Page 97 of Shadowed Whispers

“Best accident ever,” I say, reaching for a second sandwich. This simple moment of sharing food, laughter, and light conversation feels like a warm hug, the kind that stitches up the frayed edges of a rough day. For a brief second, I allow myself to feel like I’m a part of something, less like an orphan and more like someone with a place to belong, even if it’s just for the evening.

Andy nods in agreement, the soft light from the overhead lamp casting a warm glow on her face. “We’re all about happy accidents here. Remember that time we tried to make homemade pizza and ended up with what we affectionately called the cheese crater?”

Abbi bursts out laughing, the sound loud and infectious, filling the room with a sense of homeliness and mirth. “Oh, don’t remind me. We couldn’t decide if it was a culinary disaster or masterpiece.”

“I think Frankie needs to hear this story,” Tori interjects with a smirk, clearly enjoying the lighter mood as much as I am. Her eyes sparkle with mischief and fondness for these shared family tales.

“Well,” Andy starts, leaning forward, her face alight with the glee of reminiscence, “we had this brilliant idea to load the pizza with every type of cheese in the fridge. Mozzarella, cheddar, some blue cheese…”

“Don’t forget the ricotta,” Abbi adds, chuckling. “That was the real mistake. It just went everywhere.”

“It was like a cheese volcano,” Andy continues, her hands animated as she describes the scene. “It just bubbled up and then—boom—collapsed in the middle. We ended up with a pizza dough bowl filled with molten cheese.”

I laugh, the image vivid and hilarious in my mind. The laughter feels light, a pleasant echo in the cozy room. “That sounds… pretty delicious, actually, despite the visual.”

“It was,” Abbi says with a nod, her eyes twinkling. “We scooped it up with bread sticks. Turned our failure into a sort of cheesy bread fondue.”

“It’s all about perspective,” Andy says, winking at me. Her words seem to carry a deeper meaning, one that resonates within the walls of this home. “Turn your disasters into opportunities.”

“That should be your motto,” I suggest, taking another bite of the grilled cheese. The sandwich is comfort food, the kind that not only fills your stomach but somehow reaches into your soul, soothing and warm.

Tori, who’s been eating silently, finally speaks up again, her voice soft yet clear in the quiet room. “Speaking of opportunities, remember the garden party last summer? When Abbi decided to turn the lawn into a dance floor?”

“Oh, heavens,” Abbi says, rolling her eyes with dramatic flair. “That was an adventure. We had string lights and everything, but then it rained.”

“But you danced in the rain anyway,” Tori points out, her smile wide as she recalls the memory.

Andy laughs, the sound rich and full. “We did. Turned the garden into a mud pit, but it was fun, wasn’t it? Dancing there, with the rain pouring down—it felt like we were characters in a movie.”

I smile, feeling a warmth that has little to do with the grilled cheese. It’s comforting, hearing about these snippets of life, simple joys and mishaps turned into cherished memories. It makes me feel closer to them, like I’m part of their circle, a fleeting feeling of belonging that fills a space I didn’t realize was empty.

Abbi reaches over to refill my glass, her movements graceful and motherly. “You’re always welcome here, Frankie. Always part of our little misadventures.”

Gratitude swells in my chest, and I nod, feeling too full of emotions to speak. “Thanks,” I say, my heart fuller than my stomach, touched by the inclusion.

As the laughter dies down and the last remnants of grilled cheese are polished off, Abbi stretches, reaching her arms toward the ceiling. “Well, girls, I think it’s about time we turned in. Big day tomorrow, and you both need your beauty sleep.”

Andy nods in agreement, her gaze softening as she looks at Tori and me. “That’s right. You girls head on up. There’s fresh sheets on your bed, Tori.”

Tori yawns, the action contagious, and I find myself covering my mouth as a yawn escapes too. “Thanks, Mom, Aunt Andy,” Tori says as we start gathering the plates and glasses, stacking them in the kitchen.

“Leave those, leave those,” Andy insists, shooing us away from the sink with a gentle hand. “Go on up. We’ll handle this mess.”

With a grateful smile, Tori leads me upstairs to her room, a cozy space with walls covered in posters of rock bands and the corners stuffed with piles of books and clothes. It feels lived in, warm, and unmistakably Tori.

Tori tosses me a soft, oversized T-shirt and a pair of shorts. “Here, you can wear these. Bathroom’s down the hall if you need to brush your teeth or whatever.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, clutching the clothes to my chest, suddenly overwhelmed by the normalcy of this. It’s just like in the movies or the books I read. The simplicity of the gesture, the casual intimacy of sharing clothes and space, adds another layer to this unfamiliar feeling of home.

“Alright, you can sleep on the bed with me or on the floor,” Tori says, pulling her blankets down. Her bed, larger than the twin at the dorms, offers more than enough space for both of us. Her invitation somehow bridges the gap between guest and family, and in that moment, I feel a little less like an orphan and more like a friend, a sister.

Licking my lips, I stand there, frozen. The last memory of sharing a bed brings back a surge of chilling fear. The last time I was this close, it was with the woman who kidnapped me. Back then, fear gripped me tightly, but now, in the safety of Tori’s room, the fear is absent, replaced by a hesitant curiosity. Slowly, I sit down on the bed, my movements cautious. When my stomach doesn’t churn with anxiety, I exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and glance at Tori, who is watching me with a curious yet gentle gaze.

“The bed is fine,” I say, clearing my throat as I slide under the covers. Tori mirrors my actions on the other side of the bed. She reaches over to switch off the lamp, and the room is instantly bathed in the soft, silver glow of moonlight spilling through the window.

We lie in silence for a moment, the serene quiet broken only by the distant hoot of an owl and the subtle rustle of leaves outside. It feels surreal, this gentle transition from my usual solitude to a moment filled with warm, comforting friendship.

“I’ve never done this before,” I confess softly into the darkness, my voice barely a whisper.

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