Page 235 of Irreversible

52

Five months later

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I stare ahead, watching moms with strollers glide over freshly poured concrete as they soak up the Santa Clarita sun. The rain from last night has vanished, but its trace remains in the glistening droplets clinging to baby tree branches under a clear blue sky.

I steal a glance at Allison’s bungalow—a fresh stucco build with brown shutters, tucked in a textbook soccer-mom subdivision. It was meant to be her dream come true: a fresh start. A good man by her side and the promise of a family just within reach.

But there’s already a “For Rent” sign perched in the front lawn, and the image is a pair of metal pliers clamped around my heart.

Swallowing hard, I cut the engine and slide out of the car. I’m not sure what I’m expecting today. Since everything imploded on that San Francisco runway five months ago, I’ve only seen Allison once, and it was far from a heartfelt reunion. Jasper’s funeral was a somber blur. She was so wrecked withgrief that I stayed on the sidelines, managing only a fleeting moment with my former best friend—a bone-crushing hug that still lingers in my chest whenever I close my eyes and hold my breath.

I slipped out early, planning to reach out when the dust had settled, but I was met with radio silence.

Her mother eventually got in touch, telling me Allison had taken a much-needed getaway to South Africa to stay with her aunt while she recovered and processed the aftermath of our mutual hell.

Understandable. I know what it’s like to want to hide.

I also know running is only a bandage for a wound that keeps bleeding underneath. Sooner or later, it seeps through, forcing you to face it head-on.

I walk up the path to her olive-green door, each step heavier than the last. The freshly planted flowers along the walkway are vibrant, almost defiant against the weight of everything unsaid between us. I haven’t practiced this conversation, and I’m regretting that now. Words used to flow so effortlessly between us, but now they feel stuck, tangled somewhere between my ribs and throat. Lifting my hand to knock, I hesitate for half a second before letting my knuckles connect with the wood.

The door creaks open, and there she is.

Allison stands in the doorway, her auburn hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Shadows lurk under her eyes, and she forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach. She looks smaller somehow, as if the world has been pressing on her from every angle.

Her gaze meets mine. “You came,” she says, the words soft, almost disbelieving.

I nod, trying to steady my voice. “Of course I did.”

The tension between us hums like an invisible wire, pulled taut and waiting to snap. But for the first time since the funeral, we’re standing face to face.

It’s a start.

Before the silence thickens to smothering, I take a step forward because I’m not here to let it grow. “Can I come in?”

She blinks once, twice. Then she pulls the door wider and moves out of the threshold. “Yes…yes, come in. Please.”

Cardboard boxes litter the living room, stacked on countertops and dining chairs. My footsteps echo through the near-empty space while my eyes land on a pearly white couch and an adjacent end table. A framed photograph stares back at me: Jasper and Allison, smiling on a sun-drenched pier, their faces pressed close together. Her hair catches the light in a way that makes it glow, while his hand rests protectively on her shoulder.

They look happy. Untouched. Like the world hadn’t yet shown its teeth.

The sight freezes me in place.

I glance between the scattered boxes, each labeled in neat black marker—Kitchen,Books,Bedroom—all part of a life she’s trying to pack away, piece by piece.

“Sorry for the mess,” Allison says, stepping to the side. She wipes her hands on her jeans, her smile strained, eyes darting to the photograph on the accent table. “The renters are moving in on May first, and there’s still a lot to do. I guess we could have met at a café or something, but?—”

“I’m so sorry.” My eyes water, emotion creeping up my windpipe. “It’s a beautiful house.”

“Yeah,” she breathes out, faltering briefly. These words are hard, so hard to say. “Someone will be happy here.”

I swipe away a loose tear. “Where are your dogs?”

“They’re staying with my mom while I pack. It’s been easier getting things sorted.”

“Are you moving in with her?”

A slight nod. “For a little while, anyway. I need to get back on my feet, and the mortgage here was too much to cover on my bank salary. I’m thinking about relocating somewhere cheaper. I can’t fathom downgrading to another apartment. The dogs need a yard to run around in, and I just…” Her eyes glaze over, pain skating across her face. “I’ll be okay. Recovery takes time, you know?”

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