instead, I set it on my nightstand like it might cut me if I hold it any longer.
I sink onto the bed and press my palms into my eyes until I see bursts of light. But even in the dark behind my eyelids, I can’t stop replaying it — Damien’s voice, the storm in his eyes, the way he said he was mad at Aaron… and the rest.
My brother, standing on a cliff in the middle of a storm. My brother, hurt not just by his depression but by the person he trusted most.
And then… Damien making me promises in the dark. Damien holding me like I’m the only thing that matters. Damienknowingall along what really happened that night.
It’s like every moment between us shatters in my hands, sharp edges catching on my skin.
The worst part is, some selfish piece of me still wants him here. Still wants his arms around me, telling me that even if it’s all broken, we can put it back together.
I hate that I want that.
The next morning, I tell myself I’m too busy to cross the street.
It’s not a lie. Mom wakes up disoriented, calling for Aaron, and it takes half an hour of tea and gentle coaxing to settle her into breakfast. By the time I’m done cleaning the kitchen, the laundry basket is full, and my email inbox is overflowing.
I keep my head down, moving from one task to the next. I even open a new document and tell myself I’m going to outline my next podcast episode.
But the whole time, I’m aware of the faint hum of machinery across the street. The sound of a saw starting, stopping. The thump of a hammer.
Damien.
