Page 113 of Begin Again

She’s set up under the largest oak tree, a picture-perfect spread like a scene out of a Southern Living magazine. A checkered blanket, a pitcher of sweet tea beading with condensation, a neat little tray of cupcakes. And right in the center, like a sick joke, a cookie cake with bright, looping letters spelling outHappy Anniversary!

I can’t breathe for a second.

My stomach twists as I stare at those words, at the bright, happy colors smeared across the frosting, as if this is some innocent family gathering instead of what it really is—a twisted performance. A carefully staged manipulation.

Mo exhales sharply behind me, and I reach back to squeeze her knee. “We stick to the plan,” I say quietly, though the words taste like ash in my mouth.

She nods, gripping the edges of her shorts, her knuckles white. Mo lets go to fidget with her long braided hair as she mutters, “This woman’s got a lot of nerve, I’ll give her that.”

Nerve doesn’t even begin to cover it. This isn’t just bold. It’s cruel.

Aubrey looks up as we approach, her face lighting up with a bright smile that’s as practiced as it is disarming.

“Teddy, Selene, Morgan! You made it!” She rises to her feet, brushing nonexistent dust from her dress. Her tone is warm, and inviting, like we’re the family I thought we were gathering for a nice morning picnic.

Teddy.

I used to love the way she said my name like that, warm and affectionate. Now it makes my skin crawl.

I force myself to smile. It feels wrong. Foreign.

“Of course we did,” I say, stepping onto the blanket. “You’ve gone all out.”

Aubrey beams, gesturing to the spread. “Well, it’s a special occasion. Gabriel wouldn’t want anything less.” Her voice softens as she adds, “He loved a celebration, didn’t he?”

The mention of his name shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. But it does. Because Gabriel was real. He wasgood.And now he’s gone.

Just like my mother.

Just like my father.

Just like her first husband.

Selene nods stiffly, her eyes flicking to the cookie cake before darting away. Mo’s already crouching near the cupcakes, pretending to examine them like she’s considering which one to grab, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s holding herself too still.

“This looks amazing, Aunt Aubrey,” I say, keeping my voice steady even as rage coils hot and violent in my chest. “You always knew how to make an occasion special.”

Her smile widens, and for a moment, I see the woman I thought I knew. The one who raised me, who baked cookies for my school fundraisers, and hosted every holiday with grace and charm.

But now I know better.

That woman never existed.

The truth is so much darker.

“Sweet tea, anyone?” Aubrey offers, lifting the pitcher. “It’s my special recipe, of course.”

Of course, it is.

“Sure,” Selene says, her tone clipped but polite. She accepts a glass, and I watch as her fingers brush against Aubrey’s. Just the briefest touch, but I see it in her eyes—the same revulsion I feel crawling beneath my skin.

I take a seat on the blanket, motioning for Mo to do the same. She hesitates, then sits cross-legged, plucking a cupcake from the tray.

“That one’s red velvet,” Aubrey says, nodding toward Mo’s choice. “Gabriel’s favorite.”

Mo takes a deliberate bite, chewing slowly. Then, with a sweet smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, she says, “You know, Aubrey, this is a beautiful setup. You always did have a way of getting what you wanted. Like you always say ‘no matter what it takes.’”

The words hang in the air, deceptively light but sharp as glass.

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