Page 143 of Rising Heat

Dad nods.

“Of course.”

Mom nods too, but her smile never quite reaches her eyes. They still look at me like they’re waiting for me to realize I’ve made a mistake.

We spend another ten minutes talking about absolutely nothing while my mother smiles too brightly the way she does when she’s pretending she hasn’t already analyzed every word I’ve said.

My jaw aches from clenching it by the time we hang up.

I leave the branding deck open on my laptop for a while, mostly because closing it would require admitting I haven’t actually done any work since my parents called. I reread the same headline four times before it finally occurs to me I couldn’t tell you what it says if somebody offered me a thousand dollars.

The next thing I know, the kitchen is spotless. The counters shine. The mail is stacked into a neater pile than it was before. Even the dish towel hanging off the oven handle has somehow ended up folded neatly over itself.

I lean my hands against the counter and let out a slow breath.

I wasn’t asking them to agree with me.

I wasn’t asking them to stop loving Brett or erase three years of birthdays and holidays and Sunday dinners. I just wanted them to trust that I knew my own relationship better than the version everyone else got to see.

They saw anniversaries and an engagement. They saw someone who offered to help with the dishes and fit so neatly into our family that nobody stopped to wonder what it looked like when it was just the two of us. Never saw how easy it became to laugh off the things that mattered to me because arguing always took more energy than letting them go.

I always thought leaving would be the hard part.

But the hard part is this. Trusting myself enough to stop explaining why I left. Trusting that I don’t need everyone else to understand my decision before I’m allowed to believe it was the right one.

My throat tightens as I blink back the tears.

Maybe that’s the part nobody tells you about finally choosing yourself. The people who love you don’t always recognize the version that comes after. They keep looking for the girl who would’ve stayed.

Three sharp knocks break the silence.

I already know who’s standing on the other side before I reach the door, which is concerning because my body apparently developed a sixth sense for the MacAllister brothers somewhere along the way.

I pull it open.

Mack’s standing there in a dark leather jacket, keys loose in one hand, broad shoulders filling most of the hallway behind him.

“You gonna let me in,” he asks, one brow lifting, “or am I gonna have to start using my key again?”

I open my mouth, fully prepared to remind him that he permanently lost key privileges after the Great Bathroom Ambush of March, but the words never make it out.

His eyes meet mine, the hint of amusement disappearing so quickly I barely see it.

“Rough day?”

I shake my head automatically, like that’ll somehow erase whatever he’s already read off my face.

He studies me for another beat.

“Get your coat.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

There’s something deeply unfair about how good he is at sounding calm and authoritative at the same time. I stare at him for another second, still halfway caught between embarrassment and confusion.

“I’m fine,” I protest.