24

24


EVADNE

I remember how the rain clung to me all the way home, heavy and merciless. The streetlights blurred into golden streaks through the water in my eyes, and the sound of my own shoes slapping against puddles was all I could hear above the storm. My throat ached from holding back sobs, and the harder I tried to swallow them, the harder they fought to come out.

I didn’t even care how I looked—hair plastered to my face, my hoodie sticking to my arms, my skirt weighed down with water. Normally, I would’ve been mortified to step into the house like that. That night, I didn’t even think twice. I pushed the front door open, dripping on the hardwood floor, and the sob finally ripped free.

My father was in his chair, book in hand, his glasses slipping down his nose. He looked up the second the sound broke out of me. He didn’t ask anything at first, or even shout about the mess I was dragging in like my mother would, he didn’t scold me for being reckless in the storm. He just set his book aside, stood, and crossed the room in three steps.

“Evy,” he called, hos voice soothing and it only made me cry harder. “Come here.”

And I did. I didn’t think or hesitate. I went straight into his arms like I was still ten years old instead of old enough to know better, and I buried my face against his chest. The smell of his cologne and tobacco clung to his shirt, soothing in ways I can't explain, and the sobs came harder. My fingers twisted into the fabric, and I let out the ugly, broken cry that shook my whole body.

He didn’t press me with questions. That was the thing about my father. He knew me. He knew I didn’t cry over little things, that I was stubborn and proud and always wanted to prove I could handle whatever came at me. If I was breaking down like this, then it had cut deeper than anything else ever had.

His hand moved slowly over the back of my head, smoothing down my rain-soaked hair. “Let it out, little flame,” he murmured. His voice was calm, the way it always was when storms, real or otherwise, raged outside. “Just let it out.”

And I did.

Minutes passed—I don’t know how many—with me trembling in his arms, my tears soaking his shirt, his heartbeat steady against my cheek. He didn’t ask if it was Simon. He didn’t have to. He’d watched Simon look at me for years with that unshakable devotion boys my age weren’t supposed to have. My father wasn’t blind. He’d once told me he’d never seen a boy wear his heart so openly on his face as Simon did whenever I walked into a room. He knew this pain wasn’t because Simon hurt me.

No, this wound had a different shape, and he must have felt it in the way I clung to him, like the one person I thought I could trust had suddenly vanished.

He didn’t push or prod. He just held me tighter, his chin resting lightly on the crown of my head. The storm outside beat against the windows, wind rattling the panes, but here in his arms I was anchored.

Eventually, my sobs quieted into hiccups, my breath coming uneven but slower. My fingers loosened their grip on his shirt, though I still leaned against him, exhausted from crying. He didn’t move until I did, like he was willing to stand there all night if that’s what it took.

Finally, he tipped my chin up with his hand, his eyes soft but searching. “You don’t have to tell me, Evy,” he said gently. “Not if you don’t want to. But whatever it is—it isn’t bigger than you. You hear me?”

I nodded weakly, afraid if I open my mouth to answer I would cry again.

He brushed a strand of wet hair from my face, his thumb warm against my cold cheek. “And whatever broke you tonight… it doesn’t get to decide who you are. Don't let them get to you my little angel.”

The words burrowed into me, deep enough that even now, years later, trapped in Moretti’s hell, I could still feel the echo of them.

That night, I didn’t try to explain. I didn’t tell him about Georgia betrayal, or about how it felt like I’d lost something irreplaceable. I just stayed pressed against him until the storm outside faded into a low patter and the storm inside me eased into something bearable.

And even until his death, he still wondered what had happened that night and my Georgia no longer visits.

\---

When I woke, my pillow was damp. For a few seconds I thought the rain had followed me here, that I was still outside under that storm, my heart pounding as I walked away from the only real friend I’d ever had. But the ceiling above me was the dollhouse ceiling, and the sounds were muffled voices and distant footsteps, not thunder.

I pressed the heel of my hand against my eyes, willing the memory away, but it clung stubbornly, as vivid and painful as the night it happened. It felt like yesterday, it felt like I could just close my eyes and I'd be back there again, hoping she tells me it's all a lie. But it doesn't happen.

Even here, trapped in Moretti’s gilded cage, betrayal still found a way to hurt me.

And maybe that was the cruelest part of all.

“Evy—” Her voice cracked behind me.

But I was already moving down the steps, the water splashing under my shoes, the rain mingling with the tears I refused to let her see.

Was she sorry for what she did? For ruining a friendship so long and perfect?