The days leading up to move-in feel like they're dragging their feet. Every hour stretches, nothing moves fast enough. The Sacramento summer heat beats down relentlessly, triple digits every afternoon, but I barely notice anymore.
Mom keeps poking around, trying to figure out why I suddenly care about working out, or why I'm swapping TikTok for books. She finds me doing yoga in the living room at 6 AM. Catches me reading dense academic articles instead of scrolling Instagram. She keeps eying me, like she's waiting for me to spill some secret.
"You're acting different," she says one morning, watching as I dump spinach into the blender like I'm auditioning for a new life. The blender whirs loud enough to shake the counter.
"Is that a compliment, or...?" I ask, half-joking, half-wishing she'd just drop it.
She shrugs, sipping her coffee. "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. How grief can calcify into purpose if you let it.
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, loading the dishwasher without looking at me. 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. That some betrayals are permanent. But she's always been a world-class pro at pretending everything's fine. It's how she survived the divorce. How she survives everything.
So, I go.
Grandma's place smells like every Sunday from my childhood. Roast chicken, rosemary, the yeasty warmth of fresh rolls. The whole deal. Her house is stuck in the nineties, floral wallpaper and family photos in mismatched frames covering every surface. The table's set for all of us: Grandma, Mom, Dad, me, Madison, and a couple cousins whose names I always forget. Riley and someone else. They're younger, still in middle school, obsessed with their phones.
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 pants, silk top, gold hoops catching the light from the window. Her hair is perfect, beach waves that probably took an hour to create but look effortless.
She spots me and flashes a sugary, dangerous smile.
"Avery. Hey."
"Madison." I keep my face neutral, my voice even. Don't give her anything.
Mom gives me the look. The one that says "don't cause trouble." The one that puts all the responsibility on me to be the bigger person, even though I'm the one who got stabbed in the back.
I pick a seat across from Madison, mostly so I can stare at my phone and avoid her eyes. The couch cushion is worn, familiar. I've sat in this exact spot for every family gathering since I was six.
"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. Curious and cruel at the same time. "Saw your dinner post. Looked swanky."
I don't say a word. Just scroll through my phone like she's not there.
"Liam said he saw you there."
My jaw tightens on instinct. My finger pauses mid-scroll.
"He said you looked good. Did something to your hair?"
I finally look up. "Do you want something, Madison?"
She goes wide-eyed, all fake innocence. "Just making conversation."
"No, you're not."
Mom calls us to set the table, her voice bright and forced. Madison glides over, acting like nothing's wrong. Like she didn't destroy me. Like we're just normal sisters having a normal day.
While we're lining up the silverware, she leans in, whispering. Her perfume is overwhelming, something floral and expensive. "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. The sound rings out. "He was in bed with you, Madison. That isn't an accident."
She just shrugs, like this is all normal. Like infidelity is just a minor miscommunication. "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 of the knife.
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. If anything, it widens. "He wanted me. I didn't take anything."
The words sting. Cut deeper than they should because part of me wonders if she's right.
"He did," she says, propping herself against the table, examining her manicure. "He's happier now. We both are."
I want to throw the plate in my hands. Watch it shatter against the wall. Instead, I ice over. I smile, but it's pure frost.
"Good for you."
She blinks, thrown off for a second. She was expecting tears, anger, drama.
"I mean it," I say. "Enjoy it while it lasts."
Her expression flickers. Uncertainty creeping in. "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, but there's a defensive edge now.
"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? Just like that?"
"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 on her phone. Laughing too loud, performing for everyone. "He's so sweet," she gushes, "Took me to this amazing rooftop bar in Westwood. The view was wild."
I stab my chicken like it owes me money. The meat is dry, overcooked. Grandma never was the best cook.
"Avery, honey," Grandma asks, adjusting her reading glasses, "how's your summer been?"
"Busy."
"Still doing all that internet stuff?"
Madison snorts into her wine glass. "Internet stuff, that's adorable."
I ignore her. Swallow a bite of chicken that tastes like cardboard.
"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, red lipstick leaving a mark on the glass. "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. Riley and the other cousin look up from their phones. Dad clears his throat. Mom's fork pauses halfway to her mouth.
Mom clears her throat. "Dessert, anyone?"
Afterwards, I escape to the porch, gulping in the cool air that finally feels clean. The sun is setting, painting the Sacramento sky in shades of orange and pink. The temperature has finally dropped below ninety.
The door opens behind me. The screen door creaks, a familiar sound.
Dad sits down beside me on the porch swing, careful, gentle. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
He sighs. He's wearing his weekend clothes, jeans and a polo shirt. He looks tired. "Your sister's... difficult."
"That's one word for it."
We sit quiet for a bit, the swing creaking gently. Somewhere down the street, kids are playing, their laughter carrying on the evening air.
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. Reaches over and squeezes my shoulder.
Inside, Madison's laughter ricochets off the walls. High and performative.
"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. There's concern in his eyes. "You're not plotting something, are you?"
I meet his gaze. "Nope."
He doesn't look convinced, but he leaves it. Stands up, brushes off his jeans. "Come back inside when you're ready."
Back inside, Madison's already got her bag, a designer thing that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Ready to leave.
"Already?" Mom asks, disappointed.
"Yeah, Liam's picking me up. Party at someone's place in Davis."
Of course.
She glances at me, and there's challenge in her eyes. "You could come, if you want."
It's a challenge, not an invitation. She wants me to see them together. Wants to rub it in.
"I'm good."
"Suit yourself." She's texting before she even finishes the sentence, thumbs flying. "Oh, by the way, Liam asked about you."
My stomach does a flip. Traitor.
"Why?"
"Just wanted to know if you were okay. He feels bad."
"I bet."
She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a puzzle she can't quite solve. "You're really not mad?"
"Nope."
She studies me harder, trying to figure out what's changed. Looking for cracks in my armor. "You're different."
"So I've heard."
A car horn blares outside. Madison lights up, her whole face transforming. "That's him." She pauses in the doorway, gives me one last look. Triumphant. "See you around, Avery."
I watch her go. Watch her skip down the porch steps. Watch her get in his car, a black Jeep with the top down. Watch him kiss her like I don't exist, his hand in her hair.
And I feel nothing.
No burn, no ache, just this cold clarity that feels almost electric. Like I've been unplugged from something that was draining me.
Mom slides up next to me at the window, watching them drive away. "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. The house is quiet. Everyone's gone home. Mom's already asleep.
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 construction of online identity, the performance of authenticity. The whole deal.
I download a few, start reading. The language is dense, academic, nothing like the captions I write. But it's fascinating. He writes about how we construct versions of ourselves online, how those versions become more real than reality.
By midnight, I've got pages of notes. His writing's sharp, no wasted words, no filler. He'd probably hate the stuff I post, the filters, the carefully crafted captions, the performance of perfection.
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. Someone he can't dismiss as just another influencer kid.
My phone buzzes against my nightstand.
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. The kind of man who knows exactly what he's doing at all times.
"You took him from me, Madison," I whisper to the empty room, the words feeling like a 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.