David watched my face as I lowered the phone. “Let me guess,” he said quietly. “They finally noticed.”
I booked a flight the following week. Against my better judgment. Against the instincts I’d learned the hard way. Some part of me still wanted to believe this meeting was about reconciliation, about regret, about finally being seen.
We flew into Boston on a gray April afternoon. I rented a forgettable sedan, nothing like the Porsche. The drive to my parents’ house felt unreal, every familiar street pulling old memories to the surface. Their house looked exactly the same. Perfect. Untouched by time. Tyler’s BMW sat in the driveway like it belonged there.
David squeezed my hand as we walked to the door. “We can leave anytime,” he said.
I nodded, my heart pounding.
Before I could knock, the door opened.
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