"Chevelle, sweetie!" Mrs. Mitchell jumped up from her seat and spread her arms as she grinned widely at Chevelle. "Merry Christmas! I've missed you, pumpkin."

As Mrs. Mitchell bounced over to Chevelle, Chevelle found herself experiencing a vivid déjà vu. She found herself transported back into a different version of her body—a younger version that lived in a simpler time. A time before Jared; before anybody had dated anybody's sister. She found herself thinking about the first Christmas she could remember with her family, back in Haiti. How their house had been filled with laughter. How her father had carried her up on his shoulders so she could string the Christmas ornaments along the ceiling. Back then, Farah was still little, still learning how to talk. She used to just run around the house laughing—a tiny, energetic ball of joy. And Josephe, always having been a momma's boy, used to spend Christmas Eve in the kitchen with Manman, helping her cook, but always seeming to do more eating than cooking.

Chevelle then found herself thinking about today. About how Farah still took up as much space as she always had. How her laughter still filled a room—how she never shied away from being her fullest self. Chevelle looked to the kitchen and saw Josephe and Manman setting the food into their serving dishes and thought about how little had changed for them. How they were still as close as they'd been her whole life. Chevelle wondered when it was that she had become a stranger in her own home. How she could have drifted so far away from everyone that, now, as she reentered the house, it felt like Shereen Mitchell was the one doing the welcoming and Chevelle was the outsider.

Chevelle forced a smile onto her lips as Mrs. Mitchell came in for a hug. "I missed you too, Shereen," she said, unsure if it was a lie or not. "Merry Christmas."

"How have you been, sweetheart? I'm loving the hair, by the way!" Mrs. Mitchell ran a hand over Chevelle's head, petting her like she was some kind of dog. And before it could even register to Chevelle, Shereen had already turned to her husband. "Mike, have you seen Chevelle's hair?"

Mr. Mitchell nodded. "It looks great," he said to Chevelle, a smile on his thin lips. "It's good to see you again. I trust you've been well?"

And Chevelle just nodded, because what the fuck else was she supposed to do? They knew she'd just gone through a terrible breakup—with their son, no less—so of course she wasn't okay. And if Mr. Mitchell was oblivious enough to ask, then there was no point in even trying to explain it to him.

"Chevelle, where are the shallots?" Farah asked, approaching Chevelle and Shereen with crossed arms and narrowed, scrutinizing eyes. "I thought I asked you to buy some."

Chevelle rolled her eyes, biting back the urge to snap at her sister. "They didn't have any," she said.

Farah frowned, and then she made a show of looking from Chevelle's face down to her very empty hands. "What about the wine you went to buy?" she asked. "They didn't have any of that at the 'store' either?"

Chevelle had to clench her jaw to keep from saying something foul on this cold Christmas afternoon. It was clear to her that Farah was just trying to pick a fight, even though she couldn't figure out exactly why. She hadn't done anything to Farah today except for closing a door while she was talking, but even that didn't make all this necessary. It felt like Farah was trying to embarrass Chevelle in front of everyone—particularly their new guests—and Chevelle was not about to let her.

It was part of being a youngest child; Farah was used to always getting her way, ever since they were little. And whenever she didn't, she would act out. As she got older, Farah became more creative with the ways she would act out—more elusive—but it was still the same idea. She was trying to get Chevelle in trouble, and Chevelle recognized the game immediately.

She looked Farah square in the eyes and said, "No, they didn't." And in Chevelle's eyes was a glint—a warning. Daring Farah to keep pushing the matter—to keep pressing Chevelle until she decided to stop caring about the guests in their house and say what was really on her mind. And although she didn't speak it, it was clear that Farah understood the warning. She may have been dramatic, but Farah knew that when it came to being crazy—to not caring about the consequences of one's actions—Chevelle had everyone in their family beat, and it wasn't even close.

Farah grumbled something under her breath, but she minded her business, knowing at the very least when she was up against a battle she had no chance of winning.

By then, the tension in the house was thick and palpable, and before someone had a chance to say the wrong thing and ruin the whole afternoon, Nadègine came rushing into the dining room with the food.

"Dinner is ready!" she sang, setting the dish with the rice down in the middle of the table. "Farah, help Josephe bring the rest of the food out," she said. "And Chevelle, go get the candles from the closet."

Once everyone had been separated and sent out on their tasks, the tension diffused a little. Chevelle could see everyone visibly relax as she turned and went to the closet in the living room. And she was thankful for the out too. For a moment to breathe before she would be forced to sit across the table from a group of people that, right now, she kind of hated.

Chevelle set up the candles around the dining area, and by the time they were all lit, the table was fully set. Chevelle saw people starting to find their seats, and so before she ended up being left to sit next to Farah or Jared, she sneaked up beside Josephe and pushed him to the side so that he was next to Mr. Mitchell, and she, in the corner, next to Josephe and across from her mother.

The actual dinner went fairly okay. Or maybe it didn't, who even knows? Chevelle certainly didn't, since she wasn't actually present for most of it. Instead, as everyone laughed and talked over the meal, Chevelle was in her head, somewhere far away, thinking about how good her life had been a mere year ago and trying to figure out where and how everything had gone so terribly wrong. Although, if she was being honest, she already knew where things had gone wrong, so I guess the real question was, how was she supposed to fix any of it? Did she even want to?

As Shereen and Mike told the Etiennes about their year—about how Mike's business was booming, about their family trip to Bali that August—Chevelle found herself liking them less and less. She couldn't believe that these were the same people that, a mere few months ago, she had thought she loved. They were impossible to be around. Shereen's laugh was so loud and nasally; she sounded like SpongeBob, except worse, because Chevelle couldn't use a remote to turn her off.

And Mike... Ugh, Mike was the fucking worst. He always had that smug, pompous look in his eyes, no matter what he was talking about. As though he was doing Chevelle's family a favor by even being here.

Chevelle didn't remember finding them this annoying in the past, and it kind of startled her. She had to actively try to zone out to keep the frustration from eating away at her. And finally, the Mitchells hammered the last nail into the coffin when they asked Chevelle how school was going.

She had graduated over half a year ago, and for some reason, she thought they would at least remember that. The biggest achievement she'd made in her life to date.

Before Chevelle could respond though, Jared spoke.

"Dad, Chevelle already got her master's," he muttered, sounding more irritated than Chevelle would have expected him to be. "She graduated in May."

Chevelle's eyes flickered over to Jared, and she saw him looking down at his plate with a frown as he popped another plantain into his mouth. When he felt Chevelle's eyes on him, he looked over and met her gaze, and in his eyes was something gentle. Something Chevelle hadn't seen in many months. And it made her want to scream.

"Oh, did she?" Mr. Mitchell shrugged to himself. "Congratulations, sweetie," he said, turning to Chevelle, less enthusiasm in his voice than when he had asked for a second helping of the tassot. "I'm sure you'll do great things."

Steeling her jaw, Chevelle lowered her eyes to her plate, wishing that she had the power to make all of this—including herself—just disappear. She realized in that moment, that she had only loved Mr. & Mrs. Mitchell so much because she had loved Jared. Because they reminded her of him, and she'd wanted them to accept her into their family. But now...now that she and Jared weren't together, the fact that Mr. & Mrs. Mitchell reminded her so much of him only irked her.

"May I be excused?"

Chevelle kept her voice low so that only her mother would hear her, but since the conversation at the table had come to a lull, everybody heard.

"Chevelle, you haven't even finished your food," her mother whispered. "Sit down and eat."

"I'm not hungry, Manman." Chevelle looked her mother in the eye, knowing that this would probably bite her in the ass later, but not really caring in the moment. Nadègine could see in her daughter's eyes that whether or not she allowed it, Chevelle would leave the table. She knew Chevelle cared much less than her about keeping up appearances—about putting their best face forward.

Had they been alone, without the Mitchells—or maybe just without the parents—Nadègine would have dug her heels in and fought Chevelle on this, but with everyone around, silently watching them, she couldn't let her daughter disobey her authority like this and so she nodded, reluctantly motioning with her hands for Chevelle to get out of her sight.

Chevelle was quick to comply, standing up hurriedly and causing her seat to screech loudly across the floor as she did so. "Thanks for dinner," she said, to nobody in particular. "Get home safe," she said to Shereen and Mike, not looking either of them in the eyes as she said goodbye and left the room silently, heading up the stairs and to her room. And it wasn't until she closed the door behind her that she heard the voices at the table downstairs pick up again.

Chevelle was holed up in her room for hours before she finally heard the front door open and went to her window to see Jared and Farah walking the Mitchells out to their car. She watched from her bedroom as they saw Jared's parents off, and kept watching after the Bentley had disappeared down the road, as Farah snaked her arms around Jared's neck and leaned in for a kiss. She watched as they whispered things to each other, a smile on both of their faces, and then Jared kissed Farah on the forehead and pulled her in for a tight hug.

First of all, ew.

Chevelle felt sick to her stomach as she trudged back over to her bed and fell face-first into the mattress. She couldn't tell if she was crying or not, and she didn't bother lifting her head up to find out. Instead, she stayed like that, sunken into her mattress like an unmovable entity until the sun had finished setting and the moon had risen to take its place.

She had lied earlier about no longer being hungry, but she stayed locked in her bedroom, despite her stomach's growling, until the entire house had become silent.

Once she was sure everyone had retired to their bedrooms for the night, Chevelle finally emerged from hers and went downstairs to fix herself up a plate of leftovers. She'd been sitting in the dark for so long that she didn't need to wait for her eyes to adjust. She didn't bother turning on any lights as she maneuvered through the kitchen, but as soon as she smelled the food warming up in the microwave, she felt nauseous again. She couldn't even open the microwave when the food was done warming for fear that the smell would make her throw up what little she did have in her stomach.

And so instead of eating, Chevelle filled a glass with water and sat down at the kitchen table, taking slow sips in the darkness. Becoming one with the darkness.

It was times like these that Chevelle wished she smoked cigarettes, or just had something that could immediately take the edge off, because it was torturous living like this. She needed to release some of her frustration in a way that wasn't self-destructive, but all she wanted to do was cut something. Stab something—or rather, someone. And sometimes, Chevelle worried about her violent tendencies. That maybe it meant something was wrong with her. But she couldn't have been the only one who had these kinds of thoughts, right?

Chevelle stayed like that for a while, sipping her water in the darkness. She wasn't sure for how long; time hadn't really felt real to her for a long time. But finally, she was snapped out of the liminal space in her head and back into the darkness of the house around her when she heard the stairs creaking.

"You always did love hiding in the dark."

She looked up and saw Jared approaching her in the darkness, and immediately, Chevelle stood up to leave. She wasn't about to do this with him—not after the hellish day he'd put her through. He could have easily told his parents not to come. It would've been the right thing to do, and they would have listened to him, but he didn't.

"Chevelle, wait," Jared said as she pushed past him, but Chevelle didn't stop. In fact, she sped up, and so he tried again. "Please," he said. "Don't be like that. We haven't talked the whole time you've been here."

Finally, Chevelle stopped, but she didn't turn around to look at him. "What is it, Jared?" she asked. "What could you possibly have to say to me?"

Jared faltered. "I...come on, Chevelle," he said, his voice pleading. "I just want to talk. We haven't had a real conversation in almost eight months. I've mis—"

"Don't go there," Chevelle warned, a threat clear in her voice. Daring Jared to say he had missed her after everything that had happened between them.

She'd been doing a great job of holding it together, but if he pushed her, she had no problem reverting back to the old Chevelle. The version of herself that had gotten them into this fucking mess in the first place.

Jared got the picture, and he swallowed his words. He knew Chevelle well enough to know that the uptick he'd heard in her voice was not a good sign.

Chevelle turned around to face him, and she hated that the first thing she noticed about Jared was how remarkably shirtless he was. How his ivory skin almost glowed in the darkness of the house around them. How much longer his hair had gotten—how when he tied it back the way he'd done, it made his jawline so sharp and cutting.

She looked to Jared's shoulder and noticed the healing scars from their last fight. She would've thought that by now, they'd have disappeared, but they hadn't. The scars remained, clear as day. The mangled skin a reminder of how, despite their situation, their bodies still held pieces of each other. Some of them locked away, buried deep inside, and others on display in plain sight.

Jared followed Chevelle's gaze to his shoulder and he sighed softly. Chevelle could see in his eyes that he was thinking about the same thing she was. Back to that fight and how, despite how crazy things may have gotten, they remained so connected to each other even now.

"I'm sorry about my parents," Jared finally said, clearing his throat. "I know they can be a lot."

Chevelle didn't say anything. Instead, she just stared at Jared, hoping that her gaze was pointed enough—emasculating enough—to make him feel as uncomfortable as she had felt the entire day. But alas, she knew that wasn't possible, because the discomfort she felt at any given moment was due to a number of things. Things she could never strip herself of. Things she carried with her simply by virtue of existing in the body she existed in. Things Jared could never understand, no matter what life threw at him.

"You been down here a while?" Jared asked.

Chevelle shrugged, and she could see that Jared was disappointed with her answers—or rather, her lack of answers. He was frustrated that she wasn't letting him in the way he wanted, but what did he expect? Did he think that if he caught her during the late hours of the night, when she was tired enough to be a little delirious, that things would just go back to the way they'd been?

"I really like the hair," he said. "Your big beanhead's even cuter with this buzzcut." He flashed Chevelle a smile, and again, she wanted to scream. She wanted to rip what little hair she had right out of her head.

In that moment, Chevelle was overcome with a lot of emotions, but above all, she felt a deep-seated anger. A rage. She hated Jared. She hated him for doing this. For looking at her the way he was looking at her right now, making her remember the good parts of their relationship when her sister was currently up in her bedroom, sleeping on a pillow that smelled like him.

The conversation had barely begun, but already, Chevelle had grown sick of it. She looked Jared in the eye and just asked him the question that she'd wanted to ask him for the longest.

"Why the fuck are you still dating my little sister, Jared?"

Jared's breath hitched. He was clearly caught off guard. He hadn't expected to be confronted so plainly like this. He was so used to the shifting glances, the silent deference of her parents to his presence. The way they treated him like he could do no wrong. He'd gotten too comfortable traipsing around her house like he was some king. Always creating work for people wherever he went, never doing any.

He must've thought this conversation would go differently. That he would tell Chevelle he missed her and she would get down on her knees for him like she used to. That she would let him use both her and her sister, but never ask him about it. Never force him to explain himself.

Jared looked away, unable to hold Chevelle's piercing gaze, and so she turned and left the room. She couldn't stay there just watching him, waiting for him to respond to a question that she already knew he didn't have an answer for. She was already on the verge of tears and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

It was hard, confronting him like this when merely laying eyes on him made her feel so many things. And so instead of waiting for an answer that she knew would be empty and lacking, Chevelle left him there, standing in a darkness that she knew all too well.