I still have no idea why Fia stuck with him for four years. Sure, on paper he’s a catch. Brett comes from a good family and goes to UNCW with my sister. Plus, he has the whole classically handsome jock thing going for him. But I know how he treats Fia—like she’s meant to be a trophy on a shelf and not much else. Pretty to look at, but to be seen and not heard.
Another hour passes, and I’m so worked up thinking about her loser ex that I almost miss my exit. I swerve, crossing two lanes, and fly down the ramp, immediately getting that same old tightness in my throat.
It doesn’t matter that I haven’t called this place home since I left for college ten years ago. And it doesn’t matter that the people who hurt me no longer reside here, either. Their ghosts still haunt every corner.
I squirm uncomfortably in my seat and smooth my long blonde ponytail over my shoulder. Nausea continues to bite at my anxious stomach, and I wish more than ever I was arriving at a warm house where Nan greets me, where my sister isn’t drowning, and where I can let down my walls. But that place doesn’t exist, not anymore. The walls are crumbling—quite literally—and I have a sinking feeling that I’m the only one who can do anything about it.
As I turn onto my old street, warmth spreads in my chest, and I loosen my grip on the wheel ever so slightly. The houses on the street are a mix of grand Colonials and storybook Victorians, all strung with twinkling Christmas lights, and fresh green garland wraps the porches and pillars. It’s beautiful.
But then I arrive at my family home, and the warm twinkly cheer in my body dims.
Our house is a faded-blue, century-old, Victorian-style home with clapboard siding, hurricane shutters that sit askew, and a front porch that was once stately but now sags slightly at the steps. The rose bushes Nan once lovingly tended to are now more thorn thanbloom, no longer weaving through the scroll-iron fence in the front yard.
I roll up the bumpy driveway, my gaze locking on the front door with its dull sheen, and my heart sinks further.
A lonely wreath hangs crookedly over the brass knocker, but that’s it. There are no swagging lights, no red velvet ribbon on the bannisters. It would be crazy to expect a twenty-one-year-old college student to handle the upkeep and decor of this house on her own. But nonetheless, it still hurts to see.
This will be the last Christmas she spends alone in this house, if I have anything to say about it. If she stays here, she too will decay. I have to get her out.
Drawing in a steadying breath, I step out of the car onto the cracked driveway. Tall weeds push up through the cement, brushing against the sides of my leather boots. The air is thicker here—warm and a little humid.
I have to shuffle the bags around the trunk just to get one out, grunting as I do. The largest one is stuck, so I leverage it with my boot against my bumper, and it flies out with a thud, right against Fia’s car. My stomach drops at the sound of scraping, but then I remember Fia’s car is made of scratches and dings. It was Nan’s car, and she left it to Fia. Though it mostly sits there, because after driving for thirty miles, it begins to smoke. Fia said it’s fine,she enjoys walkingand owns one of those weird electric scooters.
I need to remind her you can’t strap a car seat to an electric scooter.
The walk to the front door is difficult. I’m dragging half my wardrobe behind me. And I don’t know what the hell to say to my sister when I see her.
Guiding her through college applications? Easy. Soothing her after herfirstbreakup with Brett? I got it. Teaching her how to pace herself when she discovered alcohol? That’s what sisters are for. I even showed her how to do her makeup to highlight her freckles,how to shave her legs without cutting herself, and how to tame her impossibly beautiful red hair.
But pregnancy and motherhood? I know nothing about that, literally zilch. Our mother left us two weeks before my eighth birthday.
However, I don’t have time to consider the best way to phrase things, because as I gingerly step on the rotting porch steps, praying I don’t fall through, shadows of movement pass by the front windows.
A chilly breeze rustles the last clinging leaves on the giant oak tree in the front yard, ushering me closer to the house, and I catch my breath on the porch, glancing up at the ceiling.
Haint blue.
It’s Southern folklore that you’re supposed to paint your porch ceiling this color to keep bad spirits away. That’s what Nan used to tell us, anyway. But as I stand underneath it, I wonder who thought of that stupid idea, because this house is full of bad spirits. Or at least bad memories.
The door swings open, and my eyes fall on my sister’s reluctant smile. Then my gaze drops again to the curve of her belly, gently cradled in her hand. I jerk my head back. I didn’t expect it to becradle-worthyyet.
“Hey, sis.” She glances at me sheepishly, braided hair falling over one side of her UNCW sweatshirt.
I blink rapidly. Bewildered doesn’t cover it.
“Hi… I...” I stutter as Fia’s porcelain face flushes. “Can I come in?”
I cross over the threshold as she steps aside, dragging my belongings behind me into the foyer.
Fia shuts the door behind me as I spin to get a better look at her. From the side.
“I didn’t expect you to have a belly,” I say, followed by a tiny nervous laugh. Probably not the right thing to say.
Fia ducks her head, avoiding my eyes as she rubs the back of her neck. “Yeah, I know—”
“When you said Brett broke up with youweeksago, I assumed you meant youjustfound out…” My sentence trails off because I can’t wrap my head around this timeline, or peel my eyes off her mid-section.
“I told you Brett broke up with me weeks ago, but that’s because that’s when I found out.”
