VALERIE
The tradition started when we were thirteen.
Every summer, without fail, my parents handed over the keys to the Thorne family beach house—a sleek, modern glass-and-wood compound perched right on the coastal cliffs. One full week of zero parental supervision, high-end alcohol, ocean air, and endless summer nights.
Standing in front of my bedroom mirror, zipping up my second oversized leather duffel bag, I squeezed my eyes shut and took a long, shaky breath.
I needed this week. I needed it like air. I was going to use this beach trip as a distraction, forcing myself to drink enough, laugh loud enough, and pretend hard enough until the suffocating panic in my chest finally went quiet. Never mind the fact that every single source of my trauma was going to be under the exact sam
