Chapter 222: Madeline
I’m airborne before my shoes make it past the mat—Finn grabs my waist and spins me in a dizzy circle, whooping like a siren. The room blurs: couch, window, Finn’s grin, repeat. The second he sets me down, Liam just slings me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing and carts me through the kitchen doorway while I squeal-laugh into his back.
“We didn’t think it was possible to miss the heck out of someone this much,” Finn declares, already beaming at me upside down. “Four days without you was actual torture.”
“Impossible,” Liam agrees, patting my calf like an unruly cat. “The house got, like, eighty percent less adorable.”
“I missed you too,” I giggle as he sets me on my feet at last, cheeks hot, heart lighter than it’s been all day. “And congratulations on not burning the place down.”
They snap mock salutes at the exact same time. “Captain Charlie kept a tight ship,” Finn intones, dead serious for one whole second.
“She left scorch marks on our souls,” Liam adds solemnly, then ruins it by cracking up.
The twins dropped me at the door maybe twenty minutes ago, and I haven’t been alone since. When I arrived, Finn and Liam were already halfway into pasta night; when Jake and Reid handed me my bag, both boys told them—joking, oblivious—“You’ve had her long enough, our turn.” I saw it—a tick in both Anderson jaws, a flash of something proprietary they swallowed for show. They walked me in anyway, gave a tight smile, and—reluctantly—left.
I’m sad about not sleeping at their place tonight. I’ll miss the weight of them bracketing me, the way the room feels different when they’re breathing on either side. Maybe I can talk Charlie into a sleepover in the living room—movies and blankets and sugar—but she’s not here; she hopped in the twins’ car, said they needed to talk. I have a feeling it’s about telling her. I hope I’m right. I don’t like secrets, and lately I feel full of them.
I don’t know where Sloane is, but for now I let the worry slide off and soak up Finn-and-Liam chaos instead.
“Okay, chef hat on,” Finn says, shoving a wooden spoon at me and pointing to a pan where garlic and olive oil shimmer. “We’re at the ‘don’t let the garlic burn’ stage, which historically is where everything goes wrong.”
“Historically,” Liam echoes, pouring dried pasta into boiling water like it’s a high-stakes ceremony. “Remember the Oven-Mitt Incident? May it rest in ashes.”
I snort. “I heard about the Oven-Mitt Incident.”
“Fake news,” Finn says immediately, then leans in to inhale. “Okay, that smells like a tiny Italian grandmother just blessed this house.”
We fall into our rhythm. I salt-taste the sauce, add a pinch more chili flakes; Finn tears basil with reverent violence; Liam becomes the self-appointed colander king, timing the pasta to the exact bounce he swears means al dente. Silly conversation resumes at full volume, the kind that spirals into nonsense and makes my face hurt from smiling.
“So,” Liam says, passing me the tongs like a relay baton, “did the big, fancy institute boat have a chocolate fountain? Or at least cup holders?”
“Name one boat that has a chocolate fountain,” Finn challenges.
“Hope,” Liam says, deadpan, pointing at me.
I roll my eyes so hard I see stars. “No fountain. But we did see spouts, and the captain let me grid the cove, and I might be in love with a hydrophone.”
“Rude,” Finn says, wounded. “We fed you pasta.”
“And we’re about to shower you in Parmesan snow,” Liam adds, opening the tub like it’s a treasure chest.
I laugh and stir and try not to float away on how good it feels to be home. Somewhere across town, Charlie is probably sitting with the twins—maybe hearing about us, maybe rolling her eyes, maybe smiling. I hope so. The truth sounds cleaner in my head than it did this morning.
Finn bumps my hip with his. “Hey. Don’t go to your thinky place. Stay in the saucy present.”
“Yeah,” Liam agrees, sprinkling cheese like a benevolent deity. “Behold: carbs.”
I behold. We heap bowls, we clink forks like glasses, we eat standing at the counter because chairs are for people with self-control. Sauce splashes. Basil sticks to Finn’s cheek. Liam tells a story about a gull doing a felony. I laugh so hard I have to set my bowl down.
For a little while, it’s just this—steam curling from pasta, friends who missed me loud and unashamed, and the soft hum in my chest that says: I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Dinner vanishes fast; the kitchen smells like garlic and triumph. I rinse bowls, duck into the shower, and let the hot water steam away boat wind and travel grit. When I come back out in soft shorts and one of my oversized tees, Finn and Liam have turned the living room into a blanket fort with exactly zero architectural integrity and a thousand throw pillows.
“Your throne, milady,” Liam says, sweeping an arm. Finn adds, “We curated a cinema experience: explosions, unlikely friendships, and at least one inspirational dog.”
I climb into the nest between them, hair damp, toes tucked under a blanket that looks like it was knitted by a benevolent cloud. The movie starts loud and ridiculous; they provide commentary like it’s a sport—Finn gasps theatrically every time a car flips, Liam keeps whispering, “That’s not how physics works,” like a prayer.
They’re so happy. It pours off them in waves—easy, uncomplicated joy that warms my skin. And the guilt nudges, because I want to tell them. I don’t like secrets, and this one is ours, not just mine; they’re my friends, my family here. But Reid and Jake are their bosses. That line matters. I can’t make that decision for them, not when the twins have to balance us with the ship we’re all sailing.
So I press it down, not because I want to hide—God, I don’t—but because I want to do it right. Together. Soon, I hope. Maybe even tomorrow. The thought glows in my chest like a small, steady lantern.
Onscreen, someone says something profoundly dumb; Finn wheezes; Liam throws popcorn at the TV and then at Finn for good measure. I snort-laugh and let my head tip to Liam’s shoulder; Finn slings an arm over the back of the couch behind me like I’m a very cherished houseplant. It’s familiar and safe and so, so good.
For now, I let myself have this: dumb movie, louder friends, a blanket fort that could not survive a stiff breeze. I curl deeper into the nest and watch explosions bloom into flower-petal fire, and for a little while my brain stops picking knots. The boys argue about which character they’d be in the apocalypse (Finn: comic relief; Liam: the surprisingly competent one). I smile into the blanket and let the night hold me the way home does—messy, noisy, warm.