Mr. Holland Said We Were Just Sleeping Together.

The sedan was empty.

I pulled the passenger door open and dropped into the seat, and the first thing I noticed was the windshield wipers. They were running — slow, rhythmic sweeps across dry glass, dragging rubber against nothing. My mother must have bumped the stalk when she got out.

I didn't turn them off.

The garage was dim and concrete-cold, the kind of underground space that swallows sound. I could hear my own breathing bounce off the dashboard, and I hated it. Too fast. Too shallow. The kind of breathing that belongs to someone falling apart.

I pressed my back into the leather seat and stared at the wipers moving left, right, left, right.

My fingers found the bracelet without looking. The thin gold chain was still warm from my skin. I worked the clasp open, slid it off my wrist, and closed it into my palm. The links bit into the soft center of my hand. I squeezed harder.

Oliver's grandmother had fastened this chain on me ten years ago. I was sixteen. She'd held my wrist between her papery fingers and said, "This belongs to the woman who'll take care of him."

I'd carried that sentence like a promise ever since.

The wipers dragged again. My throat locked. Something hot and ugly pushed up behind my eyes, and I let it come — just for a second, just here, where the concrete walls couldn't tell anyone.

A knock on the window.

I flinched. My mother's face appeared on the other side of the glass, a brown grocery bag balanced against her hip, her reading glasses pushed up into her silver-streaked hair. She was frowning — not at me, at the wipers.

Three seconds. That's what I gave myself.

One to press the heel of my hand across both eyes. Two to swallow everything back down. Three to find the version of my face that Eleanor Cooper expected to see.

I pushed the door open and stepped out. The grocery bag crinkled between us as I wrapped one arm around her shoulders and pulled her in.

"You're shaking," she said.

"It's cold down here."

She studied me for a beat too long, then shifted the bag to her other arm. "Help me with the trunk. I got those crackers your father likes."

We loaded the bag and got in. She turned the wipers off without comment, reversed out of the space, and merged into Sunday traffic. The city slid past in gray and glass.

"Rebecca called me again this morning," she said, eyes on the road. "She says Oliver's been preparing for weeks. Had the florist come three times. Changed the menu twice."

I watched a cyclist weave between lanes. "Sounds like him."

"She also said —" My mother paused. Her thumb tapped the steering wheel once. "She said if you were there, Abigail would feel more comfortable. Since she doesn't know the family yet. Rebecca thought a friendly face might ease the tension."

There it was. The shape of what I was being asked to do, laid out in someone else's polite words.

Be the buffer. Be the bridge. Stand in the room where the man you love introduces the woman he chose, and smile so she doesn't feel awkward.

"Mom." I kept my voice level. Flat as pavement. "I get it. I'll hold the room together."

She glanced at me. Something flickered behind her expression — guilt, maybe, or the shadow of a question she didn't want to ask.

"You don't have to go if —"

"I said I'll go."

Silence filled the car for six blocks. Then she turned onto our street, and the familiar row of brick townhouses appeared, and I felt the words rise before I'd planned them.

"What if we moved?"

Her foot eased off the gas. "What?"

"After Dad retires next month. We talked about Atharia once, remember? The coast, the slower pace. I could teach dance there. A small studio, nothing fancy. Just me and you and Dad."

She pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. The engine idled. She turned to look at me fully, and I could see her running the math — why now, why today, why the sudden urgency.

I didn't give her time to finish.

"Think about it," I said, already opening the door. "That's all I'm asking."

I took the stairs two at a time. Past the hallway photos — me at seven in a tutu, me at twelve with Oliver at some garden party, me at eighteen holding a diploma while he photobombed from behind. A timeline of a life built around someone who never planned to stay in it.

My bedroom door closed behind me with a soft click.

I crossed to the nightstand and pulled open the bottom drawer. Beneath a folded scarf and a paperback I'd never finished, my fingers found the velvet jewelry box. Small, square, navy blue. I'd bought it myself two years ago, when the bracelet started to feel like something that deserved a proper home.

I opened it. Set the gold chain inside, coiled once, and watched it catch the light from the window.

Next to the box, pressed flat under a hardcover book, was the rest of it. The evidence of six months I'd never shown him.

A stack of receipts — the restaurant where I'd ordered his favorite wine and sat across from him pretending I wasn't counting the minutes. A strip of photo-booth pictures from the night market in October, his arm slung around my neck, my face turned toward his like a flower leaning into sun. And the notebook. Small, leather-bound, every page filled with my handwriting. Not letters. Just fragments. Things I'd wanted to say and swallowed instead.

*You touched my hair today and I forgot how to breathe.*

*You fell asleep on my shoulder during the movie and I didn't move for two hours.*

*I think I've loved you since I was fifteen and I think you've known since I was sixteen and I think that's the cruelest part.*

I closed the notebook. Placed it back under the book. Shut the drawer.

When I straightened up, the mirror on the vanity caught me.

The red marks were still there. A trail of them, fading from deep rose to dull pink, scattered across my throat like a sentence someone started and never finished. I stared at them for three full seconds, then pulled open the closet and grabbed a cream-colored turtleneck. Wool. High collar. The kind of armor that looks like a fashion choice.

I tugged it over my head, and the marks disappeared.

My phone buzzed on the bed.

Oliver's name on the screen. One message.

*When you get to the house today, don't wear the bracelet.*

I read it twice. Then a third time.

He knew I'd come. He knew I'd say yes. And he wanted to make sure there was nothing on me that might confuse the picture — nothing that might make Abigail Floyd ask the wrong question.

I picked up the velvet box from the nightstand and unzipped my handbag. The box settled at the bottom, between my wallet and a pack of tissues.

The bracelet was in the bag now. Not on my wrist.

I slung the strap over my shoulder and walked downstairs, where my mother was already waiting by the door, car keys in hand, watching me with an expression I couldn't name.