Blame it on me

26

“That husband of yours was ready to call in the army this morning when he woke up and found you missing,” Lucy teases with a lightness that doesn’t quite land.

“Mmhmm,” Jada murmurs in agreement, flicking a twig into the water. “He woke all of us. You scared the hell out of him. You know how he fusses over you, Z. You’ve gotta be a little more considerate or you’ll drive that man into an early grave.” Her words are chiding, but soft, Jada’s always had a soft spot for Austin, always defended him a little more fiercely than she probably should’ve.

Zia lets the river ripple through her fingers, feels the cold rush against her skin like a grounding force. Her smile flickers, barely there, brittle as sun-bleached driftwood. “I... I suggested a separation.”

The laughter vanishes like a snuffed-out flame.

Jada stiffens. Blinks. “What did he say?”

“He said he didn’t want one,” Zia replies, voice quiet, barely above the hum of the water. “Said he wanted to fight for us.”

The silence that follows is heavier than before. It sits between them like a storm cloud just waiting to crack open.

“Had it really gotten to that point? Separation?” Jada’s voice is gentle, but there’s something raw beneath it.

Zia meets her eyes and for a moment, all her defenses crumble. “Separation was the soft word,” she says, and her voice shakes. “Divorce... that’s where we were. That’s what I meant. That’s how bad it got.” Her voice hitches, throat tight, the word tasting like blood and bitterness. “It still makes me sick to say it.”

Lucy exhales slowly, a hand reaching toward Zia but stopping short. “Fuck, Zia,” she whispers, like she’s grieving with her.

“But... you guys have worked it out now. You’ve smoothed it all out, right?” Jada asks, clinging to hope like it’s the last life raft. Her tone is too bright, too desperate. Her sisters have husbands and kids and houses and love that feels solid. They know what it costs to start over, how it fractures everything. Jada isn’t just hoping for Zia, she’s hoping for herself, for the belief that love can weather the worst and come out whole.

Zia knows better.

She knows a single good conversation doesn’t stitch back the years of frayed silence. She knows pain doesn’t just dissolve when someone says “I want to try.” She knows the wounds are deeper than they let on.

She doesn’t respond immediately. Just watches the water swirl around her ankles, the current pulling gently, like it wants to take her with it. “It’s still fresh,” she murmurs. “It’s not off the table yet. But... we’re gonna try. And that counts for something, right?”

She looks up, meets her sister’s eyes, hoping they’ll offer clarity, or strength, or even just permission to fall apart for a while. They don’t have the answers. But they’re here, and that’s something. That’s everything, some days.

She thinks about Austin. About how he’d have them too, if he didn’t push people away when he got scared. That’s what she’s terrified of, if they fall apart, if they truly shatter, he’ll disappear into himself and shut everyone out. And then the ache will spread to all of them, this whole web of family that’s tried so hard to make space for the both of them.

Her words come again, hushed and aching. “We’re in this strange place,” she says. “Like... we still want each other. Maybe we even need each other. But he’s not the man I married. And I’m not the woman he fell in love with either. We’ve both changed. Too much, maybe.” She swallows hard, eyes flicking toward the kids laughing in the distance. The sound cuts into her, too bright, too beautiful for the way her heart is unraveling. “I don’t think we know how to be together anymore,” she admits, “even if there’s still love.”