CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN | SALLY HARDESTY

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          "The food is sublime, Xavier," my mom says, even though everyone else's plates are much fuller than hers. She's been doing this for as long as I can remember, blaming it on a small stomach and frame, but I can't help but take it personally today, out of all days. The fact that she's refusing to fill her plate, especially with food I cooked and prepared, is insulting.

          She doesn't even acknowledge I had any part or saying in the menu, which stings harder than anything else. I don't think she has any way of knowing I was involved, but I find it hard to believe she can't notice there's something different in his signature way of cooking and styling food when he plates it. The difference is my own personal touch, evidenced by the not so apparent constant pursuit of perfection—it's just food, at the end of the day, and it's supposed to bring us closer.

          Taking a deep breath so I won't start crying in front of my parents, I attempt to push these feelings and my tears aside so I can focus on other conversations at the dining table. Clara has really hit it off with Roberto, seeming to be genuinely interested in hearing about his photography career, while Betty and my dad discuss life in Chicago, where her parents are apparently headed off to next. The conversations go on without my input and my frustration brews inside me, revolving in my stomach, and my eyes sting as I stare down at my plate and think about all the hard work and effort I put into these dishes only for it to be ignored.

          "Thanks, but Wendy helped," Xavier points out, without glancing my way, even when I dare to spare a look towards his side of the table. "I don't think I could have handled all of this myself. It's my first time cooking a Christmas buffet under such short notice."

           She wipes her mouth with her fancy, gold-embroidered napkin. "I didn't know Wendy was interested in cooking."

          "There are many things you don't know about me, I think," I retort, through gritted teeth, pushing a piece of salmon around my plate with my fork, and the atmosphere around the table instantly shifts. Ignoring her words and backhanded compliments is a lot easier said than done, and I'm reaching my limit. Withdrawing from these conversations and pretending I don't exist isn't the healthiest decision, but the holidays always make me emotional.

          Betty clears her throat, gently bopping her knee against mine under the table, and I think I might die. "Well, I personally think it's never too late to get into something new. Besides, it's totally normal to not know everything about other people, no matter how close you are; there's so much I don't know about Odie, for example."

          She's the only person sitting at the table I find the courage to look at right now, and I do so with tear-filled eyes, as pathetic as it is. Even when I mouth a silent 'thank you', in hopes it will make both of us feel better, I feel myself inching closer and closer to the moment when I'll collapse and break down in tears at the dining table. It's not fair to anyone present, and it's not like my mom is doing anything inherently wrong to deserve this type of petty behavior from me, but I don't know how to explain these complicated feelings to anyone.

          They might not even be that complicated, and all of this is just a product of my inability to properly process my feelings and emotions in a coherent way. I understand not everything has to be treated rationally, as ironic as that sounds, but it sure as hell is a talent I wish I had; it would surely make everything so much easier right now.

          "You're right," Mom says, though I suspect it's mostly thanks to a desire to keep things civil at the dining table on Christmas Eve than to a genuine wish to stop hurting my feelings.

          Betty leans back on her chair, convinced she's finally managed to calm everyone's nerves instead of being the one to argue with someone—as evidenced by all the times I witnessed her and Callum be at each other's throats over the smallest things—and I finally dare to take a bite out of my salmon gratin. It melts in my mouth with ease, still lukewarm instead of boiling hot like how I like it, but the creamy cheese is still scalding, scorching its way down my throat.

          I inhale, exhale, repeat. The red haze around me slowly fades away, but I can't stop my hands from shaking no matter how hard I clench my fingers around the silver cutlery.

          I'll have to talk to Xavier eventually. There's no other way out of this situation, regardless of how awkward it is, and we've postponed this conversation way too many times at this point. I know the timing will never be right and, if we both could have it our way, we'd just simply brush it under the rug and go another twenty years without ever touching the subject like it's an open wound. Now that I know the truth—at least the condensed version of it, one side of the story that's not mine—I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt again, but there's something that hasn't yet left my mind.

          He could've been there if he wanted to. Mom wouldn't have been able to stop him on her own, and I truly want to believe Dad has been oblivious and innocent in the middle of this mess, as I don't know how I'm supposed to handle another parental betrayal.

          After Xavier left, after Mom left, it's just been me and him, living our lives and pretending everything is fine, but we've made it work. I'd hate for all of that to be ruined over an omission of the truth—which, let's be fair, isn't that much better than a plain lie—but it feels like everything these days has been blessed (or cursed) with an additional ability to affect me much harder than it needs to. I think I've always been sensitive, but Alaska has made it shoot up to oblivion.

          A harsh gust of wind whips through the dining room, swirling across every single person at the table, but I'm the only one who shudders. There are no open windows and flames blaze in the fireplace, courtesy of the cruel Juneau winter, and I'm wearing thick, heavy clothes to shield myself.

          Needless to say, it's not working.

          I turn to Xavier, stopping him from refilling his champagne flute with more Don Pérignon. "Can I talk to you?"

          "About?"

          "I . . ." I glance at our parents, sitting across from us. Mom sits between Dad and Roberto, though neither of them have complained about the seating arrangements. "I was talking to Mom the other day, about something important, and I really need to run it through you. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't urgent."

          Xavier sighs, bringing the now refilled flute to his lips. "Is it a life or death matter? Or can we at least try to get through Christmas dinner first?"

          There's no ill intent behind his words. I know that. He knows that, even if I'm the only person at this table besides my dad who actually stops to think before they speak. Even then, in spite of all that knowledge and trust I pour all over him, I cower away for the millionth time this evening because this isn't a dynamic I'm comfortable with.

          Sure, it worked at first, when we were both freshly open wounds and didn't want to risk upsetting the other by bringing it up. I like to think I'm doing much better now, even though it's only been six months since Camp Comet and I'm nowhere near okay or fine or happy, but I'm also not the shell of a person that showed up at his doorstep that afternoon. I don't know how to function in a relationship where people keep things from each other all the time, even stuff that's fundamental to keep our ties to one another as healthy as they can be, and he refuses to let me in. I can't tell how he's feeling because he simply won't let me push past the thick fog.

          It's not a life or death matter.

          Though sometimes I feel about to die whenever I'm punched in the chest by a violent panic attack or whenever the looming feeling of impending disaster crashes into me like a freight train running off its tracks, I'm not dying. Objectively, we all march towards death, the natural cycle of life, yadda yadda, but I'm no longer a dead girl walking. Not anymore. It's about time Xavier stops treating me that way, like I'm bound to explode, and it's not fair that what I have to say only matters if it's of utmost urgency.

          I sigh, setting down my cutlery. "I suppose not."

          Xavier nods, the lighting in the dining room bringing out the green in his eyes. "Later, then."

          It's always later when it comes to us, but I fear one day it will be far too late.

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          I don't manage to get a hold of Xavier throughout the remainder of the evening. He's an expert at avoiding conversations he doesn't want to have and always has an excuse to dodge every single one of my attempts, so I decide to give him one final chance before I ambush him later—preferably this month so we can start the new year on a fresh page.

          The family member I do manage to speak to is my dad, after spending what feels like an entire eternity away from him. He finds me sitting in the living room, nursing a large cup of apple cider by the fireplace, with Sidney curled by my feet, and I scoot to the side to give him extra space on the couch.

          "Hey, kiddo," he greets, fixing a pillow behind his back. All I can muster in response is a small smile that I don't feel is too convincing. "You doing okay over here?"

          "Doing terrific, honestly. Best days of my life." He playfully elbows me. The familiar scent of his cologne feels like a punch to the gut, a reminder of everything I left behind in Chicago under the guise of doing what's best for me and for my mental health.

          Maybe walking away from memories that would serve as daily reminders of the worst day of my life wasn't the wrong move, but it also kicked me away from the good memories that have kept me sane. Like walking away from everything that reminds me of my friends and Zach, that reminds me of simpler times wasn't hard enough, I also had to walk out on the one person who loves me unconditionally, who has dropped everything to run to me. What good did it ever bring me to leave my dad? When has he ever done anything wrong?

          "You seem tired."

          I sip my apple cider, the hot taste of cinnamon warming me up in a way the Christmas dinner didn't quite manage to, though I'm not necessarily blaming it on the quality of the meal. "Finals season wrecked me, so I'm just glad it's over. I haven't had a moment to rest in months." I set my cup aside, carefully placing a coaster beneath it so Xavier won't come running back inside to yell at me over his precious furniture. It's horribly dramatic, but sometimes it feels like even the furniture matters more than me in this house. "You look good, Dad."

          He does look good, probably even better than he did over the summer, and, instead of allowing guilt to plague my thoughts, I can't help but feel thankful that this has worked out for someone—even if that someone isn't me.

          For the first time in months—maybe years, really—he looks well rested, clean shaven, and I know he's finally getting back on track with work now that he no longer has to relocate resources into biased investigations. There's a different glint in his eye, a newfound ability to sit up straight and to stay focused in conversations without needing to be on high alert at all times.

          A twinge of jealousy slices through my chest as I find myself stupidly wishing that could be me, too, and it's draining, not to mention frustrating, to think about how much more work there still is ahead of me until I can even dream of reaching that state of mind.

          "I had to call in a few favors at work, but they let me go back to my regular hours," he explains. "It's been helpful getting back on track."

          "Yeah?" He enthusiastically nods, scratching behind Sidney's ears when she supports her head on his thigh. "Good. That's good. I'm really happy to hear that."

          "Thanks, kid." He briefly pauses. "See, um, Xavier has been telling me all about how you've been doing, but I suspect there's a lot of filling in the blanks involved." He shoots me a concerned glance, while I'm both wary that they are suddenly back on speaking terms and annoyed that Xavier has been putting poor Dad through the trouble of being the messenger because we simply refuse to talk to each other. "He thinks you keep a lot of things to yourself. I told him it's normal, after . . . well, after everything, it's normal that you're more guarded, and you spent years without speaking. You're not the only one who needs to adapt to a new relationship."

          I exhale through my mouth, rubbing my arms when the chills return. "Yeah. It's not been easy. Every minute I'm in this house, every time I try to talk to him, I constantly feel like I'm invading his personal space and that he's annoyed that I'm here."

          "Wendy, he's not annoyed. Shar—your mother eventually told me he was eager to make an effort to make this feel at least a little bit like home to you, even if it's so far away. Even if the circumstances aren't ideal. If anything, he's frustrated because he doesn't know what to do. Sometimes people feel like they don't know each other anymore."

          "Was that what happened between you and Mom? When you split up?"

         He lowers his head, avoiding my eyes now, and I quickly realize how inconvenient of a question this is. "No. Not exactly. It's different when you're married." I swallow the lump in my throat, a harsh reminder I won't ever get to be married to the person I assumed I would. Even after Callum said I'd get to fall in love again, when I'm ready for that type of commitment, I can't help but suspect it won't ever be the same thing. "Your mother and I simply . . . grew apart. We didn't change much, but you grow used to how things are and you turn a blind eye to things you would normally be upset about. People fall out of love sometimes. It happens." His lips stretch into a small smile. "No matter what happens, we'll always have love for each other, just not as a married couple. That will also never impact the love we have for you and Xavier. Besides . . ." He looks up when the front door opens, with Xavier holding it open for Clara. "Xavier understands what I'm talking about. Romantic relationships will always be different from family ties. Even with you and Zach, even if nothing had happened, there's no way of telling what could have happened down the road."

          The simple mention of Zach's name cuts me like the sharpest of swords and I have to wrap an arm around myself so I won't completely collapse. Every time I think of him, I remember everything that was torn away from me that night—not just him, but my entire future. His entire future, too. No one will ever know what he could have become.

          Jake made sure of it.

          "I miss him so much, Dad," I whisper. "Not a day goes by without me missing him. I don't know if I'll ever stop missing him."

          "You won't." Dad's hand gently squeezes my shoulder, and it's the final trigger to make me start bawling in the middle of the living room—on Christmas Eve, out of all days. "Some days will be harder than others, but it will become manageable in time. You learn to live around it."

          I later find out that no, Dad didn't know why Xavier hadn't been present for the funerals, but he also never asked. He just figured it was one of those things Xavier would rather keep to himself and, naturally, Mom doesn't run around telling that story to people or posting about it on her social media accounts. In spite of all her flaws and our general distaste regarding how much exposure we get on her accounts, she's been relatively private and quiet about me.

          Dad asks—begs—me to not hold this information against either of them, to not hold a grudge for too long. Feeling hurt is okay, he says, and his validation is something I didn't even know I needed tonight, but it's grudges and resentment like this that end up breaking up entire families, and I've already lost too much too fast.

          Too soon.

          "While we're on the subject of tough conversations, you might want to give Emma's parents a call," he tells me, quieter this time. Nausea tightens around my throat. "They've been trying to reach out to you for months."

          "I don't think I have it in me to talk to them," I retort. "You should've seen the way they were staring at me at the funeral. It was like they wished it was me lying in that coffin instead of Emma."

          I don't tell him I also wished it was me. There are certain things you definitely don't need to tell your parents, not just because you trust them to know you well enough to come to that conclusion themselves, but also because you don't want to set off any sirens.

          "They don't wish that. If anything, they're glad someone made it out."

          "Still." I swallow. "It's not the same thing."

          "No, it's not. But you were also like a daughter to them, even if not by blood." His hand closes around my wrist, warmer than the fireplace, and, for a second, I allow myself to believe we'll be okay. "Give them a chance, will you? They really need someone to talk to right now, and I'm not sure it's me they need."

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