Chapter Seven
1309 Words
You don't have to fall for someone to feel them under your skin.
⸻
The moment I stepped through the front door, I slammed it shut like I could trap the night behind me.
As if Reed Carter was still out there on that dock and not inside me now—under my skin, in my bloodstream, haunting every breath I took.
I stood in the dim hallway, clutching the doorknob with white knuckles, just breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Still not enough.
The house was quiet—Mom wasn't back from her shift yet, and Eden and Elijah were probably upstairs. For once, I was grateful for the silence. I didn't think I could handle conversation. Not when I felt like I was unraveling.
I kicked off my boots and headed upstairs without turning on a single light, every step echoing through my bones like a drumbeat I couldn't shake.
My room was dark, cool. Familiar.
I closed the door and leaned against it, sliding to the floor like the sad heroine of a movie I hadn't agreed to star in.
Why had I let him get that close? Why didn't I stop him? Why did it feel like he had all the control, even when I was the one who walked away?
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened the messages. His name was still there at the top of my recent texts. Reed. No emoji. No photo. Just his name. Stark. Sharp. Dangerous.
I stared at it for a long time.
No new messages.
Good. I didn't want to talk to him.
I didn't.
I tossed the phone on my bed and stood, pacing like a wild animal. The air in my room felt too thin. Like it knew what I was trying to pretend I didn't feel.
There was no denying it now.
Reed Carter wasn't just some jerk who'd threatened me into silence.
He was something else entirely.
A storm I'd walked into voluntarily.
A fire I kept inching closer to.
A problem with a heartbeat.
And I was the i***t holding a match.
I sat at my desk and yanked open my journal, flipping past old pages until I hit the first blank one.
I stared at it, heart racing, then wrote:
I don't trust him.
I don't like him.
But when he looked at me like that—
Shit, I forgot what I was going to write. I dropped the pen like it burned me and closed the book.
This was getting dangerous. Not the kind of danger that bruised skin and shattered reputations—but the kind that burrowed in slowly. Quietly. The kind that rewrote your sense of self one glance at a time.
A knock tapped at my door. Not loud or urgent and I cursed silently under my breath. I thought my siblings were asleep already.
I froze.
"Zara?" It was Eden.
"Yeah?"
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah," I said again, softer.
She poked her head in, her long bonnet slipping slightly on one side. "You good?"
"Define 'good' ," I said with an eye roll, a smile playing on my lips.
She snorted and came in, holding a bag of microwave popcorn and her laptop. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or made out with one."
"I didn't."
"Didn't what?"
"Make out with him."
Her eyes widened. "Oh. Oh. So this is about him. Girl, who is he? Last guy I heard was Connor with the elf ears."
I sighed and grabbed a pillow, hugging it to my chest. "Please don't psychoanalyze me tonight."
"I'm not," she said, climbing onto the bed beside me. "I'm just here to eat carbs and vibe."
We sat in silence for a bit as she popped open the popcorn. I took a handful and chewed slowly, my thoughts still halfway down at the pond.
Eden leaned her head on my shoulder. "For what it's worth," she said, "sometimes the scariest thing isn't what they do to you. It's what they make you feel."
That hit harder than I wanted it to.
I didn't say anything. I didn't have to.
She passed me the bag and we watched the movie on her laptop quietly.
And for the first time all day, I let myself rest.
I don't know when Eden left or when I finally lay down.
But I remember the way the quiet settled over everything. The kind of quiet that feels heavy. Like the world is holding its breath, waiting for you to c***k.
I lay there curled on my side, facing the wall, the pillow damp from tears I didn't remember letting fall. Maybe I'd been crying for a while. Maybe I hadn't stopped all year.
I didn't hear the footsteps. Didn't hear the door open.
But I felt her. The mattress dipped behind me, and a warm hand brushed gently over my hair.
I turned slowly, blinking up at the face I hadn't realized I missed so much.
"Mum," I croaked, voice hoarse.
She didn't say anything.
She just pulled me into her arms and held me like I was still little. Like I hadn't spent the last few months pretending to be older and tougher than I really was.
I curled into her chest and sobbed. Not the pretty kind. The ugly, gasping, chest-heaving kind. The kind I hadn't let myself have since the night we left New York.
Her hand moved in slow circles on my back, her chin resting on my hair.
"I've been waiting," she whispered.
"For what?"
"For you to let me hold you again."
That broke me. "I'm tired, Mum," I whispered. "So tired of pretending I'm okay. Of acting like this town isn't suffocating me. Like coming back didn't undo everything I tried to rebuild."
She kissed my forehead. "I know, baby."
"I don't belong here."
"You didn't belong in New York either," she said softly. "You were surviving, Zara. That's not the same as living."
I sniffled. "I don't think I remember how to do that anymore."
"You will," she promised. "Maybe not today. Maybe not even this year. But one day, you'll wake up and realize that surviving was the hardest part. And you did it."
We lay there like that for a while. Her heartbeat against my ear, the scent of her perfume—lavender and something warm—pulling memories out of me like stitches being undone.
"I miss him," I whispered.
Her arms tightened around me. "Every day baby," she said.
Silence stretched between us, full of ghosts.
"You remember the night we left?" she asked suddenly. "The last box packed. You were sitting on the floor of your room with a blanket over your head."
I nodded.
"You didn't want to go. You were scared."
"I was losing everything."
"And you said something I'll never forget. You said, 'If I let go of this place, does that mean I let go of Dad too?'"
My chest cracked open.
She wiped my cheek with her thumb. "But you didn't, Zara. You never let him go. You carried him."
My lip trembled. "It still hurts."
"It always will," she said. "But pain isn't a punishment. Sometimes it's a reminder. That we loved deeply. That we still do."
We held each other a little tighter.
For all the things we never said. For all the versions of ourselves we left behind in different houses, in different cities, in different bedrooms full of packed boxes and promises.
"You're not alone," she said finally. "Not in this house. Not in this town. Not even in your pain."
And for once, I believed her.
Because sometimes, healing doesn't look like moving you are on. Sometimes, it looks like lying in the dark, held by the only person who knows what your heart sounds like from the inside.
- Writer
