In the kitchen, I unpack the groceries with mechanical precision—coffee beans into the canister, bread on the counter, wine tucked away for later—my mind replaying the scene from the bedroom like a cruel loop. Cyrus’s voice, those words meant for me, spilled out for her.
“Fuck, you feel so good… I can’t stop this.” My hands tremble slightly as I fold the empty bags, jealousy coiling in my chest like a vine, tight and thorny.
How could he? After last night, after the way we fit, like we’d been waiting lifetimes. Star-crossed, that’s what we are—fated to burn close but never touch without pain. I swallow it down, force a neutral expression, but it simmers, hot and unspoken.
The front door swings open, and in walk Cleo’s parents—Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, all polished smiles and designer weekend bags slung over their shoulders. Mrs. Harrington, with her perfectly coiffed silver hair and that air of quiet elegance, spots me first. “Rachel, darling! Look at you, already playing hostess.” She sets her bag down and pulls me into a quick, perfumed hug, her voice warm like always.
Mr. Harrington follows, nodding with his usual reserved charm. “Good to see you, Rachel. The drive was smooth—traffic wasn’t half as bad as we thought.”
I manage a smile, hugging back. “Glad you made it. Coffee’s fresh if you want some.” Outside, through the window, I see our parents—Mom and Dad—fumbling with their luggage from the trunk of their old SUV. Dad’s grumbling about something, his voice carrying faintly. “I told you to pack lighter, Helen.
This suitcase weighs a ton—who needs three pairs of shoes for a weekend?” Mom swats his arm playfully, laughing. “Oh, hush, Tom. You packed that ridiculous fishing rod that’s been rusting since ’98. If I trip over it one more time…” It’s their way, that bickering—light, affectionate, a love language honed over decades. It makes my chest ache a little more, seeing what Cyrus and I could have if the stars weren’t so cruel.
They bustle in moments later, Dad hauling the heavy bag, Mom with a tote of what looks like homemade pies. “Rachel, my girl!” Mom says, her eyes lighting up as she sets everything down and envelops me in a bear hug, still mid-sentence with Dad.
“Your father thinks he’s Mr. Efficient, but he forgot the charger again—third time this year!” Dad rolls his eyes, grinning as he kisses my cheek. “Don’t listen to her, kiddo. She’s just mad I beat her at sevens on the drive.” He winks, and I laugh softly, hugging them both, the familiarity a brief balm against the storm inside me.
“Where are Cyrus and Cleo?” Mrs. Harrington asks, pouring herself coffee as everyone settles around the table. Mr. Harrington nods, glancing around. “We were hoping to catch up with the happy couple right away.”
“They’re upstairs,” I start, turning back to the sink to rinse the breakfast plates, my voice steady but my grip on the sponge too tight. The jealousy flares hotter—images of them tangled, his hands on her like they were on me. “Probably just—”
Footsteps on the stairs cut me off. Cleo appears first, her hair tousled in that effortlessly perfect way, cheeks flushed, followed by Cyrus, his shirt rumpled, eyes avoiding mine for a split second before he flashes a casual smile. “Hey, everyone! You made it.” Cleo’s voice is bright, and she goes straight to her parents, hugging them tightly. “Mom, Dad—perfect timing. We were just… freshening up.”
Cyrus greets our parents with back-slaps and hugs, his presence filling the room like it always does, making my heart stutter despite the anger bubbling under my skin.
How can he act so normal? After whispering those same words to her, echoing our night. Jealousy spikes, sharp as a knife, twisting in my gut—I want to scream, to claim him right here, but I don’t. I scrub a plate harder, the water splashing a bit too forcefully, but no one notices. Or if they do, they brush it off; Mom just pats my arm as she passes.
“You okay, sweetie? You seem a little tense.”
“Fine,” I say, forcing a smile, drying my hands. “Just… the drive back wore me out.” It’s subtle, that edge in my voice, but it slips through—my eyes flick to Cleo, who’s laughing with her mom, and the vine tightens, jealousy intensifying into something almost physical, a burn in my throat. She’s everything I’m not—poised, accepted, the one who gets him in the light. While I get the shadows, the secrets. Doomed to this ache.
Cyrus clears his throat, eyeing the luggage piled by the door. “Let me grab these—put them in the guest rooms.” Dad jumps in, clapping him on the back. “I’ll help, son. Can’t let you do all the heavy lifting.” Mr. Harrington nods, standing. “Count me in. Lead the way.”
As the men head off, bags in tow, the kitchen quiets to us women. Cleo slides into a chair at the table, her mom beside her, and Mom joins them, pulling out one of her pies. “So, Cleo, tell us—how’s the wedding planning going? Any new details on the flowers?” Mrs. Harrington asks, her eyes sparkling.
Cleo beams, leaning forward. “Oh, it’s coming together beautifully. We decided on white roses for the centerpieces—soft white, to match my dress. And the venue confirmed the string quartet.” Mom nods enthusiastically. “That sounds lovely, dear. Rachel, you should hear this—Cleos’s got such an eye for it all.”
I turn from the sink, wiping down the counter, my movements deliberate to hide the way my hands shake. Jealousy roars now, a storm in my chest—white roses? Quartets? That’s our future she’s stealing, the one Cyrus and I were meant for, if fate weren’t so twisted. I nod, murmuring, “Sounds perfect,” but my voice catches slightly, a subtle crack. Cleo glances at me, tilting her head. “Are you alright, Rachel? You look a bit flushed.”
“Just the heat from the stove,” I lie, turning back to the dishes, rinsing a glass under the faucet. They brush it off, diving back into talk of seating charts and vows, their laughter filling the space.
But inside, the intensity builds—anger at him for betraying our secret bond, jealousy at her for having what I crave. Star-crossed lovers, forever circling, forever apart. I grip the edge of the sink, breathing through it, holding the storm in.
For now.
The kitchen hums with chatter, the women’s voices weaving through wedding talk—white rose centerpieces, quartets, all the things that make my stomach churn with jealousy. I’m at the sink, scrubbing the last of the breakfast dishes, the sponge digging into my palm as I try to keep my face neutral.
Cleo’s laugh, bright and careless, grates against me, each note a reminder of what she has and I don’t. My love for Cyrus is a quiet, burning thing. heavy, locked in the secret of that night in the reeds and last night’s stolen moments. But here, in the daylight, she’s the one who gets to plan a life with him. I rinse a glass, my hands steady but my heart racing, the jealousy a low simmer I can’t shake.
The front door swings open, and Mia, Cleo’s sister, breezes in, her arms full of bags, sunglasses perched on her head. She doesn’t knock, doesn’t hesitate, just strides to the kitchen table and drops into a chair, her presence cutting through the conversation like it’s nothing. No one blinks; it’s just Mia, always a whirlwind.
“Hey, everyone,” she says, tossing her purse down, her voice bright but edged with something worn. “God, the drive was a nightmare—traffic, kids whining in the backseat. I need coffee.”
Mom hands her a mug, smiling. “You look like you need more than coffee, sweetheart. Rough day?” Cleo leans over, squeezing Mia’s arm, and Mrs. Harrington pats her hand, all warmth and ease. I keep wiping the counter, my movements slow, deliberate, as Mia launches in without missing a beat.
“It’s just… ugh, you know, it’s always the same with David,” she says, stirring sugar into her coffee, her voice carrying that mix of resignation and love. “He’s working all the time—big project at the firm, late nights, weekends.
I’m alone with the kids constantly, running them to soccer, dealing with tantrums, wiping noses. It’s exhausting.” She sighs, but her lips curve slightly. “It’s okay, though. He’s taking care of us, you know? Pays the bills, keeps the house running. I just… miss him sometimes.”
Cleo nods, her eyes soft. “That sounds so hard, Mia. You’re so strong, holding it all together.” Mrs. Harrington chimes in, “Oh, honey, it gets better. You’ll find a rhythm.” Mom adds, “Tom and I had our share of that early on—him working late at the garage, me juggling you kids. But it’s love, you know? You figure it out.”
I finish the dishes, drying my hands, my chest tight as they console Mia. Her problems sound so normal, so fixable, while mine are a tangled mess of forbidden love and unspoken promises. I join them as we move to the living room, settling onto the worn couches, the lake house’s familiar creaks a backdrop to their voices.
Mia sinks into an armchair, still talking, her hands gesturing wildly. “I mean, I love the kids, but sometimes I’m like, ‘David, can you just be home for dinner once?’”
Mrs. Harrington laughs softly, leaning back. “Oh, I remember those days with Cleo and Mia’s dad. He’d be at the office till midnight, and I’d be home, wondering if I married a ghost. But we made it work—little notes, stolen weekends. It’s the small things that keep you going.”
Mom nods, her eyes crinkling with memory. “Tom used to leave his tools everywhere—drove me up the wall. But then he’d come home with flowers he picked from someone’s yard, and I’d forgive him. That’s marriage, Mia. Messy, but worth it.”
Cleo, curled up on the couch, chimes in, her voice soft but confident, like she’s already living the future. “Cyrus and I have our moments too. Like, he gets so caught up in his cases sometimes, I barely see him. But it’s different for us now—we talk it out, plan ahead. I can see us years from now, with kids, you know?
Maybe two, a boy and a girl, running around, Cyrus teaching them to swim. I’ll be the one packing lunches, and he’ll be sneaking them cookies before dinner.” She laughs, her eyes dreamy, and the room lights up with her vision.
My blood boils beneath my skin, the jealousy surging like a tide. Kids? With him? The life she’s painting—it’s mine, the one I’ve dreamed of since we were teens, since that night in the reeds when we crossed the line and never spoke of it.
Her words twist the knife deeper, her future with Cyrus a theft of my own. I force a smile, my lips tight, and nod along, but my hands clench in my lap, hidden by the couch. No one notices the flush creeping up my neck, the way my breath catches. “That sounds… sweet,” I manage, my voice a little too quiet, but they’re too caught up in Cleo’s story to care.
The men burst into the living room, Cyrus leading the pack, his laugh loud and warm, Dad and Mr. Harrington trailing with their own chuckles. “Alright, enough of this serious stuff,” Cyrus says, clapping his hands. Dad grins, tossing an arm around Mr. Harrington. “they’re just warming up for the real fun—us guys talking about the important things, like who’s got the best fishing spot.”
Mr. Harrington snorts. “Tom, you haven’t caught a fish since the Nixon administration.” The room erupts in laughter, the women joining in, Mia’s earlier woes forgotten as Cyrus launches into a story about the time he and Dad tried to “fix” the boat and ended up sinking it in the lake.
The mood shifts, light and playful, and soon Cyrus is on the floor, play-wrestling with Dad, who’s pretending to pin him down. “Gotcha, kid!” Dad roars, and Mr. Harrington eggs them on, laughing.
I can’t help it—I dive in, tackling Cyrus from the side, my hands grabbing his shoulders as we roll, laughing, the tension in my chest easing for a moment.
“You’re not getting away that easy,” I tease, pinning him for a second before he flips me, his grin wide, eyes sparkling with that old mischief from our childhood. It’s us again, just us, like when we were kids, and for a heartbeat, I forget the jealousy, forget Cleo.
But then she’s there, jumping in with a squeal, her laughter bright and infectious. “Oh, you’re not ganging up on my man!” she says, playfully shoving me aside to tackle Cyrus.
The room cheers, delighted, and suddenly I’m on the outside, watching as she straddles him, her hands on his chest, his laugh now for her. I’m fading, becoming invisible, my role as his sister, his best woman, swallowing the truth of what we are.
The jealousy roars back, hotter, fiercer, a storm I can’t contain. Her hands on him, his smile for her—it’s too much, a mirror of what I saw upstairs, his words to her echoing mine.
I stand abruptly, my breath short, and slip out of the room, heading for the porch. No one notices, their laughter echoing behind me, Cleo’s voice rising above it all. I step outside, the cool air hitting my face, and grip the railing, my knuckles white.
The lake stretches out, calm and indifferent, holding our secrets—mine and Cyrus’s, from that night years ago to last night’s betrayal.
Forever caught in this push and pull, loving him in silence while she gets the light. I swallow the anger, the hurt, and let it burn inside me, unseen.
