The days leading up to move-in feel like they're dragging their feet—every hour stretches, nothing moves fast enough. Mom keeps poking around, trying to figure out why I suddenly care about working out, or why I'm swapping TikTok for books. She keeps eying me, like she's waiting for me to spill some secret.
"You're acting different," she says, watching as I dump spinach into the blender like I'm auditioning for a new life.
"Is that a compliment, or…?" I ask, half-joking, half-wishing she'd just drop it.
She shrugs. "Just different, that's all."
I don't bother explaining. There's no way to put it into words—the way the old ache has hardened into something sharper, something that feels almost like armor.
Meanwhile, Zoey won't stop texting, desperate for gossip about the UCLA dinner. I give her the safe, boring version—met a few people, checked out the campus at night, professors seem legit. What she doesn't know won't kill her.
Especially not Parker. That story stays mine, at least for now.
Then, Friday hits, and Mom drops the Grandma's dinner announcement like it's no big deal. "Whole family," she says, which means Madison'll be there.
My stomach ties itself in a knot.
"Do I have to?"
"Avery. She's your sister."
"Yeah, a sister who slept with my boyfriend."
Mom just sighs, like maybe if she says it enough times, I'll magically let it go. "You two need to work this out."
I want to tell her some things don't get worked out. But she's always been a world-class pro at pretending everything's fine.
So, I go.
Grandma's place smells like every Sunday from my childhood—roast chicken, rosemary, the whole deal. The table's set for all of us: Grandma, Mom, Dad, me, Madison, and a couple cousins whose names I always forget.
Madison's already there, of course. She's sprawled out on the couch, scrolling her phone, dressed like she's on her way to a magazine shoot—white linen, silk top, gold hoops catching the light.
She spots me and flashes a sugary, dangerous smile.
"Avery. Hey."
"Madison." I keep my face neutral, my voice even.
Mom gives me the look. The one that says "don't cause trouble."
I pick a seat across from Madison, mostly so I can stare at my phone and avoid her eyes.
"So," she says, sounding like someone who's never experienced an awkward moment, "how's the UCLA thing going?"
"Fine."
"Excited?"
"Yep."
She tips her head, giving me a look like she's dissecting a bug. "Saw your dinner post. Looked swanky."
I don't say a word.
"Liam said he saw you there."
My jaw tightens on instinct.
"He said you looked good. Did something to your hair?"
I finally look up. "Do you want something, Madison?"
She goes wide-eyed. "Just making conversation."
"No, you're not."
Mom calls us to set the table, and Madison glides over, acting like nothing's wrong.
While we're lining up the silverware, she leans in, whispering, "Liam feels bad, you know. About all of it."
"Sure he does."
"He didn't want to hurt you."
"He still managed." I set a glass down so hard it nearly cracks. "He was in bed with you, Madison. That isn't an accident."
She just shrugs, like this is all normal. "Things happen. People get mixed up."
"Mixed up."
"We just clicked. You were still in high school, Avery. He needed someone more mature."
There it is. The twist.
I look her in the eye. "You think you're more mature?"
"Than you? Yeah."
"Because you take what isn't yours?"
Her smile doesn't slip. "He wanted me. I didn't take anything."
The words sting.
"He did," she says, propping herself against the table. "He's happier now. We both are."
I want to throw the plate in my hands. Instead, I ice over. I smile, but it's pure frost.
"Good for you."
She blinks, thrown off for a second.
"I mean it," I say. "Enjoy it while it lasts."
Her expression flickers. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just that college boys aren't exactly famous for sticking around. That's what people say."
"Liam's not like that," she insists.
"If you say so."
She folds her arms. "You're acting weird."
"Guess so."
"You're not… sad anymore."
I shrug. "Got over it."
She sounds skeptical. "You got over it?"
"Yeah." I finish placing the last fork, not even bothering to look at her. "Turns out there's more out there than Liam."
Her eyes narrow. "Like who?"
"None of your business."
Dinner drags. Madison keeps tossing Liam's name into every conversation, showing Grandma photos of some party, laughing too loud. "He's so sweet," she gushes, "Took me to this amazing rooftop bar. The view was wild."
I stab my chicken like it owes me money.
"Avery, honey," Grandma asks, "how's your summer been?"
"Busy."
"Still doing all that internet stuff?"
Madison snorts. "Internet stuff, that's adorable."
I ignore her.
"Actually, been gearing up for UCLA," I say. "Reading up on the comm department. Looking at research options."
Madison's smile goes stiff. "Research? Ambitious."
"I'm trying."
"Good for you." She sips her wine. "Liam said the professors are hardcore. Hope you can keep up."
"I'm not worried."
"Really? Freshman year's tough, especially if you're not used to—"
"I'll manage, Madison."
The whole table goes quiet.
Mom clears her throat. "Dessert, anyone?"
Afterwards, I escape to the porch, gulping in the cool air that finally feels clean.
The door opens behind me.
Dad sits down beside me, careful, gentle. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
He sighs. "Your sister's… difficult."
"That's one word for it."
We sit, quiet for a bit.
He finally says, "I know this is rough. With Liam—"
"I don't want to talk about him."
"Avery—"
"Please, Dad."
He lets it go.
Inside, Madison's laughter ricochets off the walls.
"You know the worst part?" I say, so soft only he can hear. "She thinks she won."
He doesn't argue.
"But she didn't. Not really."
"No?"
I shake my head. "She just thinks she did."
He studies me, a little wary. "You're not plotting something, are you?"
I meet his gaze. "Nope."
He doesn't look convinced, but he leaves it.
Back inside, Madison's already got her bag, ready to leave.
"Already?" Mom asks.
"Yeah, Liam's picking me up. Party."
Of course.
She glances at me. "You could come, if you want."
It's a challenge, not an invitation.
"I'm good."
"Suit yourself." She's texting before she even finishes the sentence. "Oh, by the way—Liam asked about you."
My stomach does a flip.
"Why?"
"Just wanted to know if you were okay. He feels bad."
"I bet."
She tilts her head. "You're really not mad?"
"Nope."
She studies me, trying to figure out what's changed. "You're different."
"So I've heard."
A car horn blares. Madison lights up. "That's him." She pauses in the doorway, gives me one last look. "See you around, Avery."
I watch her go. Watch her get in his car, watch him kiss her like I don't exist.
And I feel nothing.
No burn, no ache, just this cold clarity that feels almost electric.
Mom slides up next to me. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah." I turn away from the window, and mean it. "I am."
That night, in my room, I open my laptop.
Instagram. Parker's profile. Still private. Still ignoring my request. That's fine.
I dig up his published work instead—papers on media psychology, parasocial relationships, the whole deal.
I download a few, start reading.
By midnight, I've got pages of notes. His writing's sharp, no wasted words. He'd probably hate the stuff I post—the filters, the captions.
But that's exactly what I want.
I'm not trying to keep being the person I am. I want to be someone he has to notice.
My phone buzzes.
Zoey: you alive?
Me: barely
Zoey: madison?
Me: yeah
Zoey: what happened
I tell her the truth.
Me: she's still with liam. flaunted it all night.
Zoey: ugh i hate her
Me: it's fine
Zoey: you sure?
Me: yeah. i'm over it.
Zoey: really?
Me: really
Zoey: you sound scarily calm
Me: just focused
Zoey: on what
Me: moving on
Before she can reply, I close the chat.
Pull up Parker's profile again, stare at that tiny photo—sharp jaw, sly smile, guarded eyes.
"You took him from me, Madison," I whisper, the room echoing with the promise. "But I'll take what you can't."
It's reckless, maybe even impossible.
But for the first time in ages, I feel like I know exactly where I'm going.
And that, for now, is enough.