Page 38 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Wayne walks into the kitchen and starts rinsing a plate at the sink like he needs something to do with his hands.

I hover near the doorway, feeling like I don’t belong here, which is ridiculous.

I do belong here.

But my body can’t cope. It still thinks belonging is temporary.

Wayne doesn’t look at me. “You have the evening to yourself.”

“Okay,” I say, not moving.

Silence stretches.

My heart pounds.

I want to ask a hundred things. Why he’s acting like the other night didn’t happen. If he regrets it. If he thinks I’m a problem.

But I don’t.

Because asking would make it real.

And real is dangerous.

So I swallow everything down and do the only thing that makes sense.

I escape.

My room feels strange.

Not because it’s small, or because the bed is too neatly made, or because it smells of pine and clean laundry.

Strange because it’s mine.

In Wayne’s house.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my phone as if it might explain how I got here.

I should call someone.

Tell someone I made it.

I open my contacts, my thumb hovering over the names, hesitating. I realize I haven’t talked to any of them in months.

Max didn’t like them. He always had a reason for it. They were “bad influences.” They “didn’t understand our relationship.” They “filled my head with ideas.” And slowly, without even noticing, I stopped answering group chats. Stopped going to brunch with my friends. Stopped responding to calls.

It happened gradually, like erosion.

Now my contact list is a museum of past versions of me.

I scroll through the list of name, and my chest tightens with shame.

Why did I let that happen?

Why did I make myself smaller for someone who was never going to make room for me?

I swallow hard and put the phone down.

It buzzes immediately.