Page 10 of Ripple Effect

“I don’t like this, Daisy. I don’t like this at all,” he finally says.

“What, then? What do you want?” I challenge, my voice breaking. “Do you want us to break up?”

“No, that’s not what I want,” he says quickly, almost defensively. “But I think we need to talk about this when we’re not ...when the tension isn’t this high. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? That gives us the night to cool down and think about what we truly want.”

Before I can reply, the call ends, leaving me with the echo of his words. I stand there, phone clutched in my hand, as the world spins around me.

I don’t feel well at all.

In fact, I’m growing more and more nauseous with every second I stand here, alone beneath this starlit sky. There’s something heavy settling in the pit of my stomach—a growing realization that our next conversation could change everything.

5

ELIO

“I’m just feelinga bit ragged and run-down, that’s all,” I try to explain to Kaia, my voice rough from sleeplessness, cell phone plastered to one ear. “It’s just the stress getting to me.”

Through the line, my oldest friend sighs, a mixture of concern and frustration. “El, this has been going on for weeks now. Actually, it’s been since last school year. You’re always tired, always wound up. That’s not just stress we’re talking about here.”

I scrub a hand over my face, staring at the silent parking lot outside my window. I know she’s worried. Hell, I’m worried myself. But I’m not ready to face what that might mean.

Not yet, anyway.

“You should talk to someone again, a professional,” she says, her voice marked by a touch of hesitation, likely anticipating my resistance. “I’ve started seeing this new therapist over at Dayton. Maybe there’s someone you can see back home. They have free counseling at the health center, don’t they?”

“I don’t need a therapist, Kai,” I retort, the taste of frustration sour on my tongue.

The idea of discussing my demons with a stranger is far from appealing. The few times I had to attend therapy sessions during rehab—back when I was freshly eighteen—they left me feeling exposed, like a raw wound poked and prodded at.

Not exactly my idea of healing.

“What about your brother?” she suggests after a beat, her voice gentle. “He used to see someone there at Coastal, didn’t he? Maybe he could give you some recommendations.”

My mind flits back to Luca, always the beacon of strength and stability. I’d forgotten he’d weathered his own storm and that he’d sought professional help to guide him through it. In a way, we share a lot of similarities, but our differences have always caused a divide.

My brother’s journey isn’t mine; I know that much.

He worked with a counselor here nearly six years ago, righted his ship, and then married the love of his life. He’s doing better now, has been for years. The man’s a pillar in the NFL, a diligent athlete, the hardworking and dependable type. The perfect father, husband, brother, and son.

But that’s not me, never will be.

I’m stuck in the shadows, lost in the crowd of perfection. As the middle sibling in a family full of achievers, it’s always been easy to feel like the misfit. I’ve watched my older siblings forge paths that were lit with success, and even my two teenage sisters are carving their own way now.

The twins, Mia and Vivia, just started their first semester of college, both out of state on merit scholarships.

And then there’s Georgie, our youngest, the sweetest kid you’ll ever meet. In a family like mine, it’s hard not to feel like the one who’s got it all wrong.

I was lucky enough to meet Kaia when I did. Her older sister used to date my brother, and she’s always felt like an outsider in her own family. We share a similar mindset, and our friendship has helped to keep me sane, to keep me stable, over the past ten years.

“Maybe. I’ll think about it, okay?” I say, more to placate her than anything else.

Before Kaia can respond, there’s a muffled sound from her end, a distinctly male voice that’s filled with laughter.

“That Beck?” I ask, a reluctant smile curling my lips. There’s no denying that Holden Becker, despite his obnoxious humor and persistent showboating, has been a good influence on my best friend.

“Yep,” she says, her voice noticeably brighter. “He was just leaving, though.”

Another chuckle slips through the line, low and sultry. “Yeah, leaving your bed to go make us some breakfast.”

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