“I know,” she whispers.
The house looks exactly the same. Same manicured hedges. Same wide front porch. Same pristine white siding that makes it feel more like a museum than a home.
My chest feels encased in iron the moment we pull into the driveway.
I haven’t lived here in over a decade, but my body remembers it anyway. The way the air feels heavier, like it presses down on my chest. The way certain memories cling to the walls whether I want them to or not.
Aubrey reaches for the door handle, then pauses. “If it gets bad …” she starts.
“I’m not going to have a breakdown in the driveway,” I snap.
Her mouth twists. “That’s not what I meant.”
I blow out a breath. “Sorry.”
She nods once, accepting the apology without making it a thing.
Inside, everything smells like lemon polish and something roasting in the oven. The foyer is spotless. The staircase gleams. A framed family photo sits on the entry table.
I don’t look at it.
My mother appears first, posture straight, expression pleasant in that distant way she’s perfected.
“Colton,” she says, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “You look well.”
I nod. “You too.”
Her perfume is the same one she’s worn since I was a teenager. It hits my senses and pulls me backward for half a second, into a time when this house wasn’t quiet like a tomb.
My father follows, offering a firm handshake instead of a hug.
“How’s work?” he asks.
“Busy.”
“Good.”
That’s the extent of it.
We move to the dining room, the table set with military precision. Everything has a place. Everything has a rule. Even the candles look like they’re afraid to drip wax in the wrong direction.
Aubrey does most of the talking, filling the silence, steering the conversation away from anything personal. Mom mentions a charity event. Dad talks about a neighbor’s renovation. Aubrey updates them on her latest project.
I nod when I’m supposed to. Smile when required. The longer I sit here, the more my skin itches with the need to leave.
“So,” my mother says eventually, folding her napkin in her lap, “are you seeing anyone?”
The question hits like a stone dropped into still water. Aubrey’s eyes flick to mine. I hesitate a beat too long.
“No,” I say.
It isn’t exactly a lie. It also isn’t exactly the truth.
My mother hums, as if she already expected that answer. “That’s a shame,” she says. “You’re not getting any younger.”
My fork scrapes the plate. I still it.
Aubrey’s voice is sharp. “Mom.”