My mother cried.
Vivian collapsed against a bench.
Caleb walked out into the cold sunlight and stood alone on the steps, blinking like someone who had been underground too long.
I went to him.
For a moment, we just stood there with cameras flashing from across the street.
“You okay?” I asked.
He gave a small laugh.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
He looked at me.
The wind moved between us.
“I don’t know what happens now,” he said.
That was the first honest thing anyone had said all day.
I slipped my hand into his.
His scarred palm against my scarred fingers.
No music.
No ballroom.
No one watching who mattered.
“Now,” I said, “we learn how to live after the truth.”
We did not fall in love immediately.
That would make a prettier story, but pretty stories lie.
Healing was slower.
Messier.
Some days I could look at Caleb and feel only gratitude. Some days I saw his father’s car in the alley of my memory and had to leave the room. Some days he could touch my hand without flinching. Some days he woke from nightmares and called me crying because in the dream he was still nine, still dragging me through smoke, still not fast enough.
