Page 13 of Wreckage

It wasn’t because I disliked the West Coast. I loved my dad. I loved the ocean, the weather, and its familiarity. But home wasn’t home anymore—it hadn’t been for years.

Ever sincetheyarrived.

I clenched my jaw, forcing my focus back on my audiobook. It wasn’t worth thinking about.

But then Elena had to go and be late this morning.

And, of course, it pissed me off.

Not because I cared. It was just irritating. I hated that she thought she could flounce whenever she wanted. To hell with her excuse about her driver not turning up. She probably just wanted to fuck with us. It’s what I’d do if I were her.

I didn’t like it when people were late. It threw off plans, schedules, and expectations—things I valued. I was a structured person—alwayshad been.

That was all it was.

Except, I knew that was bullshit.

Because it was always worse when it was her.

I didn’t want to address why it got under my skin. I didn’t want to think about the fact that every time I looked at a woman, somehow, I always ended up comparing her to Elena.

That was a dangerous fucking thought.

So I ignored it, just like I ignored everything else about her. I brushed her off like she didn’t matter. And she didn’t. She never had. She was a thorn in our sides for nearly ten years.

I settled deeper into my seat, one earbud in as my audiobook played, my eyes drifting across the cabin. Without meaning to, I looked at her.

Elena was seated diagonally from me, just far enough to ignore but close enough to notice.

And I did notice.

She was wearing that pretty off-the-shoulder cream sweater I loved. Her leggings. She’d put on lip gloss. Pink. I’d noticed how shiny and plump her lips were when she arrived today.

I wonder if anyone has ever kissed her…

The thought snuck into my mind and made me clench my teeth.

Her fingers tapped against the book cover in her lap—some romance novel, no doubt. She always had one. Probably some brooding asshole in it that she’d swoon over because he had "depth” or some shit.

Her braid was long and neat, draped over one shoulder, nearly reaching her waist. I stared at the way it curled at the ends, and a few wisps of hair had slipped loose from behind her ear.

She was moving slightly, her body rocking in the slightest, most unconscious way, following whatever beat was filtering through her earbuds. She’d always done that with music. I assumed it was because of ballet. I didn’t know shit about any of that, though, just that she loved it. She dreamed of being a ballerina. She still practiced, tried out for shows, and even got a few roles. Dad had flown in to watch her last one. He asked us to go, but I made up some bullshit excuse about needing to study, and Troy said he had plans with Amanda.

I lied, though.

I stood in the back, mesmerized by her as she glided across the stage like the sweetest butterfly. She was so confident, so sure of herself—a stark contrast to the girl I knew offstage.

Her movements to the music beating in her earbuds were subtle, barely noticeable, but I saw them. I saw her. I always saw her.

And I was fucking mesmerized.

I hated that about her.

I hated that even when I wasn’t trying, I was still aware of her. That she just drew me in when all I wanted to do was escape her.

I exhaled sharply and turned away, pulling out my earbud. I needed a distraction. At least she wasn’t freaking out about the flight. She was typically fine once we were in the air, though, as long as her shade was drawn.

Troy was on his phone, staring at his screen with a look of frustration that told me exactly who he was texting.

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