Blame it on me

26

But she doesn’t say what’s really clenching her throat.

That she’s still haunted by the thought of her the other woman, or women, or whatever they were. The fear that all of Austin’s softness now is just penance, a desperate cover-up for guilt he can’t scrub clean. The idea gnaws at her, sharp and relentless. She wants to believe him. She wants to believe in them. But trust, once fractured, doesn’t grow back smooth.

She’s scared. Terrified. That they’re only building a house on the same cracked foundation. That it will crumble again. That next time, it’ll break them both completely.

Jada leans over, bumping her shoulder gently. “You don’t have to figure it all out today,” she says, voice full of sisterly love, stubborn and kind.

Lucy slides an arm around her, damp from the river and warm with quiet solidarity. “Just don’t shut us out, okay?”

Zia nods, lets herself lean into the contact. But inside, everything is still shaking. Every step forward feels like it’s being taken on a tightrope. And she has no idea if there’s a net waiting at the bottom.

By the time they return, the sky is starting to blush with sunset, soft streaks of gold and coral bleeding across the horizon like watercolors on paper. The scent of charred wood and roasting meat drifts through the trees, smoke curling lazily from the fire pit. Laughter rises and falls in the clearing, warm and familiar, the sound of people who have found comfort in each other.

Zia’s steps slow as they near their tent, her heart tightening without reason she can name. She pushes the flap aside and peers in.

Austin is still hunched over his laptop, the familiar glow of the screen casting a cold light across his face, painting harsh shadows into the lines of his jaw and under his eyes. His expression is tight with focus, the rest of the world forgotten in the hum of keys and deadlines.

“It’s dinner time,” she says, gently. The words feel small. Like knocking on a door she isn’t sure she’s allowed to open.

“I’ll eat later, Zia, I mean, sweet thing,” he replies without looking at her, correcting himself too quickly. The term of endearment rings hollow in her ears. Sweet thing. Like it’s meant to soften the dismissal. Like he can say something tender and pretend it doesn't hurt that he’s choosing his screen over her again.

She turns to go, her fingers tightening at her sides, but something inside her digs in. A resistance. A part of her tired of being quiet, tired of being small to make room for him.

She turns back around. Her breath stutters, but she stands straighter. “N-No,” she says, the tremble in her voice betraying the storm in her chest. “It’s dinner time. Y-You promised.”

The words hang between them like a glass ornament, fragile and daring.

Austin’s gaze lifts from the screen, surprised. There’s a flicker in his eyes, confusion? disbelief?, but then, something softer. After a beat that stretches too long, he reaches forward and shuts the laptop with a click that echoes louder than it should.

“I did promise,” he says slowly, one brow lifting, his tone unreadable. But there’s no edge. No sigh. No irritation.

“Really?” she asks, stunned. Hope pushes up through the cracks in her voice. She hadn’t expected him to fold so easily. Hadn’t expected... this version of him.

“Really,” he confirms, walking toward her. And then his arms are around her, pulling her into him, steady and warm. He kisses the top of her head, the gesture tender enough to make her eyes sting.

“You were very firm there, sweet thing,” he says with a chuckle, trying to make light of it.

“I was like a school teacher, ‘do as I say!’” Zia teases, wagging her finger like she’s scolding an imaginary student, trying to laugh off the emotion coiled in her chest.