The uncle

chapter 8

Chapter 8

The house was quiet when she got back — too quiet. The kind of silence that made you feel like a trespasser in your own skin.

Betty dropped her bag by the stairs and kicked off her shoes. The marble floor chilled her toes as she padded down the hall, drawn by the faint sound of laughter drifting from the living room.

She paused in the doorway.

Chris was there. Legs stretched out on the leather couch, one arm draped casually around a girl with glossy braids and long legs. She laughed — loud and carefree — then leaned in to whisper something in his ear.

Betty froze.

Chris looked up, mid-smirk, and saw her. The smirk slipped.

“Betty,” he said, voice flat.

The girl turned to look at her too, eyes flickering with curiosity. She was beautiful — the kind of polished beauty that came with confidence and old money.

“This your sister?” the girl asked.

Chris hesitated. “Something like that.”

Betty felt a sting. She stepped into the room slowly, arms crossed.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to interrupt your... whatever this is.”

Chris stood up. “You’re home early.”

She looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t realize I had a curfew.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, avoiding her eyes. “This is Imelda.”

Imelda gave a small wave. “Hi. Love your uniform.”

“Thanks,” Betty said dryly. “It’s itchy and suffocating — just like this house.”

Imelda let out a polite laugh, clearly unsure what to make of her.

“I’ll be in my room,” Betty muttered, turning away.

“Betty,” Chris said suddenly, his tone lower, quieter. “We weren’t trying to make you uncomfortable.”

She stopped, not turning around. “Too late.”

And then she walked off.

Upstairs, in her too-big room with its too-white walls, she sat on the edge of the bed, fists clenched in her lap. It wasn’t just the girl. It was the look on Chris’s face — caught between guilt and indifference. Like he didn’t know whether to care that she was there or not.

And somehow, that hurt more than if he’d told her to leave.

She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the echo of Imelda’s laugh still bouncing around her head.

No one in this house wanted her here. Not Laura. Not Bennett. Not Chris.

Fine.

She’d stop trying to fit into a life that clearly wasn’t meant for her.

Betty was brushing her teeth when she heard the knock.

She froze, toothbrush still in her hand. Another knock, softer this time, and then the sound of footsteps outside her door. She hesitated, then opened it just enough to see Chris standing there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. The same one he always wore.

“Hey,” he said, looking almost uncomfortable.

“Hey.” She didn’t move to let him in, just stood there, waiting for him to continue.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” Chris shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly unsure of himself. “Imelda didn’t mean—”

“Imelda didn’t do anything,” Betty cut in, her voice colder than she intended. “You’re the one who brought her here.”

Chris’s face fell slightly, but he didn’t argue. “I didn’t plan it. She just showed up.”

Betty gave a short laugh. “I can’t believe you’re apologizing for this.”

“I’m not apologizing for her,” he said quickly. “I just… I didn’t want you to think it was okay. I know it looked like I was just, you know, pretending you weren’t around. But that’s not it.”

Betty stared at him, trying to make sense of the words. “So what is it?”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure out how to be… normal about all of this.”

“Normal?” Betty’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean how to act like nothing’s different? Like we’re some happy family?”

“That’s not what I meant.” He looked at her, a mix of frustration and something else in his eyes. “It’s just that… I didn’t expect any of this. You, being here, me being stuck in this position. I don’t know what to do with you, Betty.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Chris hesitated before speaking, as if choosing his words carefully. “I’m not your brother. I’m your step-uncle. I don’t know how to act, what to say, what you want from me. But… I don’t want things to be weird between us. I don’t want you to feel like you don’t belong here, like you’re just some extra piece.”

Betty’s chest tightened. She didn’t know if she should be relieved or angry. “I’m not some ‘extra piece,’ Chris. I’m here because your brother decided it, not because anyone actually wanted me here. I’m just a burden to everyone.”

“That’s not what I think,” Chris said softly. “That’s not what I meant. You’re not a burden to me.”

She met his gaze for a long moment, something in his words making her pause. But she couldn’t let herself soften too easily. “I’ll survive. Don’t worry about me.”

He gave a small, tight smile. “I’m trying not to. Just… I’ll try to make it less awkward, okay?”

Betty nodded, but there was still something unspoken between them, like the words weren’t quite enough. “Whatever. Just—don’t make it worse than it already is.”

“Goodnight, Betty.”

She closed the door quietly behind him, leaning against it for a moment. The weight of the conversation hung in the air.

Goodnight. She let the words linger for a second. She wasn’t sure if he meant it or if it was just a way to end things. All she knew was, she wasn’t sure where they stood anymore.

The hallway was quiet. Betty leaned against her locker, arms folded, trying to shake off the day. Dean had walked her to class again, joking about how she owed him lunch for being her “bodyguard.” It made her smile — until she saw Chris watching them from down the hall.

Now he was walking toward her, alone, hands in his pockets, that same detached expression on his face.

“New boyfriend already?” he asked, his tone dry. “That was fast. Or do you just like collecting pity?”

Betty stiffened. “Excuse me?”

Chris leaned against the locker next to hers, his eyes sharp. “You walk around like the world owes you something. Like your tragic little backstory makes you special.”

Her jaw tightened. “Says the guy who’s been ignoring me since I got here. Didn’t know I was supposed to cry on your shoulder.”

He chuckled, a humorless sound. “No, that would require you to see past your own drama.”

Something in her chest twisted. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“And you don’t know anything about anyone else,” he shot back. “Everyone here is dealing with something. You’re not the only one dropped into a family that doesn’t want you. You’re just the loudest about it.”

She stared at him, stunned. She hadn’t expected kindness — not from him — but this? This cut deep.

He didn’t wait for her to respond. Just shrugged, straightened, and walked away like nothing had happened.

Betty blinked hard, her face burning. For the first time, she realized: Chris wasn’t distant because he didn’t care. He was distant because he’d already made up his mind about her.

And for now… she hated that it hurt.

Betty didn’t move for a long moment. The hallway was empty now, the bell long gone, and her stomach churned with something she couldn’t quite name — humiliation, anger… something heavier.

She pushed off the locker and walked quickly down the corridor, turning a corner so no one would see the tears threatening to spill.

She ended up behind the auditorium, where no one ever really went. The silence there was deeper, safer.

Why did his words bother her so much?

She crouched down, pulling her knees to her chest, breathing through the sting in her eyes. She wasn’t going to cry over Chris. Over some rich boy with a perfect face and a chip on his shoulder.

But still, his voice echoed in her head: “You’re just the loudest about it.”

Was she?

Was she really that self-absorbed? That blind to the world around her?

The thought stung more than his words. Because if there was even a little truth in what he said…

She shook her head.

No. He didn’t know her. He didn’t know what it was like to be dragged into a stranger’s house by a mother who treated her like a nuisance. He didn’t know what it was like to lose everything familiar and be expected to smile and blend in.

If he thought she was dramatic, let him think that. She wasn’t going to apologize for surviving.

Her phone buzzed — a message from Dean:

“Skipped history. Tell me it was boring without me.”

She stared at the screen, then smiled faintly.

Maybe Chris had already decided who she was. But that didn’t mean everyone had.

She wiped her eyes, stood up, and walked out from behind the auditorium. If Chris Lockhart wanted to see her as a walking cliché, fine. But she’d show him — and everyone else — that she wasn’t just some bitter girl with a sad story.

She was more.

Even if she had to prove it alone.