And suddenly, for the first time in years, I knew I wanted to go back.
Not to beg. Not to cry. Not to reopen old wounds for the pleasure of bleeding.
I wanted them to see me standing.
I chose a Saturday in early October to return.
The air was crisp, bright, and dry, with red leaves skittering along the curb as I pulled up in front of the house where I had once stood barefoot and bleeding. The place looked smaller than I remembered. Age had thinned it. The white paint was chipped, the front steps slightly crooked, the maple tree in the yard taller and wilder than before.
Ruby sat in the passenger seat, sixteen now, nearly the age I had been when everything shattered. She wore a navy sweater and jeans, one leg bouncing with nervous energy.
“You sure?” she asked.
I rested my hands on the wheel. “Yes.”
“Do you want me to stay in the car?”
“No. I want them to see exactly who they almost erased.”
Her eyes softened. “Okay.”
We walked up the same path I had stumbled down years earlier. My pulse thudded in my ears, but my steps were steady. Caleb opened the door before I knocked twice, as if he had been waiting behind it.
For a moment he just stared.
He was older, broader, hair thinning at the temples. But I still recognized the brother who had stood halfway up from his chair and failed to stop what happened. His face went pale.
“Elena,” he breathed.
“Hi, Caleb.”
His eyes dropped to Ruby, then snapped back to me, already wet. “You came.”
“I said I would.”
He stepped aside without another word.
