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So I did. Let him drive me to Charlotte to face my dying mother and my evil sister. Let him pack tissues and clothes I probably wouldn’t need. Let him love me when I couldn’t say it back yet.

The truck rumbled to life as we pulled away from my house.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good. Means you’re sane.” He reached over, linked our fingers. “Let’s go face your demons.”

As Cedarbrook disappeared behind us, I closed my eyes and tried not to think about what waited in Charlotte.

24

— • —

Tyson

The highway stretched out ahead of us, endless asphalt cutting through darkness. Sam dozed in the passenger seat, face turned toward the window, concussion finally catching up with her. I’d been driving for three hours, keeping the radio low, stealing glances at her bruised face every few miles.

She’d been talking before she fell asleep. Really talking, the deep stuff. Growing up as the responsible twin, the one who kept Sophie out of trouble, cleaned up her messes, made excuses for her selfishness. Always performing, always being what everyone needed her to be.

“I was someone else with Garrett,” she’d said, voice rough from exhaustion. “Smaller. Quieter. Less everything.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what he wanted. Someone who wouldn’t overshadow him at parties. Who’d smile and nod when his business partners made sexist jokes.”

I’d gripped the steering wheel harder at that. I fucking hated him. “He didn’t deserve you.”

“No. But I let him have me anyway.” She’d touched her split lip, winced. “Sophie never had to pretend. She just took what she wanted.”

The urge to turn the truck around and beat Garrett unconscious again had been overwhelming. Add Sam’s family to the list, and I’d happily spend a night in jail. Anyone who’d made Sam feel she had to shrink herself deserved worse than I could give them.

Now she slept, occasionally murmuring words I couldn’t catch. The bruises on her face looked worse in the passing headlights. Purple blooming across her temple, her lip swollen under the stitches. Evidence of what loving me had cost her.

“Not your fault,” she mumbled, apparently more awake than I’d thought.

“You psychic now?”

“Your shoulders do this thing when you’re blaming yourself.” She shifted, winced. “How much further?”

“Two hours.”

She went quiet. I thought she’d fallen back asleep until she spoke again. “I never told anyone this, but after our wedding… after I saw them… I sat in my car for an hour. Just sat there in my wedding dress thinking I must have imagined it.”

“Sam.”

“Because twins share everything, right? Clothes, friends, birthday parties. Why not husbands?”

The bitterness in her voice cut deep. I reached over, found her hand in the dark. “You want to talk about it?”

“No. Yes. Maybe.” She squeezed my fingers. “Tell me about Andrea instead. Something real.”

So I did. Told her about the early days, when Noa was tiny and Andrea was struggling. The postpartum depression neither of us saw coming. How she’d loved Noa fiercely but couldn’t connect, couldn’t find herself in the role of mother.

“She tried,” I said. “Therapy, medication, support groups. But she looked at Noa and saw a stranger. Looked at me and saw a life she’d never wanted.”

“That’s not her fault.”